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Quiet on the set

Summary:

Jon Snow is a director about to make a movie that might be the big break of his career. All is fine until he casts Sansa Stark as the lead actress, and sparks fly.
and he realizes that he knows nothing. Sansa will change everything for him.
Tyrion Lannister, the screenwriter of the movie deals with his family.
Daenerys Stormborn is forced out of her hiatus when Tyrion offers her a role, and she is to be reunited with Jorah Mormont, with whom she has previously worked (and almost fallen in love). The movie can be their chance to save their careers and, who knows, maybe to reconnect and discover if what they had in the past was a fluke, or it's something real.

Notes:

many thanks to @jiya whose moodboard inspired me to write this. A lifetime as an avid cinephile, reader of movie blogs and how production of movies usually go helped me a lot. I made up some stuff, and I took inspiration from Hollywood's real people in some cases.
Anyway, go visit her tumblr at: jonsaagenda.tumblr.com

ETA: I finally changed the summary of the story.

Chapter 1: How it began

Chapter Text

*

From Variety:

John Snow to direct “Good Queen Alysanne” from Tyrion Lannister’s script.

Director Jon Snow is set to direct the highly anticipated “Good Queen Alysanne”, penned by Tyrion Lannister. The drama, whose script topped the Black List last year, is set to start production early next year. No names yet, besides Snow and Lannister, are attached to the project but casting will start as early as next week, sources confirm.

This is Snow’s first project since last year’s “Fire and Ice”

Keep reading…

*

 

In hindsight, he realised that he had been naïve.

Which was frankly an understatement to convey how much of a bloody idiot he had been, how he had known nothing.

To be hailed as the new Tarantino, Scorsese after that little movie he had made straight out of Uni, with his friends, by taking out a mortgage on his own family house, maxing out all his cards, asking money to all his friends and acquaintances had been one thing.

The next project had been a walk in the park in comparison; he had paid his debts, he had only had to deal with studios and a million of things that went with the job: lights, props, actors insecurities, how to stay within the budget and still make things look cool.

Easy.

His third movie – within four year from the first had been a huge box office hit, it had gained traction and had had awards buzz from TIFF to nominations morning.

He had been snubbed, of course. Hell, if Christopher Nolan got snubbed on a regular basis, who was he Jon Snow, to complain?

And then Good Queen Alysanne happened.

Tyrion Lannister had written the script, which meant that everyone and their mother wanted to be part of it. Lannister was, simply put, the best in town. He was also Joffrey Baratheon maternal’s uncle but, at the time, it didn’t matter.

He truly knew nothing at the time.

The script was – everything he had dreamed of while growing up: exciting, funny, scary, dramatic; it had everything in it and more. As he read it – thanks to an Oscar afterparty and way too much vodka and the fact that Lannister had looked at him in the eyes and told him that he might not butcher his script and not be a total hack job with it – he could see it: from the first to the last page, he knew how he wanted to shoot it, he knew that it would look majestic and unique and that, for the first time since that little movie, he would actually have to stop and listen to his actors.

Yep, he knew nothing.

He didn’t know Sansa Stark at the time. Well, no one truly did. They knew her family, of course because unless one lived under a rock it was impossible not to know the Tully-Stark dynasty.

Actors and editors and cinematographers that had been there since the beginning – and even before, in some cases.

The fact that Ned and Catherine had hidden in some castle in Ireland and had kept their children away from the circus had not mattered in the long run: Robb had been the first to rebel, even if only partly, as he worked in theatre, and stayed the hell away from the silver screen; Theon, their adoptive son, was making a name for himself as an editor, reshaping how tv was made. Sansa, however, was a surprise.

Starting with her screen test.

He had decided, early on, while still reading the script on his sofa, with Ghost, his dog at his feet, that he would not accept tapes – not for Queen Alysanne. That was even before he was actually given the okay to direct the movie and pre-production started.

Casting directors were essential, they did miracles sometimes, but in that case, he had felt, deep in his gut, that he would have to be there. From extras to the main roles he would have to test actors.

It was nerve-wracking – he found out. He still wasn’t jaded enough not to care about people and he was lucky that Brienne was a kick-ass producer who had been around far longer than he had because he would have drowned within the first day if it weren’t for her.

Queen Alysanne was the talk of the town. He was a young director who had a reputation for being difficult (which actually meant that he didn’t take any bullshit if he could help it).

That said, he had no idea, none whatsoever, about what he got into.

 

*

Melisandre Gossip: Celebrity Gossip, News, Photos Rumours

Blind Item: Sparks flying?

This movie is the talk of the town. Many young actresses have been testing for the title role – the director didn’t accept tapes for this movie, especially not for the female protagonist.

 It was clear to everyone, however, that the director had found his queen when sparks started flying during her screen test.

Watch this space for a surprising casting.  

*

Maergery Tirell was not stupid. She played dumb on occasion when it suited her, during talk shows interviews, for example, or to avoid handsy producers. Stupid, however, was something she decidedly was not. She tested for Good Queen Alysanne the same day her friend Sansa Stark did.

 She had known Sansa since they were children and went to the same prep school and, later, the same public one. Yes, they were those sort of actors, the ones that came from public schools and privileged backgrounds; the posh ones. She honestly couldn’t care less about her background; she had studied hard to get where she was and the fact that she had a posh accent and a good education didn’t make her any less a good actress.

Sansa, however, had been a surprise; she had never done theatre while at school, she had been part of the crew, but had not done one show. Only later, did she find out that her parents had asked her not to and the reason for that request.

 They had stayed friends even after school, while she burst her arse doing local theatre work and Sansa went at BAFTAs afterparties with her brother and met Joffrey Baratheon.

They had stayed friends during the year from hell she spent with Baratheon and how his family turned it into a circus and she was on the front page of every tabloid in the world and almost had a mental breakdown because of it.

They had stayed friends when Sansa started doing small parts in small productions for BBC – using a stage name even if everyone knew who her parents were.

They stayed friends when she made her first horror movie as the girl who got murdered right after the first one and she dodged paparazzi and haters on social media with finesse.

They were still friends.

They would always be – even if she knew she had just lost the part to Sansa Stark and not because she was Ned Stark’s daughter.

No.

She could act.

Correction: she was fucking spectacular.

She wasn’t stupid. And she had eyes.

And she had a plan. 

That was going to get interesting.


*

From Hollywood Reporter:

‘Future Perfect’ what went wrong?

Reviews are in for the sci-fi movie ‘Future Perfect’, starring Joffrey Baratheon, produced by Petyr Baelish and there is one question most of the reviewers have been asking: what exactly went wrong?

On paper the movie had everything in it to be a success: it stars the young and excellent Baratheon in the role of Rodrik Anderson a young physicist whom by altering one event starts a chain reaction that shatters his life, over and over.

It was one of the most anticipated movies of the year, produced by Baelish, whose aggressive marketing campaigns usually deliver.

The reshoots urged by the studios after the first screenings, the firing of the editor halfway through the post-production process only made things more apparent.

The movie is a disjointed, self-indulgent mess, only partially redeemed by Baratheon’s touching performance and Greyjoy fast-paced editing.

The question remains: what went wrong?


He was going to slap his nephew. He was not a violent person, not by any stretch of imagination; his mind had always been his sharpest weapon, but Jesus Christ, that brat was intolerable!

“You have to say no! You have the last word, I demand that you veto that bitch out of the movie!” Joffrey spat.

 

He rolled his eyes. Cersei would probably have an aneurysm if someone dared to touch her precious firstborn, which was not exactly helping him not to slap the little sod to oblivion.

 

The Starks were ten kinds of batshit insane, but he respected the fact that they had tried to protect their children from the business – it did bad things to people, children especially, and his nephew was living proof of it.

He was also living proof that having a good publicist who sold the image of the golden boy, humble and talented who still pined after his girlfriend was just drivel. Joffrey was talented, but talent in their family was dime a dozen: they were all good at what they did, Lannisters could never be anything less than perfect. Joffrey, however, was – cruel, selfish, vain, self-involved. He was a snivelling little shit and he was done with him.

He was a little person. His mother had died in childbirth and his father and sister hated him for that. He didn’t particularly care about their opinions, he had had decades of therapy to come to terms with that fact and writing helped him channel his issues (which he failed to mention in his interviews because no one truly wanted to know why was he so good, why his scripts were so visceral and dry and directors and producers almost came to fist to have him on board), nonetheless the sound of his hand slapping Joffrey’s smug little face was satisfying.

Take that, Sigmund.

Joffrey looked affronted. He looked like he was that close to bursting into tears and asking for his mummy, and Bronn, his ever-faithful p.a. and life saver, was trying very, very hard not to laugh.

“How dare you!” He said.

“That bitch,” he said, making air quotes, without even bothering to hide his hatred for that word, “should have had you arrested last year – she didn’t, you should shut the fuck up, boy!”

“I didn’t do anything! It was an accident!” Joffrey replied. He was scared, however. No one usually stood up to him because he had a temper, but he had started to suspect for a while that there might be more to it.

“She fell on your fist?” Bronn said behind him.

It had been ugly – and he had said the truth: Sansa Stark should have had Joffrey arrested, instead, it had taken another “accident” for her to wake up and finally dump him. He supposed she had had her reasons not to report him to the police and he was pretty sure that if Ned Stark ever met Joffrey there would be blood.

“Who the fuck –“ Joffrey started, but Tyrion interrupted him saying, “No. I will not veto her presence in the movie. And no, you cannot demand anything, nephew!”

“She doesn’t deserve that part!” Joffrey almost whined and Tyrion had to smile at the scoff he heard coming from Bronn.

“Perhaps, but only time will tell. Meanwhile, have you checked the reviews for Future Perfect?” He asked, realising that he had not moved at step even when Joffrey had stood up and crowded his space.

“You know I don’t read reviews,”  

He was a good liar, he had taken after his mother after all – but they both knew that like most of what he said it was just a soundbite, something he had learned by heart, provided by his publicist. Joffrey had read the reviews and while his own were good, the movie was a total disaster – the second in a row.

“Wise choice, kid.” He said.

“You know I can make things difficult for her.”

He shrugged. Yes, he was aware. Just like he was aware that Sansa Stark’s screen test had been marvellous and Snow was currently butting heads with executives to have her in the movie. He had got texts from him asking for his support and he had already given him.

Lannisters kept their word. Well, most of them did. Actually, it was only Jamie and him who did it, but they were the ones that mattered.

“Yes, and I can make things hard for you in the real world, kid. Do you really want to try me?” He asked.

He knew, however, that Joffrey would be a complete and utter git to the Stark girl, like he had been when they were together – and his mother would lend a hand.

Great!

Time to warn Snow and prepare for war.


From: Tormund’s blog: Freefolk.

All hail! Daenerys Stormborn is back!

Alright, folks, you have probably read it everywhere by now: Snow and Lannister are making a movie together. We all know that when Lannister is involved in a production (and sources are telling me that he’s being a pain in the arse to the studios, backing up Snow’s choices and putting his foot down for his own) he is the de facto boss on set.

Lannister has been talking about writing a script about Queen Alysanne for years and if you’ve read the script you know how good it is – you also know that Snow is probably my favorite young director. Fire and Ice was a fucking masterpiece.

Today’s news is that Daenerys Stormborn has just signed up for Good Queen Alysanne. She is back, folks! And sources tell me that a reunion fans have wanted for years is probably going to take place very, very soon.

Which brings me to the main casting: Sansa Stark and Daario Naharis. If you have taken a look at the script you know that Naharis’ character is definitely not the main draw of the movie – it’s Professor Reid and the two women.

So, what the fuck is Ned Stark’s daughter doing in this movie? Why is she playing Queen Alysanne? I have nothing against Ms. Stark, I’m sure she is a good person and possibly, in time, she might become a half decent actress, but does she have the chops to play Alysanne, now? Whereas we know how good Dany is, she showed time and again the depth of her range as an actress.

Sources told me that Stark’s test blew everyone away.

I am sceptical.  Snow surely knows how to use a camera, but so far he hasn’t been known for his skills as an actor’s director.

Time will tell, I guess.

Meanwhile, Baelish, who should perhaps stop marketing his movies within an inch of their lives and just, you know, go back to the times when he was a good, insightful movie mogul, is set to produce “Good Queen Alysanne”.

You bloody know what that means, right?


Theon wasn’t even listening to her; he was deep in layers upon layers of final cut pro and he had been replaying the same frame for over ten minutes.

“What am I doing?” She said.

Silence. On the screen, a man and a woman were walking hand in hand under a pouring rain and Theon was doing something with the saturation which had been totally fine to start with!

“Theon!” She said. And, for a moment, it felt like they were kids again and they were home, not in Theon’s flat in central London and Robb and he were ignoring her. God, she missed home and how things used to be!

Theon put off his glasses, ran a hand through his blonde hair, took another look at the frame on his laptop and finally turned and asked, “Why are you panicking?”

“Have you read the script?” She shot back.

Theon cocked an eyebrow. It was his best: “Don’t bullshit the king of bullshitters!” look.

“They’re already tearing me to pieces.” She said.

Theon crossed his arms over his chest; he was wearing a large grey jumper, his ratties pajamas and, apparently, he was living a moment of grunge nostalgia, judging by his hair.

“What did mum tell you?” He asked. And she was glad that he was calling her mom again. For a few years, he went through a phase where he called their parents with their given names – he still used his childbirth name on the job which had broken their father’s heart at first; but when he won his first BAFTA he was the first person Theon thanked, and to that day no one in the family had let him live that corny speech down, but she was glad to see her old Theon back.

“Mum told me to focus on the script and ignore the press –“ She said and shook her head. Her mother was a practical woman, she had been a child actress and she had a thick skin.

“What about dad?” Theon grinned and said, “Still hellbent on you sitting medical school?”

She grinned back. It was an old joke among them – the fact that their parents had wished for them to do anything but being in the business.

“No, dad told me that he would hire a publicist for me and to stop reading the internet!”

“What are you, twelve?” Theon asked.

“That’s what I told him! Then he said that I knew the solution to my problem.” She replied.

Theon shrugged, “He has a point, you know? Baratheon is a little shit, but – things will calm down.”

“Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Vulture, Vanity Fair are all sceptical about my casting, oh and don’t forget Freefolk! Tormund tore me a new one! All hail to Daenerys Stormborn’s come back – but what the fuck is Ned Stark’s daughter doing in that movie?”

“Nepotism is alive and kicking. Yep. Heard that one before.” Theon chimed in getting up from his chair (which had been a gift from Robb and her for his birthday) and went to the kitchenette.

“How did you guys do it?” She asked.

She could ask Robb – and she would, when he wouldn’t be dead on his feet after ten shows in a week and she wouldn’t feel like a bloody child!

“Well, Rob took the burnt of it, remember?” Theon answered when he got back, handing her a cup of tea.

“Is that why he doesn’t do movies?” She asked.

“Nah, he is an adrenaline junkie – always has been, theatre is what makes him tick.”

True. It was hard to reconcile the man she was seeing with the angry teenager she had grown up with. But one thing had stayed the same: Theon knew Robb better than anyone.

“And you?” She asked.

Theon sipped his tea, and seemed to ponder her question, “I’m good at my job, and I’m not a Stark, not really.”

“You are.” She said.

That was an old debate between them. She didn’t remember their parents ever treating Theon like he wasn’t their own flesh and blood. They adored him – like they loved all their children, but it was something Theon was only recently starting to come to terms with.

“I’m not brooding, Sansa – that is the truth for the press. And they never fail to mention it. But I got used to it. And you’ll get used to it too.”

“Arya wouldn’t care.” She replied with a pout.

“Arya would troll them within an inch of their lives on Twitter or deck someone like she did in Greece last year,” Theon said with a smirk.

Good thing that Arya didn’t want to have anything to do with acting, directing or the showbusiness; she would still give their parents a coronary attack given how reckless she was, how she didn’t care about appearances.

Her sister was the freest person she had ever met.

“So, Daenerys took the role?” Theon asked.

She nodded. She wouldn’t meet the actors for weeks; and she knew that the studios weren’t exactly thrilled with Jon Snow’s choice and the fact that he had banded with Tyrion Lannister to have her in the movie.

“Well, at least, there’s going to be one real actress in the movie.” She said with a sugary, sweet smile.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Theon said, throwing a pencil at her from his desk.

She dodged the pencil and said, “What, it’s what everyone is saying. It’s what she is probably thinking!”

“Oh God, you are twelve!” Theon groaned, he then looked at her with a serious gaze in his eyes and said, “Don’t be like that. We weren’t raised like that!”

She let out a sigh. She knew better than to assume about people. All her life people had had assumptions about her, about her family – and their parents had worked hard to let them be fair in their judgment of people.

“Sorry. I’m just –“ She trailed.

She was terrified. She had fallen in love with the script within five pages. She was lucky to have got them – she was nowhere near the level of stardom that would even let her peak at that sort of script. Being Ned Stark and Catherine Tully’s daughter opened doors for her.

That – or the fact that Tyrion Lannister had once been in the room with her when Joffrey had almost choked her to death after what had started like a playful argument.

Whatever the reason, the script had ended up in her agent’s email and then in hers.

She had fallen in love with the story and the characters and had studied hard for the screen test, harder than she had ever done – sure that she wouldn’t get the part, that someone with more experience or more beautiful or a combination of both would.

Jon Snow had been in the room – and had fed her lines. She had heard that he had done so for all the actresses that day, and she knew enough about movies to know how unheard of that was. But it had happened. Jon Snow who looked like a grizzly bear with an attitude, but had the kindest eyes she had ever seen had walked her through the screen test. She had been there. She had felt the cold, the wind, she had seen the lunar landscape described in the pages and felt the fear and outrage of her character.

 She had never felt anything like that. She had never felt more alive, more real than in the moments she had become someone else.

“I heard your screen test was phenomenal,” Theon said.

“How is it – that you always know everything about everyone?” She asked. And damn, Theon still made the best tea she had ever tasted.

Theon wiggled his eyebrows. He was her big brother, her best friend and her favourite dork. She laughed because she couldn’t help it and then said, “Please, tell me Daenerys Stormborn is not a stuck up diva.”

“No, she isn’t. But why do you care? It’s not like you’re going to share a lot of screen time.” Theon replied.

Of course, Theon had read the script – because he was someone who mattered in town and not an absolute beginner like her.

“I mean it, sister – she’s a professional. Who did they hire for Professor. Reid?”

“Jorah Mormont.” She said with reverence.

Yes, she knew their father and Mormont had had a falling out because Ned Stark could be an uncompromising arsehole sometimes, but she had grown up watching Jorah Mormont and she was in awe that she would be in the same movie with him.

“Oh, dear…” Theon said.

That was weird. Her beloved brother usually swore like a sailor.

“What?” She asked.

Theon shook his head, and she knew she would have to get the answer out of him the hard way: tickling.

He saw that too because he sprinted out of his seat and she had to chase him, like when they were kids and for a while, she forgot all about Queen Alysanne, what the internet was saying about her courtesy of Joffrey’s fans, what the press was saying – it was liberating.

And she suspected that was exactly what Theon had wanted.


From Hollywood Reporter:

Breaking: Jorah Mormont to join Daenerys Stormborn, Sansa Stark, Daario Naaris in “Good Queen Alysanne”

Jorah Mormont has signed up to join the cast of “Good Queen Alysanne”, which is set to start production early next month. His casting did not come as a total surprise, especially after earlier last week Daenerys Stormborn was cast in the movie.

Mormont, is set to play Professor Reid, a pivotal role in the movie, penned by Academy Winner writer Tyrion Lannister. The drama set in both modern and past time will tell the story of Queen Alysanne Targaryen through flashbacks. Lannister who researched the Crown Archives for two years before starting to write the script has gone on record expressing his satisfaction with the casting.

Mormont, who was last seen on the big screen in the fourth instalment of the “Silent Evil” franchise two years ago, has mostly worked in theatre for the past few years. 

Keep Reading…


 

“Remind me again: why didn’t you pick Alysanne’s role?” Missandei asked.

Daenerys sighed, her eyes never leaving the space where her son was playing.,

“Because Sansa Stark got the role.” She replied. As she had done previously to a lot of people, until she had decided to take a break.

“And why didn’t you read for the role?” Her friend and p.a. asked.

“Because –“ She paused. That was actually a good question, one that some journalist had already asked and to which she had given a parboiled answer cooked up by her publicist because she didn’t want to antagonize Ned Stark’s daughter before even meeting her.

“Because Tyrion asked me to read for Anne.” She replied eventually. It was only partially true. That had happened after Sansa had got the part. The truth was that she hadn’t got the pages to read for Alysanne. Her moment had come and gone – and when she should have done movie after movie to consolidate her position life had had different plans for her.

So, that movie, the talk of the town, was the first good script she had got for years. She would have read for it even if it was a blink and you miss it part.

 “Don’t get me wrong – the part is good. But you should have read for Alysanne.” She said.

She smiled. Perhaps, but she loved her character and – she knew she would have to talk to Sansa Stark soon seeing as their characters were so interwoven. She would also have to stop labelling her as Ned Stark’s daughter. It was unfair. Tyrion would not have allowed her hiring if she hadn’t been good.

“So, did you talk to Mr. Mormont?” Missandei asked.

Wait – what?

The surprise must have been apparent on her face because her friend rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t you read your emails? The ones I forward you?”

She hadn’t for the past twenty four hours. She would start working soon and she wanted to relax and spend as much time with her son as possible.

“Should I have?” She asked.

“He got Professor. Reid part. Didn’t he even text you?” She said.

“You’ve got my phones, why don’t you check it out yourself?” Daenerys asked. And was surprised by the curt tone of her voice.

Missandei was too, but she knew her too well to comment on it.

“Sorry.” She said after a moment.

“He texted you.” Her friend said, as if nothing had happened, “’Looking forward to working with you again Mrs. Muir.’”

Daenerys smiled – and it felt like her real smile in a very long time. She had missed Jorah – it was surprising how much she had missed her co-star. The last time she had seen him there had been a studio meeting; they had talked about the remake of The Ghost and Mrs Muir based on their Broadway play, they had been happy and close and Tyrion Lannister had great ideas for the script and then –

And then both their lives had gone to hell in a handbasket.

They had texted from time to time, after. He had been at the funeral and she knew there was a picture out there, snapped by a paparazzo of them hugging after the funeral.

That had been the last time they had seen or touched each other. For some minor miracle, given her own problems, she hadn’t been dragged through the mud when Jorah’s life had been put into a meat grinder and fed to tabloids.

They hadn’t seen each other, however, only sparse texts through the years, which was in itself not uncommon, except that each of the text she got from him never failed to put a smile on her face or make her feel – alive, not brittle and living in a sort of limbo.

He would play Professor Reid. And – she would kill Tyrion Lannister.

I wrote Anne with you in mind.

He had, she was sure of that and in hindsight, she should have known that no one else could play Professor Reid but Jorah and she didn’t understand why she was feeling the beginning of a panic attack just thinking about texting her old co-star back, that time.

Missandei was looking at her, she knew; she had been her p.a. for years, she was a close friend, her family – and she probably would remind her that just because there had been rumours when Jorah and her had worked together and he had bent over to protect her when both their lives had gone to hell, she should stop being childish.

The truth, however, was complicated, and she couldn’t deal with it. Not yet.

So, she replied to Jorah’s text, making sure that not even Missandei could understand how hard it was not to smile and panic at the same time.

Captain Gregg, it will be a pleasure and an honour to work with you again. We should also meet for coffee one of these days and actually do that this time! Mrs M-

She let out a breath, handed back her phone to Missandei who was observing her and got up from her chair to go play with her son. She smiled when she heard the sound of an incoming text, but she didn’t ask for the phone.

Chapter 2: Message

Summary:

A quick message from the author before the new update.

Chapter Text

Hello there! It's been a long time (she doesn't check because she knows it's been forever!).

For those of you who are still checking or curious, I'm not dead. Just work, health problems, the end of Game of Thrones killing my love for the show and real-life issues. I have written again lately. The story is all mapped out (it's been mapped out for years, actually, down to each scene).

The following two chapters are written, and I'm editing the first parts. So, expect an update tomorrow. And expect a few changes in the previous chapters: some better grammar and phrasing.

Upon writing the 190th page on my Word document, I also realised that this is possibly the slowest burn I have ever written and not just as far as Jon and Sansa are concerned. I am also unashamedly Daenerys' and Jorah's trash. Or, as I'm seeing on Tumblr, I'm utterly feral over them. That is not going to change.

Sorry, not sorry, last season of Game of Thrones. I see your canon, and I'll give you my actors AU - plus the other fic I'm writing, which I'm posting somewhere once I'm halfway through. Believe it or not, I hate leaving things unfinished. (looks at my 3 or 4 or 5 unfinished wips on Ao3 and sighs). So, see you all in a wip where Twitter still exists, written before COVID-19 and where Daenerys won't go insane for reasons. 

These are reasons that can and have been debated in fandom. I'm a fan of both Sansa and Daenerys. The immediate aftermath of the end of the show sucked on multiple levels. 

See you soon!

Nina

PS: feel free to ask in the comments about the other Danerys/Jorah fic I'm writing. It will be longer than my longest fic - which is 230k. I'm excited about that.

Also, PSA: it's incredible what low dopamine can do to one's mind - take care of yourselves. I didn't for a couple of years, and I'm just getting out of some of the worst times in my life. 

Chapter 3: The Table Reading

Summary:

But Sansa…
God, she was Queen Alysanne. The two women had instant chemistry and instinctively played off each other very well. They were perfect contrasts, just like their roles required and were finding a common ground before their eyes.
It was – amazing.
And he said that one aloud. Both women smiled, and if he looked at Sansa a bit longer than absolutely necessary – well, she was his leading lady and needed her director’s support.
He was a rubbish liar.

Notes:

Thank you so much to all the people who left kudos, comments and bookmarked the story! I'm so humbled by your positive reaction!
A few tidbits: I came up with the twitter names, any similarity to real nicknames is not intentional.
The songs mentioned in this chapter are Wrecking Ball, because Sophie singing it and crying with Maisie gave me chills and Round Midnight by Ella Fitzgerald which I cannot recommend enough.
I will try to post once a week, but work is crazy so, forgive me if sometimes I'll skip updates.
Also, I'm flying solo, I don't have a beta reader, so forgive me for any grammar mistake and weird sintaxys. English is not my language. :)
During Christmas break I will go back and edit what I have posted so far. Be patient.
As always thanks to jyia for her support and for her talent!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

From Twitter:

 

@joffreybaratheonismyKing:

Sansa Stark as Queen Alysanne? For real? What – being on tabloids bored her? #wtfever 

 

@futureperfect21: Well, at least somebody got something good from that tabloid clusterfuck #hint #itaintJoffrey

 

@daenerysismykhaleesi: Sansa Stark is the perfect choice to play queen Alysanne. Said no one. Ever. #nepotismsucks

 

@jornaerysownsme: @daenerysismykhaleesi honestly, wtf cares? We all know Anne is the mvp of the movie. Also? They’re baaaack!! #jornaerys4evr

 

@smallandsexyashell: I trust @TLannisterforReal : he’s been working on this script for fucking ever! If Sansa Stark is in the movie it means she’s right for the part. #SansaDefenceSquad #Tyrionknowshisstuff

 

@FireAndIce849: @smallandsexyashell I agree, this is also Jon’s biggest film to date, he would never eff it up for Ned Stark’s daughter. #waitandfuckingsee #stanssuck

 

@itkTGQA: All I’m sayin’ is this: one year from now, you’ll be eating your words. Stark was phenomenal at the screen test. Brought people to tears #iknowpeoplewhoknowpeople

 

@daenerysismykhaleesi: @itkTGQA: sure you do. #DanyshouldhaveplayedQA

 


 

 

Day One

 

That wasn’t his first table reading – or even his fiftieth and yet, that was probably one of the few moments of production who still genuinely gave butterflies to his stomach. The first day of a table reading was when the images in his head, the words he had written down finally took a shape, voice, faces.

He was a jaded tosser, he was very much aware of that, but there was something almost magical in the first day of table readings.

It was a clean slate: people didn’t know each other, or if they did they were on their best behaviours, diva fits were something that would occur later, directors were full of energy and even producers, with a few notable exceptions, were eager to begin.

He was also aware that he was an exception – that being a Lannister had always given him more clout than the average screen writer.

The truth was that writing “Good Queen Alysanne” had been a dream come true; he had filled notebooks with ideas for that movie for almost a decade before getting enough recognition and power on his own to having it made.

By the time the script became hot stuff, he had won awards, wrote blockbusters and had enough clout to be one of the producers of the movie.  

He looked at the people who filled the large conference room to the brim: from actors, to crew members to Baelish everyone was there, with a script in their hands, their mobile phones safely tucked away in a large safe box near the door.

Jon Snow looked like he had just had an IV of Redbull: he was hyper, pale, eyes bloodshot, but brimming with creative energy: they had been in constant touch for the past few weeks, and Tyrion wondered whether Snow was aware of how rare his approach was and how moved he was by the respect he was showing to his script.

Baelish – was there, and he could see Cersei’s hand in that move from a mile away; she was not stupid, and she knew how important that movie could be for the family, especially because her golden boy’s streak of flops was starting to get concerning. She would never set foot on a set where he was in, Baelish, however, was another matter, one that he didn’t like, but there was nothing he could do about that.

All the actors were in the room, and he didn’t regret one single choice they had made for the casting. Yes, the press and the social media were giving the poor Stark girl hell, and she looked far too pale for his liking, but after seeing her screen test, he couldn’t imagine anyone else playing Alysanne. She was wearing jeans and a white jumper; her red hair was loose on her shoulders and she was actually smiling at something Daenerys was saying.

And, not surprisingly, Jon Snow couldn’t keep his eyes off of her!

 Just like the day of her screen test, or after, when she tested with Naaris and Jon’s jaw twitched every time the man touched Sansa.

The Stark girl was completely oblivious of the fact that Snow hadn’t stopped looking at her ever since she had got in the room. Sansa was talking to Daenerys and Jorah while sipping their teas, waiting for the reading to begin.

God, he was glad to see that both Dany and Sansa were friendly toward each other; it wasn’t mandatory that actors got along, but they would have to spend a lot of time together, even if they had a very limited amount of shared screen time. He remembered how Dany, who wasn’t a diva, had been on her very best behaviour while working with Jorah; he had a calming effect on her and he wasn’t surprised in the least noticing that they were sitting side by side and it was as if no time at all had passed since they had last seen each other.

He had got a very funny text from Dany, after she became aware that Jorah had been cast as Professor Reid.

 

I hope we won’t have to screen test for chemistry. By the way? You’re a dead man, Lannister! -D

 

After his reply, she had actually called him using facetime to flip him off.

It was good to see her back, it was good to see everyone at that table, actually. He had a good feeling about that movie.

As if on cue, Baelish got up from his chair and made the honours.

Everyone at that table knew the man, and it worried him that the only one among them who didn’t know how much of a sleaze Baelish was, was their director.

He exchanged a look with Brienne and another with Davos Seaworth; both of them kept a neutral face, but he could see that they were both subtly scooting closer to both Jon and Sansa as if to protect them.

Good. That was good.

Baelish thanked them all for being there – as if he hadn’t resisted the longer table reading and rehearsals which both Jon and him had fought for – he said how happy he was with the casting – which earned him raised eyebrows even from Sansa; and he said that once the table reading was over they were welcome to be active on social media while on set, being mindful not to spoil the movie, he then pointed at Snow who introduced himself.

Yes, it had begun.

He was happy.

 


 

 Transcription from a video interview given to the blog Freefolk:

 

Description: Jon Snow is wearing black, his hair is pulled back, he’s wearing glasses, he smiles, genuinely happy when he sees Tormund. They shake hands.

 

Tormund: So, Good Queen Alysanne, huh?

 

JS: I’m still pinching myself. We’re starting the table reading tomorrow, after that ten days of rehearsals – I can’t wait for it to begin!

 

T: Hold on a sec, isn’t this unusual? Ten days of rehearsal after – how long will the table readings last?

 

JS: A week. And yeah, it’s unusual, but the material demands it.

 

Tormund makes a face, but Snow repeats, putting emphasis on his words: “The material demands it.”

 

T [grinning]: You have been pretty cool with the backlash surrounding the casting so far.  

 

JS: [his smile fades slightly] That’s because unlike many I was there during the screen tests.

 

T: Yeah, I heard you were there for all the process, why?

 

JS: [shrugs] Felt like the right thing to do for this movie.

 

T: you follow your gut, then.

 

JS: Yes, you could say that.

 

T: and your cast has been trending on Twitter for weeks. Smart move!

 

JS: [laughs] I’m not even on Twitter, you know that!

 

T: Fans went nuts when news broke that Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont had joined the cast, were you aware of how popular they were?

 

JS: I was, actually …[he grins] I was a fan. I saw their play and I couldn’t be happier about them joining the cast!

 

T: One last question: what can we expect from Sansa Stark?

 

JS: [serious] the unexpected.


 

One by one, after him, all the actors introduced themselves – he could feel the energy, the electricity among the cast and when he looked at Tyrion he was pretty sure that he might be feeling the same thing, at least judging by the satisfied smirk on his face.

Sansa was the last one who introduced herself. There was a moment of silence after she finished talking, and he looked at the young woman, realising how good she had been until that moment to hide her fear.

The press and the internet had been brutal with her, and with him by proxy. He didn’t give a toss about what people thought about him, he had a thick skin, had had to grow it very early in his life, but Sansa – she looked like she was perfectly aware of what was being said about her and feared her castmates reaction.

It didn’t come and his respect for his actors went up a notch. He didn’t even hear snide whispered remarks behind him.

Good – that meant he wouldn’t have to start firing people left and right.

He blinked. He didn’t seriously contemplate the idea of firing crew members for gossiping about his lead actress, didn’t he?

He looked around, sure for one moment, that he had voiced his thoughts aloud, but he hadn’t. Tyrion was reading the opening of the script and he could see it already: he would have to talk to Davos about the photography for the opening scene and he regretted the fact that Theon Greyjoy had politely declined to be the editor for the movie. He had given him three reasons: he was already busy with two demanding projects, Baelish was the producer and he would rather get a colonoscopy than working with the bastard again and thirdly he didn’t want to add fuel to the backlash surrounding Sansa’s casting.

“Don’t be a stranger, though, mate!” Theon had said at the end of their phone call.

Samwell Tarly was their editor: he was smart, had a keen eye for details and had been editing documentaries and music videos for years. He was also very shy, but his brown eyes had lit up with enthusiasm, while Tyrion read the words.

All the actors were listening with rapt attention to Tyrion, it was more and more apparent how that script was important to him.

They discussed possibilities and he already knew he would have about a billion of meetings with the various departments who were already hard at work.

Both Sansa and Daenerys started to speak. The initial monologue – which thank God was not a piece of exposition – was played by both actresses: rehearsals and post production would take care of glitches, but right then he would know if it could work.

Sansa and Daenerys hadn’t screen tested together; he had wanted them to, but Tyrion had been adamant that they wouldn’t need to. And since he had backed him up on many of his choices, he had felt obliged to return the favour.

He had been in the middle of his second movie when he had seen Daenerys act. Ygritte had always been a fan of Jorah Mormont and while in New York she had dragged him to see their play. He knew she was a good actress.

But Sansa…

God, she was Queen Alysanne. The two women had instant chemistry and instinctively played off each other very well. They were perfect contrasts, just like their roles required and were finding a common ground before their eyes.

It was – amazing.

And he said that one aloud. Both women smiled, and if he looked at Sansa a bit longer than absolutely necessary – well, she was his leading lady and needed her director’s support.

He was a rubbish liar.


 

From the website Blind Gossip: The #1 Blind Item Site in The World.

 

These two actors have previously worked together. At the time both were B list verging on being A listers. Their friendship sparked rumours which were vehemently denied by one of them. Fast forward a few years, and they’re both in need of a comeback, for different reasons. Their closeness seems rekindled, only yesterday they were spotted having lunch together and looking happy. She doesn’t seem to mind the fact that her newest role is definitely below her pay grade and fame. She looked far too happy to be reunited with her former co-star.

Said co-star seems to have weathered the storm surrounding his personal life. According to witnesses he looked delighted to be with his co-star and the other people in the cafè might have as well been ghosts.  

Actor:

Actress:

 


From Tumblr

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

So this happened. Before you say it: no, I don’t have pictures, couldn’t give less of damn if you believe it or not. My sister is working at the café near the Sacred Woods studios, she’s been seeing the crew and cast of GQA since they started pre production. She hasn’t been able to get any spoilers so far (hey, remember how I told you that ‘Future Perfect’ was gonna suck ass? You’re welcome, btw), but yesterday…

Omg.

Omg.

It was late in the afternoon, she had texted me earlier in the day b ecause she had heard that table reading for GQA had started in the morning. So, she recognised right away Jorah Mormont, he was wearing a black coat and a blue scarf, jeans and boots, she recognised him because – well, she is my sister and she is a saint bearing with my Jorah’s obsession. It took her a moment to recognise the woman who got in with him and sat at a table while he came with the orders.

It was her!

This is not a drill!

Daenerys and Jorah had coffee together!

Hear me out:

  • He ordered for her
  • He was super kind and even my sister had to admit that he’s hot (she says he looks hotter in person)
  • They had scripts with them but spent time chatting and laughing
  • My sister is not a shipper and thinks I’m nuts ‘cos I ship real people, but she told me, swore up and down, that one could cut the chemistry between them with a knife.
  • Dany looks happy, her hair is long, she was wearing jeans, a jumper and a scarf (my sister told me it looked similar to the one Jorah was wearing – coincidence?)
  • They were super kind to the staff and didn’t have an entourage with them. It was just two mates having coffee together.
  • I’m dying rn.

 

#jornaerys #otp: mr and mrs muir #goodqueenalysanne #i will go down with this ship

 

1500 notes

 


 

Day 3

 

They had had their coffee – and it had been weird, almost as if there hadn’t been three years without seeing or hearing from each other except for texts. It hadn’t been awkward because after all it was said and done, they had loved working together and the closeness between them had been real.

Coffee had become a ritual for them. Jorah told her that she should spend that time with Sansa Stark, that they should get to know each other better and he was right, he was the consummate professional, as always, but she loved those moments with him too much to give up on them.  

He had seemed contrite that morning, right before the table reading, and when it turned out that there was a blind item clearly about them, and there had been sightings of them posted on social media she had resisted the urge to burst out laughing.

Jorah had been dragged through the mud by tabloids – and he didn’t have a good relationship with social media. He chalked out the excuse of being a dinosaur, but she knew that he would not tolerate fools online as much as he didn’t tolerate them in the real world.

Yet, she hated seeing him like that: as if he had wronged her somehow.

“You know what? Sod it!” She had said before taking out her mobile phone and snapping a selfie of the two of them.

Yes, she had broken Twitter.

No, she had no regrets.

Hours later, and Jorah was still too quiet, while having tea in yet another café.

“The look on Baelish’s face was worth it.” She said, “and Sansa even commented on my Instagram, see? We’re best friends, now!”

There – he was fighting not to grin at her words.

 “Dany….” He said, there was a note of warning in his voice, but she recognised that glimmer in his eyes, and bloody hell she had missed it!

 If – there wasn’t that one picture of them floating around on the internet, taken the day of her husband’s funeral, if Jorah’s name hadn’t been associated with scandals for far too long she would tell him that rumours didn’t matter, that they had nothing to hide.

She couldn’t, however – because that picture existed, because Jorah had only sued the tabloid who used it to infer that there had been something between them, out of the hundreds of terrible things that had been said about him.

She couldn’t because – he had protected her and because she had never wanted to dwell on what might have happened if things had been different.

Sorry Sansa. She thought, meaning it because she liked the girl, she loved working with her – but needs must and ….

“Wait until pictures of Jon and Sansa start surfacing….” She said.

Jorah coughed and they were drawing attention to themselves, but he was also laughing so who cared?

“Dany – don’t!” He said.

“Come on…” She taunted him.

She realised that there was a syllogism in there, somewhere, but luckily Jorah ignored it. He indulged her.

“Rehearsals are going to be interesting.” He said.

“He’s going to kill Daario. He is terrified of Jon, by the way.” She commented.

Jorah chuckled, he was more relaxed, now. The worry about the apocalyptic scenario his publicist might have painted for him forgotten.

“It will be definitely an interesting shoot,” Jorah said after a moment.

She grinned. That was her Jorah: always diplomatic, always the first, however, to see the big picture.

Her Jorah.

Damn, she liked the sound of that!

There were fans outside the café, there had been some of them outside the studios as well that morning, but when they got out, that time, Jorah’s smile never left his face.

 


 

 

From Twitter:

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: just saw Jon Snow and Sansa Stark outside the studios, they were talking under the rain, he was holding an umbrella for her #miboiwhatareyoudoing #thatcouldbeclassifiedassnuggling

 

 

@fireandice456: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar was she in a costume? Did u take any pics?

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @fireandice456 no pics and no costumes, they were just talking, there were other people as well, must have been a break or something. They look cute together tho.

 

@JB4evrandevr: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar moving up the ranks, I see. #hadtheroletheoldway

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @JB4evrandevr *roll eyes*. Baratheon’s stans are pathetic, as usual.

 

@JB4evrandevr: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar call things as I see them. #truthhurts

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @JB4evrandevr whatever, anyway you’re right: she did move up the ranks, anyone would be better than flop!Baratheon!

 


From Twitter:

Group chat: #jonsa

 

 snowismyfire: ok, I created this chat ‘cos Baratheon’s stans are a pain in my arse and because of reasons. So @jonsnowdeservedanoscar what gives?

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: I don’t ship real people and there are enough nutjobs around this movie already…that said, to me it looked almost as if they were snuggling.

 

sansastarkGQA: alright, but what happened and hear, hear to the nutjobs in this fandom (too many Baratheon fucking trolls!)

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: what I said: I was passing by (almost, more like stalked outside the studios #dontjudge) and saw the whole cast and crew getting out into limos, only Jon, Sansa and some other people I don’t know stayed outside and waited for another car. They were talking, he was holding the umbrella and they look cute together.

 

Khaleesiandqueen: define cute *grins*

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: Hmm…friendly, he was wearing glasses and was all wet because the umbrella was small and he was holding it  over her and she is so thin and fuck, yeah, it only lasted a moment, but they looked cute together.

 

sansastarkGQA: the barafreaks will tear her a new one if word gets out…

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: should I delete my tweet?

 

Khaleesiandqueen: lol, u kidding, right?

 

snowismyfire: too late, but let’s keep things under wraps for now. Btw, does any of you guys know @itkTGQA?

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:   nope, read some of their tweets, but don’t know if they’re legit

 

sansastarkGQA: what does ITK mean?

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: in the know. They claim to have a source in production, but don’t know if it’s legit and at this stage they could talk out of their ass for all we know.

 

snowismyfire: I will dm them later, see what they are willing to tell…


 

 

Day 6

 

 Her father once had told her that he knew things were going well and the movie he was in wouldn’t probably crash and burn if he was actually happy to say yes to go and have drinks with his castmates and crew at the end of the week.

Her mother had rolled her eyes at that statement, citing all the casts she knew that had gotten along like houses on fire and their movies had, nonetheless, been flops.

It had been Bronn’s idea. He was Tyrion’s PA, and she had known him for years, he had told her, once, after one of Joffrey’s “episodes” to wake up and dump the little sod before she ended up dead.

He had been brusque, but his eyes had been kind.

Everyone had accepted, which had surprised her, to be frank. They had all been joined at the hips since the table reading began, and she knew they would spend even more time together during rehearsal, yet no one had declined the offer.

No one had commented on the fact that Bronn had waited for Baelish to leave the table reading before proposing to go out for drinks.

“Ground rules,” Tyrion had said, “turn off your bloody phones, no selfies, no drunk tweeting and for the love of Christ, no flirting in front of fans!”

There had been good natured snickers at his last remark, and she had looked at Dany and Jorah who had looked ahead of them completely nonplussed, oblivious of how most of the crew and castmates had been looking at Jon and her.

Lannisters didn’t do things halfway; she knew that; but Tyrion had gone above and beyond the line of duty, because they had a whole pub reserved for them for the night.

She was exhausted – and they hadn’t even started rehearsal, yet. They were supposed to just read the script, making notes and brainstorming ideas, in reality, however, they were already rehearsing.

Jon put up some token protest, at first, saying he had still work to do, but then Tyrion rolled his eyes, pointed at Brienne who playfully whacked him behind his head and her director, who had been a pain in the arse all week burst out laughing, raised his hands in mock surrender and joined them.

And for some reason they were the last ones to get outside, under a pouring rain, and since they were the only ones without P.As they were stuck waiting for the driver together.

“Be a movie director, they said…” John muttered, and Sansa smirked when Jon continued, “It will be fun, they said. You’ll be the boss on set, they said…”

“Sweet child of summer…” She sing-sang, ignoring both the way he was holding her at him under the umbrella and his snort, and how his warm breath felt against her temple.

He chuckled and said, “You’re the leading lady, where’s your entourage?”

“My parents threatened to disown me if I ever got an entourage.” She replied, battling her eyelash – and wait a bloody minute, what was she doing?

Jon, however, thank God, was so tired, that he didn’t notice that she had just flirted with him because he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice, “Why?”

“It’s a long and boring story and my parents are weird.” She replied and, technically, nothing of what she had said was a lie.

Jon, blinked and then realization hit him because he said, “Your aunt.”

“And my paternal uncle, and family friends. My dad is still praying that I quit the madness and go be a doctor.”

 What the hell? Why was she telling him that? No one outside her family knew that. Not even Maergery!

Yet John frowned, “Why on Earth? You are a brilliant actress, Sansa!”

That was not Robb, Theon or Arya – it was not her family telling her that she was good. It was her director and it had been a long week and she still feared that Dany would start being a bitch and tell her that she didn’t deserve her part.

It was her director, one she admired, whose career she had been following with interest telling her that she was good.

She was close to tears, but Starks never cried in public if they could help it.

“So, no second thoughts?” She said, instead of pleading him to tell her that he meant it.

“On going out tonight? Yeah, on choosing you? Never.” Jon said – and he had a way of being solemn when he spoke and sweet at the same time that she found very endearing.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink!” She said, only realizing in that moment, that they weren’t truly alone, that other people were waiting for the cars.

“Nope, Lannister is gonna buy us drinks, he promised. Besides, we had a wager going on…” Jon said.

Cold sweat ran down her spine.

A wager…

No. Jon was not Joffrey, he was not – one of his asshole friends.

“Hmm?” She enquired, satisfied of how casual her voice sounded.

“I’ll drink him under the table…” John said grinning as the car finally approached.

“Jon, I have seen Tyrion drink –“ Sansa trailed.

“Oh,” He said, gesturing her inside the car, “sweet child of summer – “

She smiled, and suddenly she didn’t feel so tired any longer.

 


 

 

Texts between Tyrion Lannister and Missandei.

 

MisMis: that was a low blow, Lannister –

 

Tyrion: why, thank you! Do you have pics for posterity?

 

MisMis:  Duh! But really, the car switch thing? The seating at the tables?

 

Tyrion: I want the pictures, don’t put them on clouds, delete them after.

 

MisMis: do I look like an amateur to you?

 

Tyrion: you look fabulous, as ever.

 

MisMis: I’m wearing my old uni pyjamas and I’m hungover

 

Tyrion: still….

Tyrion: SEND THE BLOODY PICTURES!

 

MisMis: which part of “I’m hungover” you didn’t get, genius? :P, there, sent. Now what?

 

Tyrion: now we wait.

 

*

 

Day 7

 

He was too old for that shit.

Not acting, never that – not even being drunk under the table by his director or the writer/producer of the movie he was making.

No.

It was sitting next to Dany all night wishing he was younger and looking at her like a lovesick teenager, trying desperately not to get noticed by his colleagues and the crew members.

He had almost said no to Tyrion when he offered him the part of Professor Reid, even if he needed the money and a role that wasn’t a bidimensional villain in some cgi ridden movie. He had almost said no when Tyrion had told him who would play Anne because Dany deserved better; but for once, in the end, he had been selfish.

He had loved working with Dany: their chemistry had been effortless, they had had fun working together and even if they had been both aware that the energy (the bloody Stormborn+Mormont effect!) between them hadn’t been strictly professional, they had always stayed the hell away from temptation.

Now, however, things were different – and he was scared.

He was definitely too old for that shit.

He was too old to fall in love again, with the same woman he had tried so hard not to love three years before and had only partially succeeded in it.

He loved his character, he loved the relationship between Anne and Professor Reid, specular and yet so different to the one Queen Alysanne and her husband had.

He loved how Dany was welcoming him every day with a smile and how genuine it always was. He loved that she was smiling again, after Drogo. He loved that they were having coffee together every day and she forced him not to care about what fans and journalists and paparazzi might think or do.

He loved that he was enjoying his job again – and that he genuinely wanted that movie to be a success, not for his career, but for Dany’s, for Jon, for Sansa, who was a remarkable woman and an amazing actress.

He loved that he was hungover and he could smell Dany’s perfume on his clothes, because after drinking for most of the evening, by the end of it she had dozed off against his shoulder, but before she did she had sung "Wrecking Ball" with Sansa (and they were scarily in sync together) getting cat calls and loud cheers and then, after Sansa had got off the stage (and had been seated right next to Jon because Tyrion Lannister wouldn’t know how to be subtle if his life depended on it), she had sung an old jazz song, one she knew he loved because they used to listen to it together in his dressing room three years before.

 

Darlin' I need you, lately I find
You're out of my heart,
And I'm out of my mind.
Let our hearts take wings'
'round midnight, midnight


Yes, bloody hell, yes! He was far too old for that shit, and yet he closed his eyes, Dany’s perfume still lingering on his shirt and smiled.

They were leaving for Belfast to shoot their movie, and he was terrified and he didn’t remember ever feeling so happy in his life.   

 

Notes:

For the record: I love and adore both Sansa and Dany, for very different reasons:)

Chapter 4: The Rehearsal (part 1) and the picture that broke the internet

Summary:

In which our heroes go to Belfast and fandom reacts accordingly. Tyrion posts a selfie and hell breaks loose.

Notes:

First of all thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who left kudos, bookmarked the fic, left comments - I'm speechless, truly!
Special thanks to @Jyia because she has amazing ideas, she is endlessly patient with me and she's all around special.
Another thank you to @Kat_of_a_Different_Color for the kudos and to @fioredargento because she is my constant and touchstone:)
Also: trigger warning for past abuse and sexist remarks (guys, it's Joffrey:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

From Melisandre Gossip: Celebrity Gossip, News, Photos, Rumours

 

Good Queen Alysanne cast and crew spotted in Belfast – as rehearsals for the movie start this week.

 

I admit it, I’m still sceptical about Sansa Stark and her casting as Queen Alysanne, but boy, does she look good! She looked in good spirits – and so did all the cast and crew spotted at Belfast International this morning, perhaps it is also due to the private party held a few days ago to celebrate the end of the table reading.

Word is that Lannister had a whole pub reserved for the cast and crew, however some loose-lipped staff member revealed how much fun the cast has had that night.

While in the pictures you see of the cast at the airport Dany and Sansa walked together, I’ve been told that they spent the whole evening with other people.

No worries, though – according to my sources the two ladies are getting along like a house on fire. 

So, Stormborn won’t be too disappointed when all the director’s attention will be focused elsewhere, there is the added bonus that her mind is set on something (someone) else.

Watch this space: Belfast is possibly going to become love central very soon!

 


 

 

From Twitter:

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: Rehearsals for GQA started today. Can we talk about how freaking cool the cast is? Those pictures are awesome! #yourfavesweillnever #jonmiboiulookgoood

 

@SansaAlysanne01: I want Sansa’s coat!!! How tall is she btw? Dany looks so small next to her. #girlpower #gqa

 

@snowismyfire: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar omg I’ve just seen the pictures, and the Oscar for the most awesome cast goes to…#gqa

 

 @jornaerysownsme: is there an embargo on Jorah and Dany pics? WTF paparazzi? You had one job!! #jornaerys #gqa

 

@MadforJoff: of course she would get papped next to Daenerys Stormborn. She is a pro at this @JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic I feel ya, but what were you thinking?

 

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic: @MadforJoff Be kind, girls. To answer your question? I wasn’t, clearly.

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: Aaand my timeline shows, once again, how much Darwin was right #fuckthisshit #SansaDefenceSquad

 

@MadforJoff: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar aaaw, I’ll be kind, just like I’ve been asked. #yourfavewillnever

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @MadforJoff my fave has actually a career, he doesn’t have time to indulge his little sheep ;) #peaceout #blockingassholes

 


 

 

From Twitter

Group chat #jonsa

 

snowismyfire: so, did you guys read Melisandre’s column that went with the pics? Can I say that I flailed when I saw the pictures? Omfg!

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : yep – but that’s pretty vague, isn’t it?

 

sansastarkGQA: vague my ass – it implies clearly that Jon has the hots for Sansa and Dany for --- Jorah? I guess? Idk, their corner of fandom is happyland right now. Maybe they know something we don’t.

 

fireanice856: just to be clear – we are here to talk about stuff without Baratheon’s stans trolling us (they’re being assholes on tumblr and Instagram too btw) or…? #isconfused

 

snowismyfire: the supposed itk finally dmed me back. They did it *before* Melisandre’s column went up, I’ll screenshot the whole thing later cos I can’t do it right now, I’ll copy/paste what they told me. I swear that the time stamp of when they answered me was way before Melisandre’s column went up. Do you want to read what they said? I mean, if you’re not interested that’s okay.

 

khaleesiandqueen: why not…as long as it stays here, I don’t want the Baratheon psychos anywhere near Sansa or Dany.

 

Jonsnowdeservedanoscar: go for it, bb

 

snowismyfire: ok…here it goes

 

snowismyfire: hi there, thank you for following me back! I’ve been reading your tweets, and well, sorry if they’re giving you hell but fwiw, I’m interested in what you’re willing to share, especially about Jon (and also Sansa?) #desperatefanisdesperate

 

itkTGQA: you’re welcome. I don’t care if they believe me, facts are all that matter. I can tell you that, as far as I know, the table reading went really well, better than expected: they are all getting along famously. I can tell you that Sansa Stark will blow everyone away if she is half as good as she was during the table reading.

itkTGQA: Snow is a wildcard, meaning that from what I’ve been told, he’ll tell the studios to fuck off if they interfere too much. The ladies are friendly toward each other, that’s just not an act on Instagram. The whole cast and crew went to a pub  after they wrapped the table reading, they had a lot of fun, I expect some gossip column will pick up on that, but mostly it was just a group of people having fun, singing and drinking.

itkTGQA: mostly;)

 

 

snowismyfire: they (he? She? Idk) knew about the pub…and the last thing they wrote got me thinking.

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: they will be stuck with rehearsals, but they will have to go out at some point – and we will have pics from set soon. We need someone in Belfast, like now!

 

Khaleesiandqueen: if I can add someone to the groupchat? I know a couple of Dany fans from Belfast…fair warning: they ship Jorah/Dany something fierce!

 


 

 

Rehearsals: Day One

 

Jon Snow was a crazy bastard. At least that was the common consensus after he explained, in detail, his idea for the shooting. She had been on enough sets growing up to know that either Jon was the new Stanley Kubrick or that it would become a logistic nightmare.

He was a crazy bastard, but he was also a crazy convincing bastard. What he wanted would require Dany and her to work side by side on most scenes, even if they had only one scene “together” in the script.

Alysanne and Anne were mirror images of each other so, according to Jon, in order to achieve that, they would have to be actual mirrors to each other all the bloody time!

Tyrion was ecstatic, it was exactly what he had had in mind while writing the script. John had shrugged and had given him what she had come to decipher as his, “Eh, I know, it’s what I do for a living” look. It was cute.

Also, and that was something that had prompted her to actually text her parents, they had all been asked to feed lines to each other. Her father had given her a thumb ups emoji as a reply (and when did he learn to use emojis anyway?), her mother had replied with a long audio message which could be summed up with: suck it up and trust your director. And the thing was that no one had objected! That was unusual.

Crazy ideas notwithstanding she was excited: the sets were almost ready, she was wearing a gown and a corset to practice walking in those death traps; it felt like they had begun, for real.

The large room chosen for the day was warm and everyone was taking place and getting comfortable while they were prepping for the first scene: it was one of the first scenes of the movie and either Dany and her would keep getting along or they would end up killing each other by the end of the shooting. She hoped for the former because she genuinely liked Dany. She wasn’t a stuck-up diva, she had a wicked sense of humour and she genuinely loved the movie. 

Dany was in a corner of the room, on the phone (which she would have to give to her p.a., after), Jorah who wasn’t even required for rehearsal until after lunch break was there anyway, sitting on a chair, not far from Dany, reading a book about Queen Alysanne.

She had done her homework; her hotel room was filled with books she had brought with her about the Queen and her life; all the titles had been suggested by Tyrion who was a history junkie; Daario was in another corner of the room, chatting with some crew members.

Brienne was there as well, all brisk professionalism, she was their line producer and Theon had told her that she had a reputation for being demanding, hard working and tough as nails.

He had grinned and added, “She’s a woman so, of course, she has the reputation of being a bitch on wheels. Just hit your mark, don’t forget your lines, don’t do lines in your trailer and you’ll be fine!”

He had laughed when she had flipped him off, but she had felt better. She had skyped with Arya the night before and they had talked for hours until she had told him that she had mentioned Jon, “like, a million times”.

“He’s my director,” She had replied.

Arya had cocked an eyebrow, crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Right, because mum and dad talk about their directors all the bloody time, oh, wait!”

Luckily, her sister had let it go, mostly because she had been dead on her feet, but she wasn’t wrong.

Well, not totally wrong.

Thankfully Baelish was not with them, he wouldn’t join them until they were shooting the movie, and the air felt lighter. Everyone she knew had warned her about Baelish: her parents, Theon, Robb – even Maergery.

Well, she knew.

Tyrion cleared his throat after Dany finished her phone call and then said, “Before we begin and Jon will become public enemy number one around here and we all hate each other’s guts, let’s take a selfie!”

He handed his mobile phone to a crew member and directed them to hit their mark.

That was the reason why (even later, much later, even after the mess that picture would cause, she would stick to that story) she ended up next to Jon, his arm draped around her waist and hers around his, smiling like loons because Tyrion said, “Imagine Baelish’s face when we stick it up to him!”

 They were all snuggled up to each other, close, like friends – like a family and she was afraid because for the first time in a very long time she was truly, genuinely happy.

She had no idea, none whatsoever, about what that picture would cause.

 


 

From Twitter:

 

@TLannisterforReal: greetings from Belfast! First day of rehearsal is starting. Say hi to our cast, most of which, is allergic to social media! #GoodQueenAlysanne #day1 #amazingpeople #JorahMormont #JonSnow aka #grumpydirectorextraordinnaire #SansaStark @DanyStormborn4Real @officialDaarioNaharis

 

@MaergeryTyrellOfficial: . @TLannisterforReal .@DanyStormborn4real . @officialDaarioNaharis : you guys look amazing! Retweeting for posterity  #proudofSansa  

 

 


 

 

From Huffpost:

 

First behind the scenes picture of the cast of Good Queen Alysanne goes viral on social media.

 

The shooting of Good Queen Alysanne hasn’t even started, yet, and the cast has been steadily trending on social media for weeks. Tyrion Lannister earlier this morning posted a selfie with the cast and part of the crew with the hashtag #day1.

Needless to say, the selfie broke the internet. Lannister’s tweet has been retweeted roughly 500.000 times, thus making #GoodQueenAlysanne trend worldwide.

Why did the cybersphere lost it, however?

Let’s examine the selfie together, shall we?

Tyrion Lannister who doesn’t usually post pictures on his social media is smiling widely, behind them there are Jon Snow, the director of the movie, with his trademark black attire and glasses, holding Sansa Stark who is wearing a pale blue gown and a corset of the same colour; she is the only one wearing a costume. They are both smiling and, let’s admit it! Don’t they look like a cute couple at the prom?

On their right, next to line producer Brienne Tarth, we see Davos Seaworth ( the director of photography), but it’s impossible not to notice Daenerys Stormborn, sporting a brunette hairdo, a blue jumper and jeans, and Jorah Mormont, wearing glasses and a camel jacket hugging it out for all it’s worth.

It looks like they are all happy to be in the same room together.

Fans have been cropping and photoshopping the pictures for hours – and for today, Good Queen Alysanne is the most talked about movie of the year.

Take that, Marvel!

 


 

 

From Tumblr:

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

Is this real life? *looks around*

No, seriously, the picture. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving. And I’m officially out of fucks to give about the fact that I ship real people because – look at the damn picture, guys! Look at the smiles! When was the last time we saw Dany smile like that? Or Jorah, for that matter?

Look at how Jorah holds her \diesamilliontimes

Those are not mates taking a selfie together, look at how she leans her head on his shoulder, how personal space is something they haven’t ever heard of (seriously, there was like a mile of space available, but no – they had to stand that close together, for reasons? I guess?)

 So, to sum it up for the past couple of weeks we’ve had:

 

  • A selfie from our Khaleesi, where they both look happy (Jorah looked a bit like a bear with that beard, but whatever)
  • Sightings, lots and lots of sightings of the two of them – one of which was witnessed by my sister (see post)
  • A blind item that was clearly about them.

 

And shooting hasn’t even started yet.

 

#jornaerys #otp: mr and mrs muir  #good queen alysanne

 

KhaleesiForEver :

 

It’s just a picture @mrandmrsMuir. There were a lot of people and they are paid to smile to the camera. Also, remember what happened the last time people went nuts over them? Remember the other picture? Show them some respect, and leave them the hell alone!

 

#jornaerys #good queen alysanne #stop shipping real people it’s not a game

 

mrandmrsMuir :

 

@KhaleesiForEver – look, I have never, ever reblogged that picture, because it was stolen on what was probably the worst day of Dany’s life. If you remember we, as fandom, decided not to reblog, post and retweet it because it sucked, it was a private moment that some scum stole. It is not the fucking same thing! Whatever they do on their own freewill (re: stuff they post themselves, stuff they approve is posted) is fair game. I’m not going to tag Dany or to harass Jorah. So, stop policing my thoughts. I’m just in my little corner of the internet flaliling because my two favourite actors, and, yes, fuck it, my otp is back working together and they look cute af and happy to be together. Are they pretending? I don’t think so, but whatever …

 

 

 ProfReid&Anne: @KhaleesiForEver and @mrandmrsmuir: sorry to piggyback your post and I won’t get into this, but I’m curious: which picture are you guys talking about? I’m a newbie.

 

12.500 notes

 

 


 

From Scoop Online:

What our body language expert has to say about the picture that broke the internet!

 

The cast of “Good Queen Alysanne” has been steadily trending on social media ever since production began. There are still voices against Sansa Stark’s casting as the titular character, but fans have been going nuts over the few pictures that have been posted for the past ten days.

Three days ago Tyrion Lannister broke the internet when he tweeted a selfie of the cast of the movie right before rehearsal started. The numbers of likes and retweets are by now in the six digits and everyone, even by osmosis has now seen the picture.

We have asked our resident expert on body language, the psychologist Dr Shae to take a look at the infamous selfie and that’s what she has to say about the  picture  but, mostly about the people in them that caused it to go viral: Jon Snow and Sansa Stark and Danaeris Stormborn

Dr Shae:  

Jon Snow - Sansa Stark: they are clearly comfortable with each other. The relaxed posture and the way their feet are angled clearly infer a measure of trust between them; they are both smiling to the camera, Snow, however, shows his teeth, and the microexpressions of his face show that he was relaxed and happy to take the picture; Stark’s smile is more guarded, but the way her body inches closer to Snow’s shows that there is a closeness between them.

Also, notice the way they are holding each other: Snow’s fingers are entirely curled around Stark’s waist, which denotes a level of possessiveness, yet his touch is gentle and he angles his body almost in a protective stance. Stark’s fingers are curled around Snow’s waist, but we cannot see all the fingers. There is some hesitation in her gesture.

Daenerys Stormborn – Jorah Mormont: they are clearly at ease with each other, there is enough familiarity between them that they stand closer than any other people in the selfie. Mormont’s hand is splayed on Stormborn’s back, it shows, again, a level of familiarity and closeness. He’s leaning down to accommodate her height and her arm is drooped around his shoulder making their cheeks touch. Both of them are smiling. What I found peculiar is how their feet are angled: specular to each other, this shows support and an equal relationship.

 

Dr Shae, didn’t comment further or speculate on the status of the actors’ relationships, what is clear to everyone, however, is that both the Mormont+Stormborn effect is as strong as ever and the internet has found another couple to love. The hashtag #jonsa has become increasingly popular for the past few days.

Shooting for Good Queen Alysanne is set to start in ten days. What else can we expect from the cast?

 


 

 

That bitch. That stupid, worthless cow!

She had dumped him, told him that she would call the police if he ever touched her again, went off to her family’s mansion and then started to act!

She had said, over and over, that she didn’t care about fame, she had whined when they were papped together (and yes, even he had got tired of that, but it had been a necessary evil!) and there she was – in the movie that was the talk of the town! A movie he needed! He would have made great things in it, he would have been a great Jaehaerys! But no! Sansa had got the part and everyone had told him that reading for Jaehaerys was impossible and the part had gone to that cardboard stud no one cared about!

That stupid, ungrateful slut!

That fucking picture was everywhere! It popped up on his google alerts, on Twitter, on Instagram, even on facebook!

The happy cast of the motherfucking movie of the year all snuggled up together like a happy family!

He opened the picture again after he poured himself another glass of vodka.

Tyrion, his uncle – that freak had chosen Sansa over him! He had known he needed a good movie, he had taunted him about Future Perfect and there he was beaming at the camera with his perfect cast and his perfect little slut!

Jon Snow. He had briefly met him the year before at the Golden Globes, he had expressed an interest in working with him and Snow had smiled and thanked him and then had walked out on him.

He had fucking walked out on him!

On Joffrey Baratheon!

Sansa – oh, she was beautiful, he wouldn’t have wasted so much time with her stupid ass if she wasn’t so beautiful: pale skin, red hair, those eyes and that mouth.

 God, that mouth –

(bleeding – he had liked it when she bled from her mouth, her white perfect teeth stained with red, the splits on her lips, how quickly her eyes filled with tears)

And there he was, Snow, right to her side, an arm draped around her waist as if it belonged there and Sansa was –

How about that.

He downed another glass of vodka.

What the morons on social media weren’t getting was that Sansa was a newcomer only in name. The only thing they truly had in common was that they had grown up in the business so they had known, since childhood, how to take pictures in public, how to act on red carpets, how to model their body language for the camera.

Also, he knew Sansa.

He knew what she looked like when she was smiling for the camera because she had to and when she smiled because she felt it, she knew how she looked like when she was in heat.

Fuck, he needed more vodka. He grinned, opening twitter.

Oh, that was going to be fun!

 


 

From Twitter

 

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic: loved the selfie, uncle @TLannisterforReal. You fellas look happy and cosy. Very cosy. Good for you #SansaStark and #JonSnow you look positively glowing together!

 

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic: As someone who has been accused of getting roles because of nepotism, I absolutely resent similar remarks about Sansa. She didn’t get the role because she is Ned Stark’s daughter. There are many ways in which a young, beautiful actress, with no experience and virtually no resume, can get a starring role in such a production. Well, if one excludes talent (lol) and luck (lol)….

 

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic As Sherlock Holmes said: once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth. I think I know what the truth is.

 


 

 

 

 Day 3 of Rehearsal

 

 Considering that Sansa and Dany had met for the first time a little over a week before, it was almost scary how in synch they were and it was just the third day of rehearsals. The first couple of days had been fun, exhausting, they had eaten Chinese takeout and pizzas together, and all pesky things like trailers and looking at the watch had been forgotten.

It was a first for him; there was something in the air – everyone wanted that movie to succeed, they were getting along and they were having fun.

Rehearsing with Dany had been easy, so far – they had fallen into their rhythm right away and it had been mostly a matter of changing a few lines here and there, listening to Jon’s suggestions and then just – become Professor Reid and Anne.

Watching Sansa and Dany act together was fascinating. They had different approaches to the craft, different natures and yet the common ground they had found during the table reading was translating in the rehearsal.

The scene they were rehearsing would take place very early in the movie (because Snow, among other things, wanted the movie to be shot as much as possible in sequence), both the Queen and Anne would go through the process of waking up and getting ready for the morning. Each would get in the other’s space and when Snow had shown them the storyboard it had looked remarkable, how it would translate on screen was another matter altogether.

Dany and Sansa would have to be perfectly coordinated, there could be no room for mistakes, not if he wanted to show Anne’s descent into the Queen's mind and how their storylines were deeply connected. 

Jon was in the middle of the room, together with Brienne who had two stopwatches and would time how in synch the two women were.

  Both roles required a great deal of technique and Jon was there, to guide both women.

No one uttered a sound when Jon counted up to three and the two women started the scene.

They opened their eyes together, Sansa ran a hand through her hair with her right hand, Dany repeated the movement, a moment later, with her left one.

She would have to do everything left-handed, at least in her scenes with Sansa.

He liked how Jon was coaxing the actresses: his voice was firm but gentle, he had a very keen eye for details, but he mostly was following Sansa’s gestures.

 “Now, move to your left and turn –“ Jon said getting close to Dany.

The two women stopped, hugged their arms to their chests and moved toward each other.

One was tall, thin, with long red hair, the other was small and a brunette, they couldn’t be more different and yet, here, under his eyes, they were becoming one.

There was a thin line between period drama and gothic tale and Jon Snow had the daunting task of walking it, without making it unmarketable for Award Season. That much had been clear since the first day. Baelish had been adamant about it.

Tyrion, however, looked satisfied. He had written a beautiful script about two strong women, one a powerful iconic historical figure and the other a woman who lived and felt what the other had felt.

It was a sight to behold, and if it wasn’t that he already loved Dany, he would start right now. The press thought that the role of Anne was below her, they didn’t have a clue.

There would be no cheap mirror tricks, in fact, there would be no mirrors at all.

Dany was now repeating a gesture Sansa had done, and Jon was patiently waiting for her to get it right. Having so much time to rehearse before shooting was a luxury they were lucky they had been afforded and both women didn’t want it to go to waste.

“Now, turn your back to each other – and remember: five steps!” Jon said, sparing a look at Brienne who nodded.

So far, so good.

And it was only the third day. Sansa had stopped being terrified of Dany and they were getting along, spending time mimicking each other and it was funny and endearing to watch.

Well, he supposed he was biased, but then again, so was his director.

Both women started to unrobe next to their respective bathtubs and Jon halted them.

Sansa looked at Jon expectantly, but he was shocked when Dany looked at him.

He smiled at her and nodded and Dany beamed at him.

Christ, that woman would be the death of him!

“Very good –“ Brienne said, “Almost perfect, scene should be shorter, though,”

Jon nodded, “Alright, we’ll go through this again later, Sansa we’ll rehearse scene six later, Jorah? The library scene is next!”

He nodded and Dany and Sansa high fived each other.

That was – weird. Too weird. He had been on nice sets, where actors got along and egos got checked at the door, they were rarities but it had happened; he had never been on a set like that – he had never felt like he was home where he wouldn’t have to lie through his teeth spouting off some horse shit about how they were a family.

They weren’t. They were close, however – or Tyrion had personally handpicked the cast knowing they would get along like that.

Sansa didn’t leave the stage, no one did – she sat on her chair and started knitting. The leading lady of what was becoming the most anticipated movie of the year never left the stage because she was always ready and willing to help and spent her spare time knitting.

That was madness.

And that was when Oberyn Martell got in the room, ignoring the keep out sign and interrupted them.

Oberyn Martell was – Tyrion’s biggest fight behind the scenes with the executives. He had wanted a PR genius who wouldn’t necessarily suck it up to either Cersei Lannister-Baratheon or Petyr Baelish.

The fact that Martell had a history of fighting with the Lannisters had worried him, at first, but the man and Tyrion were good friends and he had learned to trust both men years before.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Both Jon and Brienne asked at the same time.

He would have smiled if he didn’t know intimately the look on Martell’s face. Dany had gotten close to him (well, closer) and an unnatural silence had fallen in the room.

“We have a problem!” Martell said.

He showed them his iPad. And yes, they had a problem: Joffrey Baratheon had all but said that Sansa had got the part because she had slept with Jon and every tabloid in the world, in less than an hour, had picked up the story.

The selfie, which had been something nice, a picture he had actually downloaded on his telephone, taken in a moment of quiet and peace, among people who were starting to genuinely care about each other had just become something dirty, a weapon to be used against a girl.

Sansa had paled, covering her mouth with her hand, her body rigid with fury, Tyrion was swearing up a storm. Dany looked angry on Sansa’s behalf, mostly – and because like whoever had had the misfortune of ever meeting or working with Joffrey Baratheon she knew he was an utter shit of a human being.

Jon, on the other hand, was silent.

He usually had kind eyes, but what he saw in his director’s dark gaze was fury.

“Is that all?” Jon asked, his voice pure ice.

Martell nodded, it was clear he wanted to say more, perhaps planning something right away, but it was clear that was not Jon’s plan.

He said, “Get the hell out of my set, we’ll talk later!” but he was positive that the, “I will fucking kill Joffrey Baratheon” was clear as day between the lines.

“Jon, I –“ Sansa trailed.

“Scene six, later,” Jon replied, his voice hard, but his eyes, once again, kind, when he looked at her.

Sansa nodded, and she was her father’s daughter because she didn’t cry, her eyes were dry – but the way her shoulders slumped as she walked back to her chair spoke volumes.

Martell was talking to Tyrion, in the farthest corner of the stage, and he recognised right away the look in both men’s faces: Joffrey Baratheon had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Notes:

Two updates in a week, I know - next chapter will be set in the past, so....sorry for the cliffhanger:)
Also, I can't stress it enough: I love both Sansa and Dany :)

Chapter 5: You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together (part 1)

Summary:

The aftermath of Joffrey's tweets.

Notes:

This chapter kicked my ass, also due to its length I broke it into two chapters - so, double update:)
Thank you everyone for the kudos, bookmarks and comments!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jon – Now - I

 

 

His first instinct, the lizard part of his brain, was to just throw the mobile phone against the nearest wall so that he wouldn’t have to deal with all the messages, alerts and missed phone calls he had got since the press – tabloids and entertainment magazines alike– had picked up on Joffrey Baratheon’s tweets and started spinning stories.

Despite what he had asked him, Martell had not left – he had stayed in the room, observing everyone like a hawk, typing madly and silently on his tablet, while they kept rehearsing. He hadn’t taken it personally, and hadn’t asked him to leave again, not when things had started to escalate.

 “The show must go on” was a sad and unavoidable truth of their job. So, he had kept his mind focused on the movie and its rehearsal and he was immensely proud of his cast and crew because they had been impeccable.

Sansa had been pitch-perfect: laughing because it was required in the script, flirting with Daario because it was what Queen Alysanne was supposed to do, even if she had put away her knitting stuff and had spent a considerable long time staring at the scenes rehearsing before her, without truly seeing them.

He had not thrown his mobile anywhere, it was still in his pocket, he suspected its battery was fucked and he wanted to faceplant on his bed and forget everything.

He couldn’t.

He could still hear the few words he had caught while getting into the studio’s car because of fucking course paparazzi were swarming the place:

 

“Did she suck you off?”

“Did she take it to the ass? I bet she liked it, didn’t she? Did she rim you?”

“I heard she likes it rough – does she like it rough?”

“Does she peg you? I bet she pegs you!”

 

Until that day, his experiences with paparazzi had been cordial, all things considered. He was, after all, a boring person: he didn’t like parties, he didn’t like to show off his private life (what private life? He had been a fucking monk for the past couple of years!),  he didn’t go to the opening of envelopes just to be seen. He did the bare minimum required for his job.

He was a director, not a bloody superstar!

Martell, and even Dany and Jorah had warned him about what to expect when they got out of the studios. No one had needed to warn Sansa because she had been there before, she had already known what to do and how to act, which had broken his heart a little.

Security had escorted her out, she hadn’t worn sunglasses (because only douches wore them at night), she hadn’t worn headphones – she had just walked: head held up high, a scarily blank look on her face and she had listened to the same stuff he had – perhaps worse. And if there were going to be pictures or videos of him, looking ready to axe murder someone, well – he supposed he would deal with it. He wasn’t about to start to care at that moment!

People who weren’t in the business, people whose lives weren’t lived in public could perhaps think it was not a big deal – that there would be other scandals, there would be more pressing news; and they were right, in a sense, because in the great scheme of things what happened shouldn’t even figure.

 The thing was, however, that some rumours stuck; they would be footnotes in gossip rags forever, they would be whispers at parties, behind the scenes, among casting directors – there would always be some asshole director, or some producer who would think that Sansa was willing to exchange sex for a part  and some young actress who would throw herself at him thinking that she would get somewhere with it – because they had read it on the internet, on papers, so it must be true.  

Christ, Joffrey Baratheon was a dead man walking!

But he was mostly furious at himself because it was his fault! He was the director of the movie, he should have protected Sansa! He was supposed to – it was his bloody job!

He should have been more careful because he had good eyes for details and he had seen the selfie: he had smiled like a loon, he had liked being so close to Sansa, he had liked how she felt in his arms.

Just like he had loved how she had smiled and genuinely laughed at the pub at the stories he had told about his first movie, how she had tasted his beer and coughed because it was too strong and bitter and how they had chatted of nothing and everything and all he could see was her eyes and how expressive they were – and yes, he liked the way her hair smelled and when, exactly had he turned into a bloody teenager anyway?

There would be meetings, the following day - they would need a fucking strategy because Joffrey Baratheon was, basically, a mean girl with a penis. He didn’t want a strategy because Sansa and he had done nothing wrong!

His phone vibrated again and, out of frustration, he pulled it from his pocket and groaned when he saw the caller id.

Tormund.

They were friends. They had been friends before either of them had got famous. He liked that Tormund didn’t take any shit; he was honest to a fault, and not answering his call would not help both Sansa and him.  

Tormund knew him – they had known each other for far too long for him to believe that he would ever do anything like that. He had also been there when the whole fiasco with Ygritte had gone down.

“What!” He growled as a way of greeting.

“Fuck you too!” Tormund replied, but he could hear the grin in his voice.

He sighed, and Tormund said, “So, I guess you learned how to use the internet, didn’t you?”

Despite himself, he smiled, just a little. He knew perfectly well how to use the internet, he only hated social media – and with good reason.

“No fucking comment!” He said, instead.

“I’m not calling as a journalist, you moron!” Tormund said – and he believed him, implicitly.

“I know – sorry, mate –“

“Saw you on the internet, the Daily Mail has just found its g spot!” Tormund said and he sounded genuinely disgusted, “I half expected you to deck one of the paps; for what is worth, I’d have lent a hand.” He continued.

Jon sighed, again, “why are you calling me? You didn’t check on me on nomination morning, why now?”

“Because you care, now. I have seen the picture Jon, everyone has!” Tormund replied and his voice took a gentler tone.

“Sansa and I aren’t sleeping together!” Jon said.

“Oh, I know that – you’re too honourable and she’s too raw after Baratheon –“ Tormund said but John interrupted him, refusing to dwell on what he had said about him because he was frankly too tired to, and asked, “What do you mean too raw?”

He wasn’t a fan of tabloids, but even he had seen pics of Sansa and Joffrey together at events, for a while they had been everywhere, he knew that they had been engaged because there was no escaping the Lannisters PR machine even if he had been on the other side of the globe shooting his third movie, when the news had broken.

Of course, when he had cast Sansa he had known nothing – just the bare minimum facts. If, by any chance, he had spent time googling her, since they had started the table reading, well, he was only human, wasn’t he?

Raw, however, implied something more serious than a bad break up between two kids, and he wasn’t even aware, at first, that he had clenched his hand into a tight fist and he was gripping his mobile until his friend spoke.  

“You’re making the noise –” Tormund said.

“Which noise?”

“The one you – never mind, look, have you got any beer? I mean the good stuff!” Tormund said.

He frowned in confusion, “I heard there’s good beer in London.” He said.

“I took the first plane to Belfast as soon as Melisandre picked up the story – this is going to get ugly! “

“Tormund –” Jon trailed, “I don’t think –“

“You know diddlyshit about this, Snow – just answer this: how did Ms Stark react to Joffrey’s allegations?”

Shocked, and then silent, composed – resigned. Pale, outraged, beautiful, full of dignity even while paparazzi shouted vile things at her to get a reaction.

His.

That surge of protectiveness, of possessiveness, wasn’t truly a surprise, he wasn’t that out of touch with his feelings, it was nonetheless powerful enough to make his breath catch in his throat, for a moment.

Her reaction, the way she had behaved after Martell had shown them the tweets and had updated them, as things escalated – had sat heavy on his gut for hours, it was one of the reasons why he wanted to smash things in the first place.

“She was a professional, didn’t miss a beat.” He replied, eventually.

Tormund made a grunt, “I’ll be right there; there are things that can’t be said over the phone – tell the reception you’re waiting for me, and for fuck’s sake, you guys need to move out of the hotel tomorrow, it’s not safe!”

He didn’t like the tone of Tormund’s voice. He didn’t like that he had taken a plane to Belfast just because of some gossip, he didn’t like that there were things about Sansa that couldn’t be discussed over the phone.  

But Tormund had been there for him, once before, when things with Ygritte ended, he was a good friend. And he needed one.

 


 

Sansa – now - I

 

The water was getting too cold, yet she couldn’t move a single muscle to get out of the shower. When she had finally been able to get into her hotel room, she had gone directly to the bathroom.

The old routine: puke her guts out, rip her clothes off and then straight under the shower.

Maergery Tyrell often talked about her relationship with Joffrey as “The Year From Hell”

It had been two years, actually. Only the last year of their “whirlwind romance” had been under the magnifying glass of paparazzi, tabloids and the media circus Cersei had created for her precious, psychopath son.

She closed her eyes, swallowing past the bile she felt rising in her throat.

She had thought things were better. She had thought that starting to act could be her way to reclaim herself, even if, at first, she had used a stage name.

She had thought that she had got out of that freak show – that Joffrey couldn’t harm her any more.

And yes, sure, he couldn’t lay a finger on her any longer; but she hadn’t got out because Joffrey Baratheon was a psychopath. His golden boy image was just an act; he was instructed to always be pleasant to his fans, even if he despised them. He was instructed to be charming, funny during interviews and in public.

Behind closed doors, he was a monster. He was also an utter asshole to fellow actors and crew members, but his family was too powerful, therefore he kept working.   

And no one, not even her parents knew the true extent of what he did to her while they were together. Theon and Robb were the only ones who came close to guess, but she had been good – she had given the best performance of her life with them when she had dissuaded them from tearing Joffrey from limb to limb.

She had lied, she had covered her bruises and concealed her scars, she had smiled and smiled and smiled.

And she had started to feel safe, again. She had started to feel like she was before Joffrey. It was her fault!

She shouldn’t have taken that selfie, she should have swapped places with Davos or Brienne because Tyrion had meant to show the world, they were having fun, but she had looked at the picture, after – and it was so clear: the way she had hold Jon, how she had smiled, how she had forgotten that the picture would become public and anyone could see it. She had forgotten Joffrey, how well he knew her, how good he was at reading her and her weaknesses.

Paps calling her a whore, a slut, didn’t faze her. After her break up with Joffrey (after she finally, finally got free) she was called every name in the book to get a reaction. She had seen her parents go through it countless times, she knew what to do. Not to say that it had been pleasant, but she knew how to get in the zone where she didn’t even really hear what they said and flashes were just bright lights.

Jon, however – was innocent.

He was a good, honourable man. He was kind and funny in his own gruff way; she felt safe with him.  

Jon couldn’t know that she had had her first taste of alcohol in a very long time at the pub, because he was there with her and she had known, felt that she would be safe with him.

 She had laughed watching Tyrion drink Jon under the table, she had felt young and sexy while singing on stage with Dany, and walls hadn’t started to close down on her, she hadn’t felt the urge to bury herself in millions of layers of clothes.  

She could taste the bile on her lips, now.

Jon didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be attacked because of her. He didn’t deserve to have his work ethic questioned because of her. Her father, who thought that most of their business was hopeless, had told her: “Snow is one of the good guys, Sansa.”

Oh, God! She hadn’t even checked her phone! Her parents were probably furious! And her siblings – if she knew them, they were probably already planning how to kill Joffrey and where to ditch the body!

She realised that her teeth were chattering, just – how long had she been under the shower?

No.

No, damn it!

She wouldn’t, couldn’t let Joffrey hurt her again! It wasn’t fair! And she owed it to Jon to be stronger than that. She would bear it, bear everything as long as Joffrey didn’t stain Jon’s name to have fun.

She stopped, her hand on the towel when she realised the ferocity of her instinct to protect Jon Snow.

He was a stranger –

No.

He was her director.

No, it wasn’t just that!

Jon Snow had fought for her, to have her in the movie, even if casting someone more known and, as it turned out, with less baggage, would have been less problematic.

He gave her confidence, and she trusted him and she had thought she would never trust another man in her life. And she was terrified at the idea of losing him because of Joffrey Baratheon.

She breathed, trying to find that balance that had allowed her to go out and smile for the cameras even if a couple of minutes earlier Joffrey, in the car, had punched her in the gut because it was his way to blow off some steam before facing the press and the fans.  

She wrapped the towel around her body and slowly made her way to the bedroom.

Her mobile phone was still in her purse and when she looked at it, she saw that it was bursting with messages, alerts and missed calls.  

She listened to her friends’ messages: Maergery, for example, was livid with fury and said she had a plan; Arya told her not to freak out, and to stay calm, she also told her that her family would not comment publicly on Joffrey’s actions.

“So, don’t get paranoid if I don’t kick asses on social media. You’re not alone, big sis.”

Robb told her more or less the same things, adding that he was immensely proud of her and that Joffrey Baratheon had definitely chewed more than he could eat that time.

Theon had invited himself to Belfast, told her that he would rent a flat near the studios and anyone who got near her would have to get through him, first.

“I can edit the shit I’m editing anywhere! Also, since I’m technically not a Stark, I told dad to stuff it. I’ve just got a call from Maergery – he’s going down. That’s a promise, Sansa!”

Her mother told her that she was proud of her and that no one truly believed the rumour. Her father, who was in New Zealand shooting a movie told her something that surprised her.

“I saw the picture, and I saw two good kids who look like they genuinely like each other.”, he told her that she had the whole family behind her and that she wouldn’t have to face it alone.

“Not this time, Sansa. This is the last time that parasite touches you. I swear!”

Her dad knew.

Of course, he did.

She burst, finally, into tears. She didn’t understand whether it was stress, relief, anger or gratitude; shame or the fact that the most tangible victory Joffrey had got with his slandering tweets was that she would never touch Jon again.

 


 

 

Dany – Now - I

 

Jorah’s hotel room was – not much different than the one he had had in New York; he was not the type of actor who made impossible demands to the studios and the producers.  It was a large room, yes, but so was hers. It was elegant, comfortable and after only a few days, it had already a homey feeling to it. Perhaps, it was the dimmed lights, the guitar in a corner of the room, the pile of books on the desk, Jorah’s coat and scarf on one armchair and the lingering smell of the bergamot tea Jorah loved to drink.

Back when they worked together the first time, when they were both married, in love with other people, and unaware that their lives would collapse pretty much simultaneously, Jorah’s hotel room had been their base: they had rehearsed, run lines together, had late dinners while waiting for the rush of adrenaline to wear off or had spent time just watching movies together or listening to music.  

The hotel staff got used to seeing them together at weird hours, and had never said a word about it. Until that day, she had thought they had been lucky – or that they hadn’t met arseholes. She was starting to think that Jorah had protected her, then – just like he had that day, and before, when Drogo died.

They had had a long day: rehearsals in themselves were kind of brutal: Anne might not be the protagonist – or how the internet was fond of calling her: the mvp of the movie, but she was hardly a supporting character. She had almost as much screen time as Sansa, almost as many lines, not that she gave a toss about such a thing, but still – she had worked all day and the shooting schedule she had taken a brief look at was crazy!

She was exhausted, she missed her son, even though she was glad, after days of feeling guilty about it, to have left him with his nanny in London. Her son would never, ever, be used to get some clicks by some trashy online tabloid. Not as long as she breathed!

 She was furious about what happened because of Joffrey Baratheon!

She was angry that they had all to leave work separately as if they were having orgies and not bursting their assess off because their director had a precise vision for that movie and it looked like he knew how to achieve that and kept pushing them to give their best.  

She was angry that Jorah had to face paparazzi again, not the kind, even funny ones they had encountered for the past few days, but the ones that screamed filthy things to have a scoop. She was angry that Sansa had looked so bloody pale all afternoon and she had minutely flinched whenever Daario touched her.

And poor Daario! He was lucky that her presence in the scene had blocked Jon’s vision when Sansa had flinched or their director would have chewed his head off that day.

When she got in the lift, in the hotel, she had pressed the button to Jorah’s floor without even thinking, she had walked down the hall and knocked on his door and she had been floored with relief when he hadn’t looked surprised at seeing her.

And she had smiled when, he too, had looked – relieved upon seeing her.

He had told her to make herself at home, and she had – like she used to do: she had taken off her shoes, pulled up her hair in a bun, stolen one of Jorah’s scarves and used it as a shawl, and had sat on the sofa.

She accepted the glass of wine he handed her and made room for him on the sofa as he sat down. Sofa, was, actually, too much a generous word, but she liked the closeness between them. She needed it.

“Ned went crazy with happiness when Sansa was born – “Jorah said, breaking the silence in the room. It hadn’t been awkward, to the contrary it had been warm, comfortable – the sort of silence she had missed and craved.

She smiled, but she thought about how Ned and Catherine must be feeling – she would be going crazy with anger in their place. She knew them, she had worked with both of them on separate occasions and they had always been very reserved about their private lives. They were two stars who had managed to have a happy marriage, balanced and decent children and a private life. She admired them – even if she could not see a world where Jorah did something so awful that Ned Stark would forsake him and their friendship.

Then again, she was biased, she supposed.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” She said, meaning every syllable. Even if she had slept with Jon – and it was very clear, since they were spending so much time together that they definitely hadn’t - there would be nothing wrong with it: she was the right choice to play Queen Alysanne and they were disgustingly cute together.

“Deserving has little to do with things like this,” Jorah replied.

Right. He should know. Did he deserve to get dragged through the mud because his wife had cheated on him and almost got him bankrupt?

Did she deserve to have pictures of her taken on the day of Drogo’s funeral, commenting on what she was wearing, whether she was grieving too much or not enough?

Did Jorah and she deserve the rumours and what the picture taken at Drogo’s funeral of them inferred, right after she had been forced to announce her pregnancy?

He was right: it was not a matter of deserving.

She sipped her wine and sighed.

“We have to do something,” She said, after a moment. Oberyn Martell had succinctly told them to stay the hell away from social media until after the meeting they were having in the morning. All of them, with no exceptions, had been told to keep silent. Tyrion had told them the same and had apologised to Sansa and Jon for the selfie. He had looked genuinely horrified at the reaction his nephew’s tweets had caused.

Except for Jon, however, none of them was new at the game – and their director would have to need to learn how to play it, whether he liked it or not.

Jorah nodded, and she hated how haunted he looked, now.

“Listen to me –“ She said, “we cannot afford this movie to flop, we need it!”

Jorah looked at her, surprised and she placed the glass on the coffee table, she was slow and deliberate in her movements because there was no way in hell that she was letting that little creep ruin her life!

Joffrey Baratheon and the paparazzi and the studios' executives and Drogo’s fans would not decide for her. Not any more!

Yes, she was sorry for Sansa – she truly was. She didn’t deserve to be publicity slandered by that brat, but there was more at stake, and someone had to say it.

Jorah seemed to sense her determination because he placed his glass on the floor, almost sensing what would come after. He possibly did. She wouldn’t be surprised in the least. They met halfway, as always and she liked how warm his hands felt when she took them in hers.

“I hate to be that person, but Jorah – we need this movie not to be remembered as –“

“The movie where Sansa Stark fucked the director to get the part –“ Jorah finished for her.

Crude, but true. Just like “The Barbarian” was remembered only because it was the movie where Drogo died. Or her first movie was remembered as the one where she had her boobs out.

Sansa’s career could be destroyed because it wasn’t strong enough to face the slander, she didn’t have any clout – despite her lineage. And if she went down, the whole movie would follow.

“And yes, I like Sansa – I do.” She added, even if she knew that she didn’t really need to with Jorah.

“I never doubted it.” Jorah said, “she was – she is a nice kid. And what the paps screamed at her today was sick.”

 It was, and she hated how much that day’s events were reopening old wounds for Jorah. She hated that she had been so selfish at the time and had allowed Jorah to get more wounds to protect her.  

“We know it’s going to get bad –“ Jorah said after a moment and she realised that somewhere while talking they had interlaced fingers and neither of them had made an attempt to break the contact, “but you are absolutely right, we cannot afford this movie to crash and burn before we even shoot it!”

It was the truth: as much as they both liked Sansa and Jon, and they did – they needed that movie. Neither of them was in the position where they could afford a flop.

They swapped ideas – and it felt familiar because they had always complemented each other in ways that had surprised her, at first and missed, when they had been apart.

They had a tentative strategy, a plan, one that wasn’t PR or studios approved, and she was afraid – because it was not just three tweets and some tabloids badmouthing a young actress: it was one of the most powerful families in the world against them. Jorah was right: it was going to get bad, it was inevitable.

He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, almost sensing her fear, and said, “It will work, it has to.”

She nodded, and Jorah scooted closer to her, and there was nothing remotely sensual in that move, he wanted to look at her because he had always looked at her in the eyes, and she had done the same with him since the day they had first read together for The Ghost and Mrs Muir.

“Dany, you are the strongest person I know.” He said

No, I’m not – she thought, or she wouldn’t have run from him for years, avoiding him because she feared what it might have been between them.

“There are times when I look at you, and I still can’t believe you’re real –“ He said, his eyes never leaving hers, their fingers still laced and she was floored because the sentiment was entirely mutual.

“You lost the man you loved, you are raising a son on your own, you are a good, compassionate woman and…”

And she wanted to kiss him. She had wanted to for years, even when she wasn’t supposed to, and they had done the right thing once, they had been decent and jaded enough not to screw their lives up for what it could be a fling.

 Except their lives had gone to hell anyway and here they were, years later, in another hotel room, too close to even pretend they were co-stars who got along or friends. And it wasn’t, couldn’t be a fling. That ship had long sailed.  

The last time they had been that close, a breath away from kissing, the only time they had not ignored the elephant in the room, they had been interrupted.

Jorah was looking at her lips, now, and she was doing the same; he had bared his heart to her, and she didn’t deserve the words he had said, and she wished she was half as strong and tell him how much she had missed him, and loved him.

A beat – because if the universe didn’t want them together, it had better make its move right at that moment!

Nothing happened.

Everything happened.

They moved, together, and it came naturally, even if her heart was drumming in her chest.

He tasted like the wine they had both drunk, and his hands were warm when he cupped her face and she sighed, melting into his arms because it felt right; he was warm, and he knew his smell: it was familiar, it was something she didn’t even know she had missed until he had hugged her when they had their first coffee together before the table reading began.

Again, they moved together, without even breaking the kiss, and how could it be that she had felt Jorah’s hands on the small of her back, her nape, her shoulders countless times and yet his touch was setting her on fire?

How could it be that – it wasn’t the reason why she had come to his room, but it felt like it was a moment that had been years in the making?

His beard was scratchy, but she didn’t mind, on the contrary, it was sending delicious shivers of pleasure down her spine and she found out that if she kissed the side of his neck he was ticklish but couldn’t hide a moan.

And she was straddling him, they were both wearing jeans and jumpers because that wasn’t supposed to be a date and she didn’t remember ever being that turned on from a kiss.

“Wait.” He whispered before she could steal another kiss.

His hands were on her hips and he had somehow untangled her bun and wouldn’t that be a great scene in a movie? Except that it wasn’t a movie, it was real life and they were making out on his sofa and he had asked her to stop.

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

“We can’t!” He said.

The look on her face must have spoken volumes because he said, “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“Believe me, I’m aware.” She said. She smiled, because he looked flustered and sounded hoarse and it was a look, she decided right away, that she liked on him. She smiled because he was Jorah and he had never and would never intentionally hurt her.

“We both are, love,” He said, he was smiling too, but she recognised the look on his face, the one he had when he thought that he had wronged her somehow.

Neither of them had moved, and despite his words, Jorah’s hands were still firmly holding her hips.

“Why?” She said. It was not a question, however.

“Because it’s us – and I can go out of this room tomorrow and be your co-star, I can face the shitstorm outside with the paparazzi and the press, but I can’t pretend it’s just an itch waiting to be scratched, Dany, not if we’re not -” He trailed.

 

Oh.

 

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know because she was a good actress – because as Shakespeare said all the world’s a stage and she hadn’t stopped playing a part for years: the young bride, the faithful wife, the grieving widow, the mother.

And it had been true: she had been a young bride, she had been a faithful wife because the vows she took had mattered to her, she had grieved Drogo, and she lived for her son.

Jorah, however, had made his way into her heart and pretending he wasn’t there, not dwelling on her feelings hadn’t helped matters.

He was there, and she couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine her life without him.

“Not if we are not –?” She prompted him to finish his sentence.

Did Jorah truly think that it had been an itch to scratch for her?

“We need time to understand what we want, Dany.” He said, “Because if either of us is not sure – I’m not that good of an actor.”

“By we, you mean me, don’t you?” She asked.

He shook his head, “No, I mean we as in you and I. We have to be sure, love. Because I can’t do that if –“

“Neither can I –“ She said.

And in a perfect world, one where it wasn’t raining and paparazzi weren’t swarming outside the hotel (hence the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed in that room), they would be kissing again, she would start undulating her hips and keep making out with the man she was still straddling.

The world, however, was not perfect. And their lives were messy on good days. Therefore, she kissed him again, because she could and she had wanted to for years and he indulged in the kiss for a moment, before helping her up. He was the one who took her hand, that time, and they sat again on the sofa.

“I need time,” He said.

And he wouldn’t be Jorah if he didn’t try to protect her, even now. She had read between the lines: he wanted her to be sure that it was what she wanted.  

“I come with baggage,” she said.

“So do I, love – “ He smiled, squeezing her hand.

“I came here tonight because – when I think of home, I can only picture us together.” She said.

It was the truth, and it was high time that she stopped ignoring it. She had felt home with him in that hotel room in New York while eating sushi in the middle of the night or drinking wine. She had smiled when he insisted on escorting her to her room, even if she was just one floor down, only to be met with a sense of emptiness when she was in her own room.

 Jorah deserved more. She deserved more.

They deserved a chance. And yes, they could make love that night – but he would have lingering doubts and they had danced around what they were for too long.

Part of her, however, was scared – because she knew that life was too short, that things could change in a heartbeat and she had already lost too much time.  

“Ok.” She said, because Jorah was right – and they did need time – because what had bloomed between them the first time they had worked together, as beautiful as it had been couldn’t be enough – and their lives were different, now.

And if it had been an itch to scratch they wouldn’t be having that conversation to begin with.

“End of the first week of shooting,” Jorah said.

“Two weeks?” She asked. Fourteen days.

“We didn’t even have a proper date!” Jorah said.

He let go of her hand, only to droop an arm around her shoulders.

Well, that was true. Sort of.

“You don’t need to – I mean, the wooing thing –“ She said.

He grinned at her and said, “Daenerys Stormborn, indulge me, for once.”

She sighed and rested her head against his shoulders and closed her eyes when he felt him drop a kiss on the crown of her head.

That, right there, was exactly what she wanted. But it would be interesting to be romanced by the man she had been half in love with for the past three years.

 


 

Tyrion – Now – I

 

Cersei took her sweet time to join the conference call. While the actors and Jon had all gone to their hotel – and it went without saying that they would have to find newer, better accommodation for them – Oberyn, Baelish and him had been busy with conference calls and were defining a strategy.

His sister, the thorn in his side, was the last one to join the party. She was still wearing her work suit, and her make up and hair was impeccable, but she was in her study, at home.

Cersei was many things: a liar, manipulative, cruel person. She was a bitch, but she doted on her children. Luckily only Joffrey had grown up to be a psychopath bastard, Tommen and Myrcella were good kids, who led a somewhat normal life and she did everything in her power to ensure that nothing could touch them.

Joffrey was her beloved firstborn. And yes, he was aware of the fact that there was nothing of Rob Baratheon in him, he was a Lannister. Perhaps, too much of one.

He had chosen not to dwell on those gossips. He had had to. For Jaime, mostly.

Cersei was also, however, a savvy business woman. She was excellent at what she did. She had succeeded in a male-dominated field, and she was one of the most accomplished studio executives in the world.

He hoped she would see reason. He would need to appeal to the businesswoman, hoping she realised that Joffrey had fucked up, big time.

“Thank you for joining us.” He said.

Cersei shrugged. Great, she was drunk! The headache he had felt throbbing behind his eyes was getting worse.

Oberyn spoke. They had agreed that it would be better if he was the one who did at first. PR was what he was paid for and they were facing a crisis because somehow those tweets not only had become viral, but they had been picked up by each and every media outlet.

He would gamble his Oscar that Cersei had lent a hand.

“Gentlemen,” Cersei said, “I think you are overreacting. It’s bad press, I agree, but it’s press, nonetheless. Everyone is talking about the movie, it’s the most hyped movie of the year, I truly don’t see any problem here.”

Fucking liar.

“You know what the problem is, Cersei.” He said. He tried to keep his voice low, not to show how furious he was. Cersei’s world was an oyster: yes, she had put money into the movie, but if it crashed and burned it would do her a world of good for taxes.

The studio executive on the other side of the conference call, let out a curse and said that he would talk to Cersei in the morning, face to face, and interrupted the call. A moment later, Baelish’s mobile phone rang and he excused himself and left the room.

That couldn’t be good.

“Tyrion, it’s not Joffrey’s fault if his tweets have been picked up, it’s not his responsibility. And as I said, I truly don’t see where the problem is. Bad press is still press, you know that. Sansa will have to deal with it, I suppose.”

So, she was playing being obtuse, then. How – unlike her!

“I see.” He said, “How did his screen test for Chazelle’s movie go, by the way? Any news? I guess Joffrey wouldn’t mind if Bronn, Sansa and I started to share what we know about him and his proclivities. I bet your spin doctors would love to deal with it!”

Procilivities, like what he did to hookers, like the drugs he did or how he had constantly abused Sansa Stark while they had been together.

Cersei smirked. The thing was that he was talking neither to the businesswoman or the mother. He was talking to the sister who despised his very existence to the point that she would ruin a good movie, a girl’s reputation and future, a young director’s promising career just to hurt him.

She wasn’t playing being obtuse – she was blinded by her hatred and in his experience, it never ended well.

“I would like to see you try!” Cersei said. She thought he was bluffing. He knew her too well. As much as they hated each other, he could always got her motives, the way she thought because they were similar, in a way: their father hadn’t raised morons.

However, she didn’t know about how much he had worked on that script; she didn’t know that it was the story he had wanted to tell ever since he could remember.

She didn’t care.

“You really wouldn’t, sister.” He replied.

He saw Oberyn tense at his words. The man knew him, they regularly played poker together, and he knew he wasn’t bluffing. Not that time, not about that.  

Whether Cersei saw it or not, she dismissed him with a curt, “I’ll talk to Joffrey.”

The screen went black and Oberyn got up, “I’ll run the draft of the statement with the others,” He said, “but Tyrion, I’m not going to lie – it’s not too late to recast Sansa. Costume fittings haven’t even started, yet. We can come up with something good, spin this in our favour!”

“No fucking way!” He roared. It would kill Sansa’s career, it would ruin the movie, and Jon Snow would probably have his balls for that. And he would burn in hell before letting his nephew fuck up his movie because his career was on life support!

Martell nodded, unconvinced. “Fine. I’ll fix this!”

He would, and he would pull off a goddamned miracle; he had chosen him because he was extremely good at what he did, “Do that. I don’t care how!”

Bronn was there. He hadn’t said a word, during the conference call: he had been too busy with his mobile phone, whether to play Candy Crush or actually doing his job (he was very good at it, when he wanted to) he had no clue.

“Call him!” Bronn said. He turned, and the man wasn’t even looking at him – and no, he wasn’t playing Candy Crush – he was reading the news and replying to some texts.  

Cersei would hate that.  So, of course he would make that call.

“Yes, I have another call to make, first.” He replied.

Notes:

Title of this chapter taken from “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken because when I grow up I want to be that good at writing and because ….of reasons!

Chapter 6: You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together (part 2)

Summary:

In which we delve a bit in our heroes' past and alliances are formed.

Chapter Text

Jon – Then – II

 

Ygritte was amazing. She had been the first person who had believed in him and pushed him to follow his dreams, rather than settle for something else, something secure.

He had wanted to be a director ever since he could remember. Ygritte wanted to be a director and, unlike him, she had never settled.

She had leant him money, she had convinced him to just stop brooding and do the bloody movie! And it had worked.

It happened in New York, and somehow, it didn’t surprise Jon. The last time they had been there, it had been nice: they had felt invincible, as if nothing and no one could part them.

Nothing, no one except the work.

It happened in New York, but it might have happened in their flat in London, or in Los Angeles or anywhere in the world.

It was just – that the last time they had been in that city, he had been sure they would be together forever.

Even if she would have decked him if he proposed, even if she’d rather have new camera lenses for her camera than an engagement ring.

How was it – even possible that they were shouting at each other and had been doing so for hours?

Why did he not know how much she had been resenting him?

She wasn’t resentful of his success – she resented the fuck out of him, personally, for not seeing.

Seeing what? He kept asking, and then shouting.

Ygritte was a passionate woman, it was the first thing he had loved about her. She was his opposite, in many ways: she wasn’t afraid of anything – she was fire and he was a repressed arsehole with an attitude.

He knew that – but he did love her.

He told her.

For the first time since that shouting match started, and he didn’t even remember what had caused it in the first place, her shoulders slumped. Her auburn air fell to her face and he saw tears in her eyes.

“I know – but you still don’t see!” She said, and she wasn’t getting philosophical on him. Ygritte was far too practical to do that.

“Help me –“ He said. He pleaded because Ygritte had been there, with him, since the beginning, since the first day at Uni.

“I’m done hand holding you, Jon.” She said. And the thing that brought tears to his eyes was that there wasn’t anger in her voice, or disappointment, or even weariness; her voice cracked as she said those words. As if it pained her to do so.

Then why was she – breaking up with him?

“Job has been crazy, I know, but – it will get better, we’ll get some time off –“ Jon trailed.  

“And then what? I will tag along on yet another set, where I will be your girlfriend? Jon, I love you. I do – but I need more.”

More.

And there he was, thinking they had it all: they were young, healthy, in love, for the first time since college debt free, and relatively successful in their jobs.

“Is that because of the project in Patagonia?” He asked.

And yes, he could see now where she would resent him – because it was her chance and he had forgotten all about it, how could he?

“Oh, God –“ He said, because he could be somewhat out of touch with his feelings, but he would have never intentionally hurt Ygritte.

“I won’t play in your pity party game, Snow!” She said. Her voice was hard, now – she was angry because he had been a terrible boyfriend, and a selfish git, and she would not allow him to forget it.

He sat heavily on the bed, looking around he saw the aftermath of hours of shouting, of words he didn’t even remember screaming, but they had broken things, and his throat was sore.

“Listen –“ She walked toward him, and she knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers, “I’m angry – at you, at myself because we should have had this six months ago, not now. But don’t ever think, not even for a second, that I’m not proud of you and that I’m whining because I don’t feel appreciated enough! I need that project and the one after that. And we cannot do this together, Snow. We can’t! Not now, and I don’t believe in fucking fairy tales!”

“So you pick your career over me.” He said, and incredibly enough she smiled, she even brushed some locks away from his face and said, “You did it six months ago,”

But I didn’t know that it was like that! He wanted to tell her, scream again, maybe.

“Do me a favour, Jon, don’t play the martyr, not with me!” She could be hard, at times, but she was honest and he had loved her for it – he still did, he always would.

“And hey, when you win your first Oscar I will resent the fuck out of you if you don’t thank me!” She was smiling, tilting her head on a side, and how was she breaking up with him and flirting with him at the same time?

“Aye, ma’am,” He said, he wanted to smile, but he was afraid he would start crying if he tried.

She had been his first real girlfriend, the first woman he had made love to, the first who had listened to his dreams and told him that they could come true. She was beautiful, amazing, strong and he was losing her.

He felt heartbroken and free at the same time, why? Was that why she was smiling and leaning in to kiss him?

Did he chain her down so much that she was happy to leave?

He didn’t understand, he didn’t even want to.

 


 

Sansa – then – II

 

She would kill Theon. Slowly. With pain, a lot of pain.

It had been his idea: having his little sister being his plus one at the BAFTAs; it was his first nomination, he was sure he wouldn’t win, and going there alone would make it look even more of a loser.

Those had been his words, and his predictions.

He had won, which had surprised no one but him, because he was an idiot, so here they were, at an afterparty, her high heels were killing her, and since he had won his first important award he was leaving her alone and there was no one she knew there. Well, many people knew her parents, but those sorts of parties were not exactly something she was used to.

But that, right there? It was a dream come true at the same time because she had always wanted to go to a party among famous people, even if her parents had told her how boring they truly were: it was mostly people patting themselves on the back, and making connections for future jobs.

She was careful not to drink too much because there would be pictures and the last thing she wanted was to look like her aunt after one of her binges.

Yes, she would kill Theon – with his own Bafta.

“Congratulations on your brother’s victory!” A female voice said behind her.

She turned, and bloody hell! That was Cersei Lannister! She was perfect: the hair, artfully done, the makeup that highlighted her eyes and cheekbones; she was dressed in pale green and gold, wearing jewels that couldn’t possibly be authentic.

She was staring and when she realised it, she wanted to kick herself, “Thank you,” she said.

“Moving speech, I am sure your father will be immensely proud of him!” She continued.

Oh, she was pretty sure his father was quietly bursting with pride, while her mother and Sansa were still celebrating.

They had heard just from Robb, after he won and he had teased Theon mercilessly about his speech.

“He is – we all are.” She said.

Cersei smiled and then, touched her forehead and said, “Oh, where are my manners?”

It was then, Sansa noticed the young, blonde man next to her.

Joffrey Baratheon.

She was in the same room with Joffrey Baratheon and she had been so starstruck with his mother that she hadn’t seen him!

Joffrey seemed to notice her embarrassment, he smiled and – holy damn, it was like staring into the sun! –  said, “Don’t worry, my mum has this effect on everyone! Hi, I’m Joffrey!”

She extended her hand and he gently took it in his and kissed it.

Fuck.

“I’m Sansa Stark.” She said.

“Nice to meet you, Sansa Stark.” He said, his smile never leaving his face.

She couldn’t, for the life of her, tear her eyes off of his. He had the most amazing blue eyes she had ever seen. And they were even better in person.

God – she had cried her eyes out watching his last movie – he had been phenomenal, and she had grown up watching screenings during award season, therefore she was used to top-notch acting.

“Sunshine through the leaves was amazing, you should have won tonight.” She said.

He shrugged, “Didn’t really expect to, but you are very kind.”

“Oh, Joffrey, sweetheart,” Cersei said, and Sansa blinked because for a moment everything had faded, there had just been Joffrey’s eyes and his smile.

“I really must go and talk to your uncle, I didn’t congratulate him, can you believe it?” She smiled and she ignored the way her words had rubbed her the wrong way.

She had grown up with actors. She had seen her parents rehearsing lines until they felt natural, it didn’t matter how ridiculous they sounded sometimes, and what Cersei had just said, felt like a lie.

Oh.

Oh!

She wanted to leave them alone!

“Right,” Joffrey said, “I will be with you shortly, I told him he would win tonight!”

Joffrey sounded genuinely proud of his uncle, but still – it was clear he wasn’t joining his mother.

Cersei kissed her cheeks and she sort of fell in love with her perfume and waved her son goodbye.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He said, after a moment.

“Sure –  go ahead!” She said.

He inched closer, “I reached my quota of sucking up for tonight, would you like to go outside and breathe like normal people?” He grinned. He was holding a glass, but it wasn’t champagne, it was a soda.

She couldn’t help grinning back at him, “Oh, God, yes –“

He offered her his arms, and they walked – and she didn’t know, couldn’t imagine how many eyes were staring at her, and among them, how many they were pitying her.


 

Dany – Then – II

That was the last time she would hear that music, that soft ballad that had been stuck in her head for months, the one that was the perfect choice for the last scene of the play.

She was changing behind the scenes in record time and Jorah was on the other side.

He smiled, and she did the same.

Five seconds and they would say their lines for the last time, they would hear people sniffling in the theatre, their combined fans wait until the very last second before erupting in cheers and it would be over.

Jorah nodded at her, and she did the same before they both got on stage.

It was easy, it had been far too easy – Tyrion’s work had reinvented that movie and made it new, unique, sexy, full of laughter and tears.

It wasn’t scripted, but she closed her eyes when she felt Jorah touching her shoulders.

Lucy was finally reunited with her captain.

She turned, and there he was: blue eyes fixed on hers, his blue coat (which she had bought for him as a wrapping gift because it was just perfect on him!)  making him look like the romantic hero he had played so effortlessly.

They didn’t have many lines. The stage directions, however, had ended up being pages long: touches, smiles, movements; it was almost like a dance.

“And now,” Jorah said, “You’ll never be tired again.”

It was all about finally being able to touch each other – it was about a woman who had lived her whole life yearning for someone she couldn’t have and finally getting what she truly wanted, even if in death.

He made her twirl on stage and they knew their marks so well that there wasn’t any danger of making mistakes; it was their last night and she just let go.

There could never be any kissing; Tyrion and the director had been adamant about that.

“Make them go out of the theatre satisfied without swapping saliva!” The director had said on their first day of rehearsal.

And they had succeeded: they had made a play which had been sexy without any nudity or sex scenes or kisses and it had been an unprecedented, record-breaking success.

There – it was the moment where they would almost brush their lips, they usually would just lace their fingers and walk toward that door, toward their happy ending.

A look at Jorah told her that he was feeling that too: it was the last time they would do that, it was their last moments as Captain Gregg and Lucy Muir.

They hadn’t decided it beforehand, but it came naturally to rest their foreheads together, while he was still holding her in his arms.

“Come, Lucy –“ He said, and she caught the itch in his voice.

She looked at him and he saw that his eyes were glimmering with unshed tears.

“Come, my dear –“ She said. Her voice quivered and she could feel tears as well in her eyes.

They walked toward the door and behind them, the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.

The following thirty minutes went by in a haze: people truly didn’t want them the play to end – she lost count of how many callbacks they had. She was dimly aware that she had been holding Jorah’s hand non stop since the last moments of the play and it looked like he didn’t seem to mind.

She hugged and kissed the other cast members, but they all knew – they had known since rehearsal and it had been confirmed during the run of the play that it was all about Jorah and her, therefore they allowed them to bask for the last time in the lights and the applause. 

She felt the loss of contact with Jorah when it was over and they made their ways to their respective dressing rooms.

 She told Missandei that unless it was her costar she didn’t want to see anyone until she was ready.

She wasn’t usually a diva, but she needed a moment alone. She had packed her things in the dressing room, they were in a box that she would bring home.

Home…

She hadn’t been home for six months, Drogo was still on set; they had tentative plans to finally spend some time together in two days. He was taking a break from filming and she was free.

They weren’t going home, however. He only had three days; they would meet somewhere in the middle.

Why was she feeling like she was leaving home rather than going back to it? Why was her heart beating so fast in her chest?

She snorted and proceeded to remove her stage make up: gone was Lucy Muir, she was back being Daenerys Stormborn, and she shed the last of her character when she changed in her plain clothes: jeans, her favourite jumper, a scarf.

There: it was over. It was officially over.

There would be other gigs, there would be other characters she would love – but she would never forget Lucy, she would never forget that play and the friends she had made.

And why on Earth was she talking to herself as if she was giving an interview?

She looked at herself in the mirror.

Say it! Her reflected image challenged her.

She would miss Jorah. And she knew they would keep in touch, for a while at least, they would run into each other in London because it was bound to happen – but it wouldn’t be the same thing.

She swallowed and took her wedding and engagement rings from her purse and put them on, and she wasn’t surprised in the least when she heard knocking at the door. Jorah knew how long she took to get ready because they had worked together for almost a year and co-stars learned those things very early about each other; it was one of the things that made or destroyed a partnership on sets.

“May I come in?” He asked.

“Yep –“ She said, forcing a smile on her lips and her heartbeat to slow down, at least a little.

He was back in plain clothes too: jeans, a jumper, one of his trademark scarves (and did he know that she had kept one of his, after one of their late-night dinners in his hotel room?). He was wearing his own black coat, but was holding the blue one under his arm.

“Thank you,” He said when he got in, “you shouldn’t have!”

He looked genuinely moved – almost as if he didn’t expect her to give him something at the end of the most amazing working experience she had ever had.

“You’re welcome and don’t be an idiot!”

Jorah had closed the door behind him, he took a couple of steps toward her and said, “I got you something too!”

“You didn’t –“ She said

“Oh, ye of little faith!” He said, mock affronted.

And of course, he had: it was a copy of the necklace she had worn during the run of the play – she had one in a box that would go back to the wardrobe department right behind her, except that it wasn’t a copy!

The aquamarine was nestled in a complicated and yet delicate silver gossamer. Tyrion who was a freak control had supervised the costume and accessories fitting and had wanted that particular necklace for her.

But that – was not a prop!

“Oh, my God!” She said. And truly, she could be articulate when she wanted to! She did!

She had meant to ask the wardrobe department to give her the prop as a memento, but Jorah had anticipated her.

“It’s – it’s beautiful, Jorah, thank you so much!” She said and, sod it! she threw herself into his arms.

Lucy and the captain didn’t touch each other in the play, except that at the very end, and for some reason, Jorah and she had done the same. That night, so far, had been the exception to an unspoken rule that had been set firmly in place since – well, the first week of rehearsals.

She felt his surprise and closed her eyes when he hugged her back, letting the coat drop on the floor.

She had met good friends on the job; people she genuinely cared about, she had had last days on sets where she had teared up and there were pictures on her mobile phone on some of her last days on set where she looked like an absolute mess: puffy eyed and red nosed.

That, however, was a first. It was the first time she wanted to hold onto someone and say, “I don’t want to go. I don’t want you to go!”

And that had never happened to her.

She willed herself not to cry because it would be foolish and because they had a wrap party to attend.

She didn’t move, however, and neither did Jorah. She listened to his heartbeat and when she finally broke their embrace she was smiling.

“It’s been an honour.” She said. And it was the truth – but the truth ran deeper than that, and she couldn’t dwell on it.

“Likewise, Khaleesi.” He said.

And there, the tears came because they had teased each other for months, using names of characters they had played, texting each other as Mrs Muir and Captain Gregg, but that was the first time he mentioned her breakout role, the one that had made people realise that she wasn’t just a pretty face with nice boobs.

I can’t let you go…She thought. Jorah was still holding the pendant in one hand, he smiled his kindest smile and said, “May I?”

“Yes, yes of course!” She said.

Unlike on stage, she didn’t close her eyes, she saw their image on the mirror: they way he brushed her hair on a side, and gently clasped the chain behind her neck, she felt how his fingers lingered for just one moment on her nape and how he was decidedly not looking in the mirror.

Oh, Jorah –

Neither of them was blind. They were aware of their chemistry – and even if they hadn’t been, even if they had wanted to be oblivious, people had noticed – they had had six months run in Broadway and it had been sold out every single day.

Critics, journalists, fans talked about the “Stormborn+Mormont” effect. They had got covers of magazines that usually didn’t care about theatre.

They weren’t blind, but they weren’t green either – working that closely together, on sets, could lead to a skewed perception of things, hence why so many romances born on sets crashed and burned.

Besides, they were both married – and as she had found out pretty soon that they were both pretty old fashioned about wedding vows.

Six months – countless hours spent together so much that even Drogo had started to get annoyed about it, and they had never, ever overstepped boundaries. Six months playing almost lovers who had far too much sexual tension and that night had been the first time they had held hands for more than the few minutes required by the script.

Eight months, in total – they had been alone all the time, and it wasn’t the first time she felt the air charged with electricity, but she didn’t know whether she was strong enough not to give in.

She turned, slowly, and didn’t even have the heart to make small talk or thank him again for the beautiful pendant.

They were too close and there wasn’t an audience watching with rapt attention, there weren’t fans who would tweet later that they had expected them to fuck each other on stage given how thick the sexual tension was between them (that was a comment she had never shown her costar). They were alone – and after the wrap party, they would possibly never see each other again.

“Daenerys…” He said.

It was a warning, it was a request, it was what they hadn’t said, what she had always refused to admit because ignorance was bliss.

They moved, just an inch, closing the distance between them.

They would pretend it didn’t happen, later – they would part as good friends and she would go to Drogo and try and decide whether they had just bought themselves another year of marriage by working on different sides of the globe for months or if there was still something worth saving.

He would go back to his wife, even if she had heard his side of the fights on the phone lately and they would patch things up because Jorah had already lost too much, he didn’t deserve to lose another wife.

They would meet at parties or at the Tonys if they got nominated, they would pose together for pictures and nothing would transpire of that little moment in her dressing room.

A beat – a breath, her heart hammering in her chest, Jorah inching closer, her hands trailing up his sides and his still on her nape.

Do it – because if I do I won’t let you go… she pleaded with her eyes.

Hesitancy, on both sides.

And the universe, apparently, decided to intervene because they heard the knock on the door just as Jorah’s lips brushed hers.

“Guys, it’s me!” It was Tyrion.

The moment had come and gone. They both stepped back as she invited Tyrion in.

I’m sorry. His eyes told her.

It’s okay – it’s better this way, she replied in kind. She squeezed his hand in hers for a moment as Tyrion came in.

Tyrion Lannister was an incredibly perspective man – she was lucky to consider him a friend, therefore she was glad, immensely glad when he pretended not to notice what had almost happened, even if the look in his eyes gave away that he had seen everything.

“You’re not going to believe whom I’ve just talked to!” He said and he seemed overjoyed.

When neither of them spoke, Tyrion grinned and said, “Get ready to take Hollywood by the balls, my friends! They want to make a movie out of this!”

She exchanged a glance with Jorah and Tyrion, bless his heart, didn’t comment on how they both burst laughing at his words.

It wasn’t over.  

 


 

 

Tyrion – Then – II

He was drunk.

No big surprise there. He admitted he was cynical, had had never made a mystery of it – but he had reached a new low.

The moment he had thought: “Why did the moron have to die now? Why did the bitch have to cheat on him now? Why didn’t they wait for the contracts to be signed?” he had started drinking because – that was bad, even for him: he cared about Dany, he cared about Jorah, they were his friends – and yet, he was a Lannister, he was not in the business of fair and if they had been struck with personal tragedies and dramas after the contracts were signed the movie wouldn’t have gone up in flames before even truly going in pre-production.

Jaime took the bottle away from him; he had crashed at his place – after one of the hardest and longest days of his life and had – well, he had moped. He was a writer, he might as well use the right words.

“Give it back!” He whined.

Jaime shook his head, he disappeared in the kitchen and came back a moment later with a tall glass of water.

“Drink.” He said.

“Fucker!” He replied. It meant: thank you for being the only family member who doesn’t hate me for existing.

Jaime smirked and pushed the glass toward him. He accepted it, wondering not for the first time, a much more drunkenly than usual why Jaime, with his looks and natural charisma, had not got in the family business.

He had been a child actor, like Cersei, but he had given it all up – and going against their father’s wishes, he had become a lawyer.

No.

It was worse than that: he was a Crown Prosecutor, not some shark that made money and cutthroats. Well, he had done that too, at first, but in the end, he had chosen to do something his father had never understood.

“Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.” He said.

“Don’t go zen on me, brother – it was rotten luck!” He said and then marvelled, “And yes, I’m a horrible human being, I’m aware.”

“Have you met our father?” Jaime asked, sitting next to him on the sofa.

“Sadly, yes.” He replied.

“You have been working on the Queen script forever, maybe that’s the chance to actually write it.” He suggested.

Queen Alysanne – his passion project which, unless he won a Trifecta and penned a couple of blockbusters could not happen.

“I have the – war thing and the Paedophilia scandal thing to finish and also three scripts to doctor.”

“Where is your Queen Alysanne notebook again?” Jaime asked. And damn, he was a good lawyer and a good brother.

“On my bedside table –“ He replied and he didn’t tell him that it was the tenth or even twentieth notebook about it. He kept all of them in his study, the only stuff that he still hadn’t written on a computer.

“Well, I know someone in the Crown Archives.” Jaime commented with a smug smirk.

 He waved a hand, but he was moved.

“My first thought – my very first thought was that it’s a damn shame a young woman lost her husband and a man I admire is being smeared publicly because I can’t do my pet project.” He admitted.

“You were selfish and cynical – someone alerts the press: a Lannister acting like a bastard!” Jaime said.

“Fuck you!” He said.

“Then you got drunk and are feeling sorry for yourself because you weren’t better than us for once.”

“You are better than us – you got out.”

Jaime’s face darkened. It always happened when he said that; when he said that he was the best among them because he had refused to get sucked into the madness and greed of their family.

“I did what I had to do.” Jaime replied and it didn’t make sense.

Well, it did.

But they didn’t talk about it, not even while drunk.

Christ, she was a lucky woman.

“I know you did.” He replied, and suddenly he didn’t feel drunk any longer.

He looked around: Jaime lived in an elegant flat, in a secluded zone, where paparazzi would never find him unless they knew where to look.

He worked hard, harder than many people he knew – he had money, but he lived alone. He had been eating pizza when he had knocked on his door, with his laptop open and books sprawled everywhere on the table.

He had chosen that life – he had chosen to hide in plain sight, but he also did some good.

“By the way – Cersei told me Joffrey is dating Sansa Stark,” Jaime said.

“Ned Stark’s kid?” He asked.

Jaime nodded and crossed his arms over his chest as if often happened whenever Joffrey was mentioned.

“Does Cersei know she’s not one of the hookers she can pay to keep quiet?” He asked.

Damn! He hadn’t meant the tone of his voice to be so hard. He despised Joffrey, but he made an attempt – for Jaime.

“He seems fond of her.” He replied.

“He seemed fond of Tommen’s kitten and he choked it to death.” He said. Granted, he had been a kid, it had to have been an accident, still – Joffrey was, well, Joffrey.

“Tyrion – he was a child, it was an accident!” Jaime replied.

He tilted his hands up, “Fine!“  He said, deciding to drop the subject.

“I will keep an eye on her.” Jaime replied.

He would do that, he was sure of that, because he was a good, honourable man at heart, he was sure of that – but he would always do whatever Cersei asked him to do. He would always protect Joffrey.

He was his nephew, after all. Blood was thicker than water, and some blood was even thicker.

“Seriously, you have been talking about writing that script since we were kids, do it, it’s your chance!” Jaime said.

Maybe. He had a great idea for the opening sequence and he had found, perhaps, the key to finally unlock the second act, and he had ideas about the characters.

“Maybe I will – where the fuck is Bronn?” He asked. Crap, he was late!

“Went to get more pizza, why?”

“I have an appointment with Oberyn Martell,” He said.

“Anything I should know about?” Jaime asked.

He shook his head, “Just two good people who fell in love with each other at the worst possible time.”

Jaime nodded, understandingly. He might not be in the show business, but he had a working internet connection and that picture was bloody everywhere, especially now that Dany had announced her pregnancy.

That was why Jorah had called him that afternoon, right after their movie had gone up in flames asking for his help. He could have used his clout, his connections to save himself from the smear campaign his wife had started to cover her infidelities and how she had almost bankrupted him, but no – not Jorah Mormont.

He had collected all the favours he was due and asked for his help to protect Dany.

“They are on a roll – they won’t respect her grief, they will leech on it and turn it into something filthy. I won’t stand it!” He had said.

“Mate,” He had replied, “You had me at ‘they are on a roll’,”

So, he had an appointment with one of the best spin doctors and PR gurus around. He had already had a conversation with Dany’s publicist and manager, and he would collect a few favours he was owed.

“Yes, you are a horrible person, Tyrion. I’m ashamed of being your brother.” Jaime said, shortly before Bronn returned.

“Fuck off –“ He replied.

They were Lannisters – love was a complicated thing in their family, but he spoke that language perfectly.

I’m proud of you, little brother.

I love you, big brother.


 

Sansa – Now – III

 

She wasn’t a masochist; therefore, she turned the Wi-Fi off on her phone and tablet, didn’t watch tv, didn’t skip dinner and she settled into bed, wearing her fluffiest pair of pyjamas, one of the books about Queen Alysanne she had been reading for research, and her script.  

She remembered watching her mother studying her scripts, after her sister’s death and how it hadn’t made sense at the time. She was starting to get it, however: focusing on the job, on the technical aspects of it, on the research that went behind the creation of a character was keeping her sane.

 The job  had to come first. She had to show Jon that she was worthy of the trust he had had in her when he had chosen her. She knew she lacked experience, but she had connected with her character immediately – she knew how Alysanne ticked, she knew what shame and heartbreak were, she knew the burden of having to smile and project an image of stability even while crumbling down.  

The legendary queen was, at the moment, the only thing tethering her to some kind of balance. She took a look at her script, which was filling up with stage directions and notes. She smiled – she had always wanted to have a script like that, like the ones she had seen all her life, belonging to her parents and she had one, now – and it was a great script and she couldn’t help chuckling reading some of her personal comments next to Jon’s or Tyrion’s suggestions:

Who died and made me Meryl Streep?

Note to self: this movie will kill you.

There is no way in hell Dany and I won’t fuck this up a million times during shooting.

And she had taken a look at Daario’s script and Dany’s and there were similar notes on their scripts as well. So, she wasn’t the only batshit insane person in that cast!

And until she heard the knock on her door, she almost believed that, in the end, it had just been another day on the job.

She felt a moment of pure dread – what if Joffrey had come there? What if smearing her online didn’t get him off and he wanted more?

What if he had sent one of his assholes friends?

No. It couldn’t be – she decided, trying to rationalise her fear and willing her body to stop being numb with it. Joffrey would never risk being seen by paparazzi, not if he wanted to hurt her. He was many things – but he wasn’t stupid.

Perhaps, she reasoned, it was Theon. He had sent her a text before boarding his plane, and he knew where she was staying. It would make sense, except that when she looked at her phone and switched on her internet connection, she got Theon’s text, that he was staying in another hotel and he asked what time she was going to start rehearsing and to get him a pass for the studios.

Typical Theon.

She got out of her bed, shivering for the cold and went to the door.

“Who is it?” She asked,

She had played the dumb bimbo who got slaughtered in a horror movie and she felt exactly like her, at the moment.

“Sansa, it’s me – Dany!” She said.

Wait – what?

It was past midnight, what the hell? They were getting along just fine, she thought they were establishing a tentative friendship, but – she usually either spent time with Jorah or on skype with her son when they weren’t working.

Anyway, she couldn’t leave her standing outside!

She opened the door and she couldn’t help noticing that Dany was wearing pyjamas under her coat, her hair was pulled up and she was holding a tub of ice cream and a bottle of wine in her hands.

She also looked like she had been kissed within an inch of her life, judging by her lips, but she let that thought slide.

Glass houses and all…

“Come in!” She said, gesturing the other woman inside.

“I come bearing gifts…” She said handing her both the ice cream and the wine.

Comfort food and booze. It was – unexpected, and sweet and she absolutely refused to start crying again.

Daenerys was looking around, inspecting her room, when her eyes settled on the script on her bed, she said, “Oh, my God – you’re on overachiever! You’re making me feel guilty!” she grinned, however, and then asked, “Can I take off my coat?”

“Sure – I’ll get some glasses, but I don’t think I have spoons.” She said.

She felt so awkward! Dany was not one of her friends – and she didn’t make new ones easily, even before Joffrey it had been hard and after him, the bulk of her social life was usually crashing at Theon’s or Maergery’s.

God, she was pathetic!

“I’ve got the spoons!” She said triumphantly, fishing two plastic spoons, wrapped in paper from her coat’s pocket.

“I’ll be right back –“ She said and disappeared in the small kitchenette to get two glasses. She was embarrassed and confused because she had no idea whether she could trust Dany, she didn’t know whom she could trust at the moment, but she couldn’t antagonize her co-star, not that night.

“Sansa –“ Dany said when she came back and handed her the glasses and a corkscrew.

“Yes?” She said.

 “Breath – “ Dany said.

And was that beard burn on her cheek or was she seeing things?

Yet, she did as her costar told her and it almost worked.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, but why are you here?” She asked.

Dany handed her a glass of wine and said, “Lots of reasons: you shouldn’t be alone, for a start.”

“My brother is coming here.” She said.

“Theon or Robb?” She asked.

“Do you know them?”

“Yep, I have worked with both of them on different projects.”

“It’s Theon – he’s coming tomorrow.” She said because Theon respected her and he had seemed fond of her when they had talked about her casting.

“Good – that’s good, Robb would have been better, he’s more diplomatic.”

“It sounds like you’re picking generals for a war.” She said, but Dany wasn’t wrong. Theon was hot-tempered, he was a hurricane.

Robb, instead, would probably make paparazzi weep with a stare. He was unyielding.

He was like the drop that wore away the rock. And God, she missed him so much that it was driving her insane.

“It is a war, Sansa – we are at war. Joffrey Baratheon fucking invaded us.”

Us?

“I talked to Jorah tonight –“ She said.

Hence the bead burns, her mind supplied and she had to take a sip of wine to hide a smile.

 “Joffrey didn’t just attack you, Sansa – his career is over. His last two movies flopped, but he hasn’t had a commercial success for years – and good reviews don’t get you role, especially if you are an asshole.” Dany said.

“He is a monster.” She said, and it was the first time she ever uttered those words aloud. She hadn’t done that with her closest friends, with her family; she hadn’t needed to with Tyrion because the man knew Joffrey.

To say those words to a woman he barely knew left her breathless.

“I got a phone call from Tyrion; we sort of had a pre debriefing the three of us.”

Dany was being honest – she didn’t need to tell her that she had been with Jorah, it was none of her business, but she had chosen to do so in a show of trust.

“And what’s the consensus?” She asked.

Dany smiled and sipped her wine, “I told you: it’s war.”

 “Why don’t we sit somewhere? We look like two soap opera villains with our glasses of wine standing in front of each other.”

“Or the beginning of a porno –“ Dany replied with a wink.

She couldn’t help it, she had to laugh at her words, she gestured Dany to sit on her sofa and sat next to her.

“Tyrion is a bad influence on you!” She said.

Dany laughed, “Who says it’s not the contrary?”

They kept drinking their wine in silence until Sansa asked, “It’s my fault and I’m sorry.”

“It’s not – it’s Joffrey’s,” Dany replied.

And she shook her head. Dany couldn’t understand. Daenerys who had lost her husband in a tragic accident and who had a man, Jorah, who worshipped her.

She couldn’t understand that Joffrey was truly a monster, it wasn’t just a figure of speech.

 “Okay – baby steps: did you sleep with Jon to get the part?”

“No, of course not!” She replied and if her voice came out harsh, she couldn’t care less.

“Therefore Joffrey talked out of his arse, right?” Dany said, and she realised that the woman didn’t care one way or another whether she had had sex with Jon or not. She wouldn’t have cared even if what Joffrey had said was the truth.

“Yes, because I broke off our engagement.”

“A year and a half ago – how likely is that knowing him?”

“Because he is a sick bastard,” Sansa said.

“Then why is it your fault? Because I fail to see the logic here.”

She wanted to tell her.

She truly did. She wanted to tell her that it was her fault because she ha finally got scared enough and had left him; therefore, he had lost his own personal punching bag/fucktoy and he was angry, he would always try and destroy her.

She couldn’t however. Saying those words aloud would gut her, there would be nothing left of her, after.

“You don’t know Joffrey.”

“Thankfully. I’ve only met him in passing and it was enough.”

“So, what’s the plan?” She asked.

They all had plans, but what no one understood was that it was not her career she was worried about. She was scared for her life.

“Take this,” Dany said, handing her a rectangular piece of paper.

She saw the name in it and blinked, in surprise.

“Call him, right now – he’s waiting for you. Then we’ll have ice cream”

“Dany – I can’t afford to hire him., besides he works for Cersei Lannister!”

“Worked. As of eleven p.m. tonight, he works for me. I’m going to need the best of the best in his field soon.” she said with a sweet voice and an even sweeter look on her face.

 That was – crazy. And she couldn’t possibly afford to be repped by that man.

“My parents have hired a good publicist for me, Jaqen H'ghar. I can’t possibly ask them –“

Dany had looked impressed with the name she had given her – he only dealt with selected clients and she didn’t want to think about how much her parents must have spent to hire him.

“Good – we’re getting there: H’ghar is the best for public appearances. And you haven’t hired anyone. I have.” She said and winked at her.

What. The. Fuck?

“Call him – now.”

“How do we know that we can trust him?”

“We can’t. But he owes Tyrion and he owes Jorah.” Dany said, “and as I said I’m going to really need him, soon.”

That woman was scary when she put her mind into something. And she hadn’t been kidding: that was war, and she wanted to win it.

“Sansa, I’m not going to eat melted ice-cream. Would you call him already?”

“Yes, Khaleesi.” She replied, but there was no resentment in her voice.

Dany rolled her eyes and she took her mobile phone from the pocket of her pyjamas.

She dialled the number, and the man on the other line answered right away.

“Miss Stark.” The man said.

“Mr Varis?” She said and her heart was drumming in her chest.

“I was waiting for your call.” The man said.

“So I’ve been told.”

“This will be our only contact, as you know I am Ms Stormborn’s employee.”

Employee, my ass.

“Yes, I understand.”

“You will keep rehearsing for your movie, you will listen to what the studios have to say, within reason and what your publicist will suggest.”

That was it?

“You will also contact your family and tell them, on my behalf, that the lone wolf perishes but the pack survives.”

That – was creepy. That was something that never, ever was uttered outside her family’s household. How did that man know? How could he know? It was what his father always told them – it was some kind of family motto that had never come out publicly.

How did he know that her family had decided not to intervene on the matter for the time being?

“Ms Stark, do you understand what I have said? Shall I repeat it?” The man asked.

“No, I’m just – surprised.”

“I am merely doing my job. So, do you understand? Do you understand the concept of plausible deniability?”

Of course, she did.

“Yes, of course. Two more things: I would not trust Mr Baelish with the time of the day, but do not antagonize him for the time being.”

She sighed; it made sense. She was physically repulsed by Baelish’s very existence, but the man on the phone was right.

“I understand.” She said.

“Do you?” The man asked, “Good. One more thing: my birdies told me that your friend, Ms Tyrell is getting involved in this.”

“Y -yes. But she didn’t tell me what she has in mind.” Sansa replied and gave a look at Dany, who was drinking her wine and texting on her phone.

Her heart was in the right place but she was scary. Definitely scary.

“Good. Don’t ask. I shall contact her shortly.” The man said.

“My brother Theon –“

“I know.” The man said, interrupting her.

He disconnected the call and she wasn’t sure what exactly had happened: did she just sign her soul to the devil? Was she getting help?

“Let’s have our ice cream, now,” Dany said, getting up from the sofa.

“What did just happen?” She asked.

“Team GQA counterattacked.” She grinned, and sat next to her with the tub of ice cream between them.

“Team GQA?” Sansa asked, accepting the spoon Daenerys gave her.

“We are in this together,” Dany said.

She wanted to say: “it’s just a movie –“ but it wasn’t: it was a chance for Dany and Jorah, it was the movie that would define Jon’s career,  it was Tyrion’s dream, it was standing up against the Lannisters and how they made and destroyed careers and lives on whims.

Yet, trusting was hard for her – she had learned the hard way that people seldom did things out of the goodness of their hearts.

 Dany could see her doubts perhaps. After all, they had been spending time together mimicking each other – and she was a fast learner.

“I might ask you a favour down the line,” Dany said.

And she would deliver. They were a team, after all.

 


 

Jon – Now – III

 

The first thing Tormund had done when he had finally got into his room was swearing up a storm because of paparazzi. The second had been going directly to the fridge to take a beer, the third had been enveloping him in one-armed hug before saying, “You’re in deep, my friend.”

“Tell me.” John had said.

And Tormund had, to the best of his knowledge.

Before that, however, he had asked, “Have you ever met Joffrey Baratheon?”

“Yes,” He had answered, “At the Globes, last year – he was a snotty bastard.”

“Got it in one, and that’s just his public image, mate. Now I’m asking you: are you sure you want to know?”

He had nodded, Tormund had sighed and asked, “Is she at least a good actress?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t have chosen her if she weren’t, you fucking know that!” He had replied.

Tormund had drunk his beer in one gulp and then had said, “I know – so, here’s what I have heard…”

Hours later and he was – nursing a beer, trying to calm his breathing down, as Tormund’s words were still lingering in the air. And he believed him – because Tormund was incapable of lying.

He had told him that he had no proofs, that it was just rumours – but if even half of them were true Sansa must have gone through hell.

“Mind you,” Tormund had said, “I don’t know for sure – and there is no proof of that, it’s just something I heard – he used to beat the crap out of her.”

Nine words to crack his world apart – and he didn’t see it coming: not that Sansa had gone through that, and yet she smiled and had been a pro that day; she had handled everything with finesse.

It wasn’t even that Joffrey was a piece of shit that he would gladly and remorselessly punch to death. It wasn’t how he had felt short of breath and had smashed his beer against the wall when Tormund finished his tale.

It was the fact that he had gone to the door and only the idea of scaring Sansa, that late at night, had stopped him from going to check on her.

“I’ve never seen you like that!” Tormund said.

And the thing was – he had never felt like that for anyone.

“I’ve never felt like that –“ He admitted.

“Like what?” Tormund asked.

“Like I want to throw up and kill someone at the same time.”

He sat on a chair and took his face in his hands.

“Why is he doing this to her?” He asked.

“Because he is a Lannister, he’s very, very much a Lannister.” Tormund said.

His friend didn’t run a gossip column; he had friends and ears everywhere. His blog had become a point of reference in the business.

“Tyrion isn’t like that. He is a good man.”

Tormund shrugged, “He is not a cunt like his sister and his father, that’s for sure –“

“What can I do? How can we stop this?” Jon asked.

“I can help with the movie, no problems, mate – Baratheon is an idiot and the shit he pulled will backfire, as for your Sansa –”

“She is not my Sansa!” He growled.

Tormund actually snorted loudly at his words but didn't otherwise say anything.

“You are in deep, mate. Is she worth it?” He asked.

Yes. Yes, she was. And he was frankly too tired to even pretend otherwise, besides Tormund knew him too well.

His friend said, “You might as well tell me about the movie, give me juicy material to stick it to Baratheon.”

“I am not using Sansa – I am  not like him!”

“And I’m not bloody Melisandre! You want the world to see what you see? You have to show it! Sansa Stark is not made of porcelain, she won’t break. If Baratheon didn’t break her, you surely won’t!”

If Baratheon didn’t break her.

What if he did?

Then he would do everything in his power to undo his damage.

“I won’t let anyone, not even you, hurt Sansa!” Jon said, meaning every word.

“If she sucks, I will be gentle, I promise!” Tormund said, he grinned and said, “And you’re making the noise again….”

“What noise?” Jon asked.

Tormund laughed and said, “Nevermind, Snow. Now you know – go and get some sleep, you have a movie to make and know that you are the one who’s risking everything here, the others have something else to fall back on.”

He was aware. And he didn’t care.

Not that time.  

 

Chapter 7: The Rehearsals - part two -

Summary:

Team GQA's counteroffensive to Joffrey's tweets and the mess they caused.

Notes:

First of all: so, so, sorry for the delay in updating. This chapter has been kicking my ass for almost a month and work is sort of crazy.
As ever, thanks to @Jyia for her support and for being awesome.
This chapter will be split into two parts because AO3 won't let me upload a whopper of 35 pages.
Jonsa is coming.

Chapter Text

 

From Twitter:

 

@YgritteWildingsVerified: I’ve been in the arse end of the world for a month, I’ve just come back and what do I find? People nuts over tweets made by some wanker who should lay down the crack pipe.

 

@YgritteWildingsVerified: For the record: #JonSnow is the kindest, most honest man I have ever met. He is also a professional and he would cut his dick off before he casting couched anyone. Sorry, @JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic but you’re clearly confused!

 

@YgritteWildingsVerified: I don’t know Sansa Stark, never even met her, but are we in the middle ages? Was I in Narnia for the past month and slut-shaming became suddenly ok here?  #IStandWithSansa

 


 

 

From Twitter: #jonsa Groupchat

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: omfg guys, that’s getting crazier by the second!! Did you see Ygritte’s tweets? 

 

sansaAlysanne01: oh, thank fuck! Someone is finally talking, even if it’s Jon’s ex! Wtf are they waiting for?

 

khaleesiandtheprofessor: omfg, they’re reblogging it like crazy!  Everyone!

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: Dany has just started following Ygritte – wow.

 

snowismyfire: aaand shots fired! The Starks are reblogging it – I didn’t think I would ever see the day where Ned fucking Stark would have a twitter account!

                                                                              

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: omfg Arya!!! 

 

fireanice856: Arya is my hero! Omg, someone screenshot this, now and send it to Baratheon! Just kidding! Anyway, @sansaalysanne01 I don’t know why they haven’t said anything – damage control? Do you want me to ask the itk?

 

snowismyfire: yeah, you do that. I just hate what is happening to Jon and Sansa, in the videos they both look like crap. I also hate myself for watching those videos ‘cause it feels like I’m feeding the beast, you know?

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: they’re everywhere, it’s not like you can really ignore it and even when we try to the Barafreaks are posting that stuff everywhere!

 

jornaerysownsme: Oh, Jesus – can I marry Robb Stark? That man is a class act. The question is – what can we do, as fans, to help them? When the picture came out the jornaerys fandom banded as one, we let it die and never mentioned what was happening, you might not know that, but it was pretty brutal.  Couldn't we do something like that?

 

Khaleesiandqueen: I remember – did you see the pics of Jorah when they got in the studios today? Must be bringing back some nasty memories. I’m not even a fan of Sansa, but that must suck pretty bad, it’s unfair!

 


 

 

“I’m picking you up when you finish – you’re staying with me until this shit settles,” Theon said over the phone.

She rolled her eyes while she finished brushing her teeth, she rinsed her mouth and then said, “I have a driver – and you hated it when you had to babysit me!”

“That’s because I was a stroppy teenager, I mean it, Sansa – you’re staying with me!” Theon said.

To be someone who usually spent his days in his flat, wearing pyjamas, Theon could be quite quick to get things done when he wanted to. She had suspicions that their parents had lent a hand with that; she could just see her mother having the lease signed for a flat in a matter of hours while she did all the millions of things she did at once.

Catherine Stark née Tully: multitasking extraordinaire.

“Pack your stuff, or hire a bloody p.a. to do that, you can’t stay at the hotel – it’s crazy outside!”

“Wait, are you outside the hotel?” She asked, “that’s not stalkerish, at all!”

“No, genius! I’m on my way to the airport to pick up a friend. It just happens to be in the way.”

Theon was usually a good liar, but that time he was – terrible. He was truly a terrible liar, but she was nevertheless moved by his concern.

“You’ll help me pack tonight when I get back, I’m not hiring a p.a! Listen, I gotta go! We have that thing to do and then we have a million scenes to rehearse.”

She heard Theon groan and then her brother said, “Fine, text me when you want me to pick you up. We’re having Thai for dinner.” A pause and then Theon said, “Shit, it’s late, Maeg is going to kill me!”

Maeg?

“Theon?” She called.

Her brother had disconnected the call.

There was only one Maeg he knew – and it was Maergery Tyrell. Why would she want to kill him?

She shook her head and put her phone in the pocket of her jeans. She looked at herself in the mirror. It was time to face yet another day of bright flashes and insults. She could do it. She didn’t need to smile, she didn’t need to even be really there, she just needed to walk to her car and then go to rehearsal.

She could do it – she would. Even if Jon hadn’t spoken to her for over a day.

 


 

 

From Variety:

Maergery Tyrell to join Matthew Goode in  HBO’s limited series The Eleventh Hour.

 

Maergery Tyrell just signed on to play the lead character alongside Matthew Goode in the limited series “The Eleventh Hour”, the psychological thriller sees Goode playing the role of a widowed father whose life is shaken when his daughter gets kidnapped. Tyrell, last seen in the horror movie The Red Curtain last year, will play the role of the detective inspector who investigates on the kidnapping and finds out disturbing facts about Goode’s character and his past . Principal photography is set to begin in Belfast next month.

 

Keep Reading…

 


 

 

 No one in her family was in the show business. Her father had been – petrified with surprise when she announced that she wanted to be an actress. Her mother, whose greatest achievement in life, had been to marry her father and bear his children came from very old money and she did not understand the concept of working.

She came from a privileged background, which meant that she knew more people than the average struggling actor, and she never had to wait tables or work in retail to pay her rent.

Everything she knew about networking, about making alliances and keeping them, about succeeding without compromising herself she had learned from her grandmother: Lady Olenna Tyrell; she had raised her, because her mum couldn’t be bothered – her job, in her mind, had been to bear the children, everything else had not been her responsibility.

Her grandmother was the smartest person she had ever met; not many people knew that she used to work for their Government during the war and after, during the Cold War. She had been breathtakingly beautiful when she was young and she had known how to use her physical aspect without ever having to compromise herself. She was the one who taught her that sometimes playing dumb was the best safety net one could have.

Her grandmother had taught her to be kind, to be generous, to do the right thing, but also how to catch good opportunities when they presented themselves.

When she read Joffrey Baratheon’s tweets she was furious, she was angry on her friend's behalf. Yes, it was clear Sansa and Jon Snow had chemistry and she had been rather vague about him on the phone before that mess went down, but Baratheon had just wanted to be cruel and vindictive.

He had also been very stupid – and if it wasn’t that he had hurt one of her closest friends she would pity him.

Reputation was everything in their job; soon Baratheon would be forced to realise that he couldn’t hide behind his mum’s gowns forever.

She had been furious, but after she had texted Sansa she had refrained from being active on social media until she could think straight. She hadn’t been idle. She never was.

Networking was pivotal – and she was very good at that.

She had wanted to help Sansa because it was the right thing to do because she was her friend and she didn’t deserve what had happened to her.

The phone call she had got from Mr Varys, and their meeting the day before,  had added a new layer to her desire to help Sansa Stark.

Mr Varys was immensely powerful: he could make or unmake a career with a phone call. He knew everyone and everything about all the people that were somehow even remotely connected to his clients. His name didn’t appear anywhere in magazines because he was the one who controlled them, who made them earn their living.

He had known about her phone calls and messages – how, she had no idea – he had known that she had tested for the show on HBO, a show who would be shot in the same studios as Good Queen Alysanne and he had known about her plan.

“Allow me to help.” He had said.

Sansa was not his client, however. He had been very clear about that – and she knew only too well how plausible deniability worked. What it had mattered to her was that Joffrey has lost one of his most powerful assets and even though Varys didn’t work for her, he had made sure the role for the miniseries would go to her.

She knew she was a good actress, but she was under no delusions as far as her newest gig went. That was okay, however. She would only have to work harder at what she did.

And she would have to keep weaving her net.

Her mobile phone vibrated, it was Theon. They were in constant touch because when she had asked him if he wanted to get on board with her plan he had accepted, no questions asked and he was helping her. He had even volunteered to come and get her at the airport, even though she was perfectly capable of calling a cab or renting a car.

“I’m late, I’m sorry, bloody traffic!” Theon said as a way of greeting.

“I’m having coffee – so, take your time.” She replied.

They chatted and she heard him cursing while driving and then apologising. He was – such a contradiction: he was immensely talented but reserved, fiercely protective of his family but he used his birth name on the job.

He was funny, even charming when he wanted to, but he was also out for Joffrey’s blood. The Starks had made their presence known on Twitter, but Theon was the one who was risking everything; she admired him.

“I didn’t tell Sansa,” He said.

“Good – we’ll surprise her tonight. And remember –“

“Not a word. On my life!” Theon finished.

She couldn’t help the goosebumps she felt on her arms when she heard the vehemence in the man’s voice. 

 She had heard from other people close to Sansa – and they would help. Even Robb had agreed, but no one was so passionate about it.

She had her suspicions as to what was the reason – but she didn’t want to presume, her grandmother had taught her better than that.

One thing she knew for sure, given all the data she had at hand, was that Joffrey Baratheon was going down. One way or another.

In the meantime, she had an Instagram story to make.


 

 

From Melisandre Gossip: Celebrity Gossip, News, Photos, Rumours

 

Good Queen Alysanne cast and crew back to rehearsals after Joffrey Baratheon’s tweets became viral. 

Unlike last night, where the cast and crew left the studios separately, only a few hours after Joffrey Baratheon’s tweets were picked up by the major entertainment magazines, the cast and crew arrived together to the studios this morning.

I don’t know why, but I find it cute that the cast is carpooling to work, just like us mere mortals! In the pictures we see Sansa Stark walking with line producer Brienne Tarth at her right, followed by Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont and, a few steps behind them, director Jon Snow and assistant director Beric Dondarrion are seen chatting with director of photography Davos Seaworth. 

None of them look exactly thrilled in the pictures, but who can blame them? As much as Sansa  Stark 's casting still baffles me, what happened yesterday was unpleasant. Sources close to production assured me, however, that the whole cast and crew is very supportive both of Sansa and their director.

Speaking of the cast: am I seeing things or were Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont holding hands in the first picture?

 


 

Transcription of the video posted on Jorah Mormont’s brand-new Instagram account, initially linked by Daenerys Stormborn, Sansa Stark, Daario Naaris, Tyrion Lannister and the official “Good Queen Alysanne” Instagram account.

 

The screen is black, initially, it gradually fades to a soundstage , we hear Sansa Stark  in a voice-over, giving a dramatic reading of Joffrey’s tweets, we see Jorah Mormont, dressed in black, walking toward the centre of the room, looking straight into the camera before saying:

JM: Hello, my name is Jorah Mormont and I fucked Jon Snow to get the part.

The scene  cuts to Daenerys Stormborn, dressed in black as well, her hair pinned in a severe bun, looking at the camera and saying, “Hi, I’m Daenerys Stormborn and I fucked Jon Snow to get this part!”

One by one, all the actors and crew members, all dressed in black, say the same thing, even Tyrion who says: “Hello, I am Tyrion Lannister, I didn’t have to, but I fucked Jon Snow twice to get him to do the movie!”

 Jon is the last one, he is wearing glasses, he’s dressed in black like the others and says, “Hello, I’m Jon Snow and I had to fuck Jon Snow to get the part.” He furrows his brows and adds, “Wait – what?”

The screen fades to black and then to Sansa, who is wearing black as well, she is serious and deadpan when she says, “Hello, I’m Sansa Stark and you busted us! We are making a porno!”

  She winks an eye as the screen fades to black.

 


 

 

Day 6 of Rehearsals

 

She hated corsets and gowns, and she was envious that Dany didn’t have to wear them, not even in one scene.

“I paid my dues, sweetheart!” She had said the day before when she had mentioned it to her.

She felt like she had ended up in some kind of parallel universe: one where the whole cast and crew hadn’t opposed to the idea of shooting what would become, after a night of hard work by Samwell Tarly and Jon, with Theon’s unofficial help (how did he know, she had no clue), their answer to Joffrey’s tweets and the hell they were still causing. Everyone: from Dany to Brienne, to their stand-ins had said those words in front of a camera. It had to be a parallel universe, one where her whole family and half the town had commented on Jorah’s post on Instagram,  repeating what they had all said in the video (everyone but her, because Oberyn Martell had vetoed that part of the video) and the hashtag I Stand With Sansa had been trending worldwide for over a day. 

It had not stopped paparazzi from hounding them and the day before had been even worse, with reporters – actual reporters with cameras wanting answers.

It had been – brutal, but nothing compared to what had happened the previous night when they had left the soundstage and paparazzi had swarmed around Jon, who had looked absolutely mystified until one of them had screamed, “Hey, does Sansa still have a gag reflex or Baratheon trained it out of her? Bet you’re grateful!”

His reaction had been caught on camera, unfortunately.

Jon Snow was a good, decent man. He was a talented director and to add it to the already remarkable list of impressive things about him he had been gruffly charming in the video they had made, showing he had comedic timing and didn’t take himself too seriously when he wasn’t working.

Jon was also human – and she couldn’t honestly begrudge him for his reaction. Who the hell was she kidding? She had been moved to tears after she had seen the video.

Jon had forgotten that they were not supposed to have any reaction to what paparazzi screamed at them to get good shots to sell or videos to get more clicks.

“Fuck off!” He had growled, pure rage in his eyes and if Davos and Beric hadn’t been here, not too subtly pushing him away he would have hit the man who had said those words; it had been crystal clear in his eyes.

Jon hadn’t hit the man, but his reaction, like everything they were doing, had become viral on the internet. The weird thing was that the feedback had been mostly positive from what she had been told by Theon and Maergery (and that, was another can of worms she truly didn’t want to open!).

People online were rooting for Jon – and not just his fans.

It was – surreal, and yes, Dany and Jorah flirting on Instagram had sort of defused the situation at first, but still, the way people were calling Jon her knight in shining armour was weird and endearing and heartbreaking, all at the same time.

And as much as Jon’s reaction had moved her, as much as she hated the fact that his face telling a paparazzi to fuck off after he had insulted her was everywhere because of those bloody tweets,  she would gladly throttle him because he had been a pain in the arse all day!

Granted, they had been rehearsing more scenes than they were originally supposed to because they had lost one day to shoot the video – and yes, most of the scenes were technical nightmares; Jon, however, was getting on her last nerve!

The dance scene was going to be the death of them! When she first saw the storyboard, what it felt like a hundred years before, she had looked at it with wonder – now that she was rehearsing the damn thing, she wanted to murder Jon Snow in his sleep! In the script, there was a clear dichotomy between Anne and Alysanne which had become more and more blurred as they rehearsed. Therefore, it was a nightmare and she still had no clue about how they would actually shoot the bloody scene because Jon had been a stroppy bastard for hours!

“Let’s start from the beginning!” Jon said again, and even Brienne looked ready to throw something at him.

They all got along famously, Joffrey’s tweets and the tsunami it had caused had cemented their relationship; that said – they had been in the soundstage all day, it was late and she was tired.

She exchanged a look with Dany and Jorah who shrugged, the woman sighed and went back to her mark, followed by the blonde man. Daario ran a hand through his dark hair and got close to her.

Do not flinch! She reminded herself when he touched her. It had happened on the first couple of days of rehearsal and thankfully Jon hadn’t seen it and she had chalked it up to being cold to Daario, who was a sweet man, when he dropped his macho image.

“And – action!” Jon said.

The music started and Jorah and Dany started their part – the choreographer following their movements like a hawk, ready to adjust their positions if they made any mistake.

Both Daario and her counted – it was a complicated choreography and they had been at it for hours; it was the penultimate scene for the day and didn’t Jon need to sleep?

They had to be perfectly in sync and they didn’t miss a beat that time, they started their part – and that was when things got crazy: she would dance with Jorah, Darioo with Dany and then they would go back to their original partners – and Jon didn’t want to make it possible thanks to editing or CGI.

So far, so good – Jon was observing them, the choreographer was shutting up and she went dancing with Jorah.

He was tired, but also gentle when he took her in his arms and lead her; they knew their part of the choreography and it was brief; that part of the movie was all in Anne’s mind as she slipped further and further into Alysanne’s life.

Jon wasn’t talking and they only had the last part to go.

She wanted out of that corset and that gown and wanted to go home and sleep for a millennium or two!

Jorah started to count down and she did the same – a beat and she was again into Daario’s arms.

“Cut!” Jon said after a couple of seconds and she recognised immediately that tone of voice.

 Nuclear Snow meltdown coming in 3, 2, 1 …

The choreographer said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” before throwing her hands up in the air, declaring she was going to have a coffee and told Jon to get it together by the time she came back.

“No!” Jon said, ignoring the woman, “Not like that! You love her! She is not some bird you’re picking up in a bar! She’s not a piece of meat! She is the woman who is putting everything on the line for you! This could be the last time you have this! And you’re in public and it’s bloody killing you!”

The silence that fell in the room when Jon finished talking was thick. She felt everyone’s eyes on her and her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

Daario was looking at Jon with raised eyebrows – because that was what he had been trying to do, and – it had been fine.

Apparently, however, it wasn’t for Jon who strode toward them and gave Daario a hard look, silently prompting him to back off from her and took his place.

What the – she thought.

Jon’s arm slid behind her back, he took one hand in his and started to lead her.

And she got it. She got what Jon had wanted from Daario and also why he had interrupted them because she had never, ever been touched like that.

And it didn’t matter that it was just all pretending, it didn’t matter that Jon was showing his lead actor how to do a scene; there was passion, devotion, love in his touch, in the way he led her while they danced, and she truly felt what Alysanne's husband felt; it was the agony of wearing a public facade, knowing that they might  lose each other - it was all there in the way Jon was holding her and his dark eyes bore into hers.

Alysanne was supposed to be completely mesmerized by her husband, heartbroken because they could lose each other, and she was feeling it all.

And, perhaps, that wasn't just acting because she couldn't tear her eyes off of Jon, and it felt so good to be able to do that, after days spent being hyperaware of his presence even though he had barely looked at her.

Was that how the Queen felt on the last night she spent with her beloved husband before they were parted?

She was moving and didn’t even need to look down at the marks on the floor or count the steps in her head. Jon was there.

His movements were fluid and he was keeping her rooted in that space: Alysanne’s, theirs, and his words kept echoing in her head.

 

She’s not a piece of meat!

 

A fucktoy. A pretty face, with pretty tits and legs who made for nice arm candy and a passable lay.

 

You love her!

 

She could feel it – in the way she was held, in the way she was looked at and led; she felt safe, she felt cherished.

 

This is the last time you will have this!

 

She could feel that too; the tragedy of two people who had loved each other desperately and were afraid that their time together might soon come to an end. She felt tears welling her eyes and was perfectly aware that Jon was noticing, but couldn’t stop them. She wasn’t strong enough.

It was too much – it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that they fit so well together and he could make her feel so bloody much. It wasn’t fair that he was just pretending, showing Daario how he had pictured that scene in his mind, what he wanted them to accomplish and her heart was cracking in her chest.

It wasn’t fair that he was just pretending while she was falling in love with him, and was too tired to even try and pretend otherwise.

The music came to an end and for a moment they stayed in each other’s arms, his dark eyes fixed on hers, their fingers laced, their bodies close.

She felt one tear make its way down her left cheek, and Jon stepped back – a look akin panic in his eyes.

“Jon –“ Daario said.

He didn’t listen to him, he didn’t even look at her as he left the soundstage, slamming the door behind him.

He knew – he had to, because she wasn’t that good of an actress – Jorah, Dany, Daario and the other people in the room had all seen it - and, of course, he had left – because she was damaged goods, she was a nuisance, and he was a good man and she didn’t deserve him.

She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them she would pretend that it didn’t matter, that she had been just carried away with the scene and that everything was fine. No one would believe her, but they would pretend to because they were nice people and they wanted the movie not to be a flop.

And she would – smile. Yes, she would smile and pretend her heart wasn’t breaking.

 


 

 

He kicked the door of his office, first – after he slammed it shut behind him when he got in. He slammed his closed fist against the wall at his side, then, idly noticing that if he had punched it, he would have probably broken his hand. He ran his hands through his hair.

What the fuck was his problem?

What had he done?

 

Showed your hand to your cast and crew, you git.

 

That was only fair since he had shown it to the whole world the previous day!

He had done well, all things considered. Sure, sleeping was becoming more and more elusive; he had spent a night with Samwell and Theon Greyjoy editing the video that Jorah had later posted on Instagram.

Theon had not said a word, not after he had called him.

“You said not to be a stranger,” He had said.

“What can I do?” Sansa’s brother had asked. 

He had done well – even after Theon had studied him, hours later, when the video was finally edited and all three of them were satisfied with the results and he might have spent a considerable long time staring at Sansa laughing in one of the bloopers (they would go online in a couple of days, on Dany’s Instagram)  and said, “She feels guilty about all of this, you know?”

He had meant well, but his words had been like being gutted – because Sansa was the last person that should feel guilty about what had happened! It was Joffrey’s fault for being a fucking psychopath, his own for not protecting her. Not Sansa’s.

Nonetheless, he had thought he had done well, the day before during rehearsal even if he had seen Sansa flinching from time to time when Daario touched her and he wanted to deck his leading actor, even if he didn’t know and had looked genuinely concerned for Sansa.

 He hadn’t decked Daario – and he hadn’t been a mother hen to Sansa, going against all his instincts.

He had even thought he had gotten better at ignoring paparazzi and their words. He didn’t truly care when they insulted him – but when that asshole had mentioned Joffrey Baratheon – and the things he might have done to Sansa he had seen red.

For a moment, he could hear Tormund telling him the few things he knew about them, and since he wasn’t a bullshitter and couldn’t lie to save his life, he believed him.

He had told the asshole to fuck off – but he would have probably hit him. Over and over because he couldn’t have the real thing.

He had been a proper bastard to his cast and crew that day – which was unlike him. Yes, he had a temper, he was aware of that. He could be a pain in the arse – as his actors and crewmembers had told him, time and again – but he did not fuck up.

His personal life and his job had never, ever crossed.

Whatever problem he might have in his personal life he never brought it to work.

He had been adamant about keeping his private life and his work separate. Ygritte had told him not to be a bloody martyr or a monk when she had dumped him, but she should have known better.

He didn’t fuck around and he did not sleep with people he worked with. The first was because it wasn’t like him, it had never been – and the latter was because the job came first. His loyalty had always been first and foremost to his job.

He had lost one woman because of that and it had broken his heart.

But Sansa…

He kicked a chair and closed his eyes.

Sansa – who looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting brought to life by a genius artist, who  had listened to Martell’s words about how to deal with “the mess” without ever pointing out that it was her reputation that had been put through a meat grinder, who had not missed a line or a mark, who knew the script like the back of her hand and was always willing to help in any way she could.

Sansa who wore too many layers of clothes and had brought lemon-cakes the day before to brighten their moods because their schedule had been insane.

Sansa who wore corsets and gowns as if she was born to do that, even if she hated them and spent time comparing notes with Daenerys about how much they sucked.

Sansa – who had given her all in the dance scene for hours and she had been shaking when Daario had touched her.

He shouldn’t have –

He should have kept his mouth shut and ignored the tiny tremors he had seen in her arms.

He had hated the way Daario had touched her – he had hated what he was seeing and he had opened his big mouth and shown everyone the truth.

Everyone, including Sansa.

“Shit!” He growled, feeling like an idiot because, really, what would punch things and curse accomplish?

 Sansa didn’t need that.

He tensed, when he heard the door behind him open, without knocking.

“I’ll be right there.” He said, without turning.

He needed a goddamned minute! He had a thick skin, that was true – but it had been three long days and he needed a fucking moment to himself to regroup!

“Jon.” Davos Seaworth said.

He sighed. Had it been anyone else, even Tyrion, he would have sent them away – Davos, however, was a good friend: they had worked together since his first movie, when he, a veteran director of photography, had trusted a young director with no experience whatsoever except stuff he had done at Uni and accepted to work for him, basically for free.

Ever since then Davos and him had always worked together: he was the only person who truly got the way he thought, how he wanted things done and he had never disappointed him.

The man got in the room and Jon deflated, sitting on a chair.

Tormund was a good friend as well, and he had warned him that he was in too deep. Davos, however, was there with him every day. He knew Sansa, he had known her since her screen test.

“I fucked up.” He said.

“Did you?” The man asked, furrowing his brow, “Why? I saw a director doing his job over there.”

He scoffed.

Right.

No. He had not been a director; he had been foolish – he had followed his instinct and had wanted –

He wanted

No. He – loved Sansa.

And it was driving him insane.

“Jon – do you know what are they doing back there?” Davos asked.

He shook his head. He was almost afraid to hear Davos’ answer.

“It’s almost midnight and they’re waiting for you. Do you know how many people complained about the long hours? I checked with Brienne: zero. Do you know how rare is it?”

He knew. That, however, didn’t make him feel better.

 “People aren’t just checking their egos at the doors, they’re fucking leaving them at home!” Davos said.

You are doing this! They believe in you!”

He looked at Davos, blinking and shook his head.

“You set yourself up to impossibly high standards, lad.” Davos continued.

How could he not see? He had failed himself, he had failed Sansa and it wasn’t right!

 

You love her

 

You are in public and it’s killing you!

 

Had he spoken about Daario’s character motivations or his own? When did the lines start to blur?

 Davos picked up the other chair from the floor, the one he had kicked, and then sat on it saying, “What do you think you did in the soundstage?”

Jon shook his head. No. He couldn’t deal with that – he couldn’t tell anyone and not because walls had ears as Tyrion had told them when they went back to rehearse. If he told Davos then it would be unequivocally true and he wouldn’t be able to take it back. He knew that he wouldn’t want to.

“I fucked up.” He said mulishly.

“Why? Because you care about a girl?” Davos asked.

What the hell was that Notting Hill? That wasn’t a rom-com and he didn’t believe in fairy tales! Real life didn’t work that way!

“Yeah, that’s exactly why.” He admitted finally because Davos had known him for a long time and he knew that lying through his teeth would not get him out of his office.

“I saw a good director showing how the scene had to be made because his lead actor was too tired and was phoning it in.”

Daario wasn’t the problem. He hadn’t been phoning it in – it wasn’t his fault.

“I saw a young actress becoming a better one because she trusted her director,” Davos said, and he knew his friend, he was like a dog with a bone; he wouldn’t let it go.

“I also saw a man caring about a woman who is going through some shit right now, true. I saw you being decent.”

He shot him an incredulous look. “Really? Are you starting to suck up to me now?”

Davos shrugged, “You don’t want to hear the truth anyway.”

He jerked up from his chair and started pacing the room. Davos kept looking at him, without adding a word.

He knew that when he would go back to the sound stage, they would rehearse the last scene for the day, it didn’t matter how late it was – and no one, except the studios, would complain. He knew that Sansa would be a professional – even if her eyes had been brimming with tears and one had spilt on her cheek and he was supposed to be perceptive, but he didn’t have a clue whether she had got in character or he had triggered her, somehow.

Davos couldn’t know about what Tormund had told him. No one could – it would be yet another violation for Sansa.

No one would say a word and they would all pretend that he had just been doing his job. He knew better, however.

“Why did you leave?” Davos asked after he had run once again his hands through his hair.

“You bloody well know why! I told you!” Jon replied.

Why couldn’t he leave him alone? Everything would be fine once he regrouped. He had pretended for weeks, he could keep doing so.

“I have some ideas, yes – but I’m not a bloody seer now, am I?” He said.

He looked at him, pleading him with his eyes not to push the issue.

“You care about your lead actress and I see nothing wrong with that, despite your bloody rules!” Davos said, his tone and his eyes were kind. He was truly trying to understand – but he was completely missing the point!

“Do you think that’s the problem? Do you think I lost it because of some stupid rule I set out when I was a kid?” He asked.  The only reason he had imposed that rule on himself was not to make things complicated – because it didn’t matter how crazy or pathetic his life became, his job kept him sane.

But could things get more complicated than they already were?

“I don’t know, Jon – why don’t you tell me?”

“I can’t do this…” He whispered, not even realising at first that he had spoken. When he did, he looked at Davos and he didn’t remember ever feeling so powerless in his life.

Davos looked confused and concerned.

He didn’t add anything – he couldn’t.

He couldn’t tell him that he couldn’t get too close to Sansa, that he shouldn’t have to in the first place – that his job was to guide her, direct her, protect her – not harm her.

He smiled at Davos, however, because he was his director and he was needed. “There’s a reason why I never directed rom-coms, mate,”

 

I can’t do this to her…

 

 “I don’t believe in them!” He said.

Davos shook his head but didn’t comment on his words. He let it go.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” He said.

The older man nodded and left the room without saying a word. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose.

He would go back to the soundstage and do his job. They would be very busy soon, and he would let it go. For Sansa.

 

She deserves more.

 


 

Chapter 8: The Last Days of Rehearsals

Summary:

In which the last days of rehearsals bring forth some revelations and some ghosts from the past.

Notes:

Trigger warning for description of past abuse

Chapter Text

From the website Blind Gossip: The #1 Blind Item Site in The World

 

Submitted by The Night King

 

Which young A- actor, with a massive following on social media, has the studios and his family to cover up his vices?

He is apparently the sort of boy you would bring home to your parents: young, handsome, rich, talented, charming and smart. That is, however, a carefully constructed façade.

The official reason for his single status is that he is not ready to commit after the end of a very public relationship. The truth, however, is that he is content with paying hookers and letting the studios deal with the aftermath of his encounters.

Until his movies were successful no one dared to speak, now things are changing for this golden boy.

His future, it seems, is far from being perfect.

 

Actor:

 


Day 7 of Rehearsal

 

It was very rare that his sister sent him texts, it was even rarer that she asked for a conference call. As much as he loathed it, he still had to work with her from time to time, and he had accepted his family’s partial funding of Good Queen Alysanne because – well, because the movie would have the exposure he had wanted for it.

Cersei was usually very glad to delegate and not having to deal with him. The feeling was entirely mutual. Joffrey was riding the wave of the media exposure that had followed his tweets and he didn’t seem to grasp that each tweet, each interview and soundbite were nails in his coffin.

Therefore,  while the text had been a surprise, the request for a conference call hadn’t.

He loathed Joffrey – he would have punched him gladly when the whole mess had gone down. He had tried to reason with Cersei because they were still a family, it wasn’t his fault that she had played obtuse.

Everything that had come after that, had been necessary.

It wasn’t his fault if his nephew was more hated than he had thought. It wasn’t his fault if Daenerys Stormborn had her own plans and wasn’t afraid of playing dirty. It wasn’t his fault if Sansa Stark was so bloody adorable in that video that everyone had fallen a little in love with her when they watched it.

It wasn’t his fault if Jon Snow was a possessive idiot who had fallen in love with his leading lady and was acting like a bloody knight in shining armour with a possessive steak the side of Northern Ireland!

“How can I help you, sister?” He said, greeting her.

She looked perfect, as usual. Lannisters could never be anything else. Even if it was late at night and she must have been working non stop all day, hair and makeup were still impeccable, the only sign that betrayed both the late hour and her state of mind was that she had unbuttoned her shirt and rolled up the sleeves.

She was seething with anger.

Good thing Bronn wasn’t in the room – or things would escalate even more quickly than he currently anticipated.

Christ, he needed a drink for that!

“We agreed that Sansa Stark would have to deal with it!” Cersei said.

So, she hadn’t played being obtuse – she was being obtuse on purpose!

“She has, in fact.” He said. He had to resist the urge of sounding like a patronising bastard because he was tired and he wanted to go home and get some bloody sleep!

“By taking Mr. Varys away from Joffrey?” Cersei asked.

“She didn’t – you have been misinformed. Also, last time I checked Varys is not a dog. He had a better offer. Shit happens, sister. You should know!”

“That video –”

“Was my idea! We had to react, and everything else would have been a mistake.” He said and he was starting not to care how he sounded.

It was also the truth – the video had been his idea, but Dany had come up with the one of involving everyone: cast and crew alike in mocking Joffrey’s tweets. He had honestly not expected that so many people would first be part of that video and then spread it. In a short few days, Joffrey Baratheon had become a laughing stock, an internet meme – but it had also become very clear, how little support his nephew had in the industry.

“I don’t believe it! It was clearly Varys’ plan!” Cersei said.

It wasn't about Varys. Not completely, at least. Cersei wasn't an amateur;  she knew that people like Varys could not be kept on a leash.

No, and he could see it in her eyes: she was worried.

"I don't care what you believe, Cersei." He replied.

"How did you convince him to work for that bitch?" She asked.

He grinned. He could tell her the truth, he could tell her that Varys had loved the challenge, that he owed him, that he hated Joffrey more than anyone because cleaning up his messes was becoming more and more difficult.

He settled for shrugging his shoulders and say, "It doesn't matter. It worked!"

She could threaten him, make his job a living hell, but she wasn't. Why? That was unlike her.

And then he realised the reason why: her son had fucked up and her hands were tied: whatever she did could spectacularly backfire and Joffrey, at the moment, was vulnerable. 

"The lead actress of Chazelle's movie refuses to work with Joffrey.” She said, and he could see how much it was costing her to say that. She had always been so proud of her son, she had fought hard to keep up the image she had so carefully crafted for him.

He had heard the news through the grave pine; he had heard that Joffrey’s screen test had been excellent, as usual, but that the last word went to the female lead, who had an Oscar, more clout and was not afraid of Cersei Lannister.

“Scott’s office isn’t returning his calls.” Cersei continued.

“Well, he is a personal friend of Ned Stark’s.” He commented. He hadn’t known that, but he knew for a fact that Ned Stark was furious, and the man didn’t know the half of what his nephew had done to his beloved daughter.

“But I still don’t understand why are you telling me this.” He continued.

He honestly didn’t. What did she expect him to do? He had power, true – but it went nowhere near his sister’s.

Oh.

“Joffrey will apologise for his tweets, he will do the whole dog and pony show. We are working on it.” She said, and it felt like she was chewing glass. It was painful to watch her say those words. Lannisters weren’t used to apologising, none of them had been wired that way.

“Okay…?” He said. Because – what could he tell her? Despite everything it was his family, his own blood, he had protected Joffrey too in the past.

Cersei looked like she was about to say something, he even thought for a moment, that she might throw a tantrum and ask them to stop mocking his son.

“Will you consider it satisfactory?” She asked, instead.

“He didn’t call me a whore.” He replied, “he didn’t accuse me of fucking an actress to get her the role.”

“It was a mistake –“ She said between clenched teeth.

“Perhaps he could join us mortals and face the consequences of his actions, for once.” He said and, fuck it, he had lost the ability to pretend.

Cersei threw him a murderous look but didn’t talk.

“He will apologise to Sansa, she will be gracious and accept the apology publicly, there will be a paparazzi shot of them having coffee and acting like old friends.” She said eventually.

He chuckled. He couldn’t help it. He was starting to think that his sister was losing touch with reality.

“It’s sensible, it would be good for Sansa too: forgiving just like the queen she plays in the movie. It would be good publicity.”

His phone vibrated, and there it was: Daenerys had just uploaded the bloopers of the video they had made on her own Instagram account. Sansa had already liked the post.

“Have your people contact Sansa’s,” He said.

He saw that she was checking her phone as well.

“You can’t win this war, Tyrion.” She said after a moment.

“Perhaps, but I don’t have as much to lose either, do I?” He said. He was bluffing, and he truly didn’t want to fight a war with his sister; it could not end well.

“Have Joffrey apologise – I will try and calm things down here, that’s all I can offer.” He added, and as olive branches went it was a rubbish one, but it was the best he could do.

“About Varys –“ Cersei said.

“He is his own man, sister. He made a choice.” He interrupted her.

“What have you got on him?” She asked.

“Believe it or not, nothing. I told you, he made a choice.”

That wasn’t over. He would have to keep his eyes and ears open. She would bid her time, but he knew his sister, she would unleash everything she had got against him.

“One last thing,” He said, “think carefully about your next moves, sister. I truly don’t need Varys to bury your son.”

She blinked her eyes when he opened a drawer of his desk and showed her a pen drive.

She didn’t talk, her eyes were hard as steel. She was used to dealing with the scum of the Earth, she was used to facing threats and annihilate them.

She wasn’t used to getting that from him, not his freak brother, who should have died in childbirth, who shouldn’t even be born, to begin with.

And the thing was – that he had tried to appeal to her rationality, he had tried to appeal to the mother and the businesswoman.

He had failed – and he blamed himself for that, and he wasn’t one for blame, usually.

“But I am sure it won’t have to come to that.” He said, “I will make a few phone calls, Chazelle and Scott can go and sod themselves.”

He was lying and they both knew that. Joffrey’s career had been slowly decaying for a few years; perhaps if he was really lucky he would get a villain role in some American movie.

Cersei, however, nodded. That was a game they had been playing for most of their adult lives when forced to work with each other.

“Why is Jaime coming to Belfast?” She asked, almost as an afterthought.

Bloody hell, she was good! Varys, Joffrey – they had been an excuse, or she had killed a few birds with one stone. That, however, was the real reason for her text.

“He’s my brother too.” He replied.

That had been petty of him, but there was only one person who could make Cersei see some kind of reason and it was their brother. Besides, he missed him and the man was in dire need of a vacation.

She twitched her lips in disgust, “Fine. I’ll send you the draft of Joffrey’s statement as soon as I have it.”

All business. Perfect, as usual – but he had hurt her and she wouldn’t forget it.

Neither would he.

 


 

 

From Instagram :

 

therealdanystormborn: hello, folks! Seeing as the little video posted by my good friend @JorahMormontOfficial has been a hit, here’s a little behind the scenes one. We had a blast! Funniest group of people I’ve ever worked with! #teamGQA #IStandWithSansa #GoodQueenAlysanne #jongetonsocialmediadammit #ievenconvincedJorah @SansaStarkOfficial @DaarioNaarisOfficial @TyrionLannisterOfficial @officialGoodQueenAlysanne

 

JorahMormontOfficial :   @therealdanystormborn darling Mrs M- , you did not convince me to join Instagram, don’t spread rumours! #yesshedid #GoodQueenAlysanne

 

therealdanystormborn: @JorahMormontOfficial captain Gregg, I remember pestering you in that little corner of the soundstage, while on break, until you gave in. #heknowsIdid #ah #whatwetrulydoduringrehearsal #GoodQueenAlysanne

 

JorahMormontOfficial: @therealdanystormborn it wasn’t pestering, you were adorably insistent.

 

therealdanystormborn: @JorahMormontOfficial “adorably insistent” ? That’s it, rehearsals have officially fried our brains! #canIkeephimtho #therehearsalsarekillingusforreal #jonsnowismakingaveryambitiouspornmovie

 

JorahMormontOfficial: @therealdanystormborn: #jonsnowismakingaveryambitiouspornmovie Darling Mrs M, Kahleesi, Anne, Dany:  you owe me a new keyboard. I shall never, ever read your posts and drink tea at the same time again :-) . #sheistellingthetruthaboutrehearsal #butImsoproudofusall  #GoodQueenAlysanne

 


 

 

From Tumblr:

 

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

That moment where your dash is all Dany/Jorah all the time.

What a time to be alive!!

Dany/Jorah looking hot af while ridiculing J0ffr£y B@rath&0n in t he awesomeness that was that video? Check!

Dany/Jorah holding hands while going on rehearsal – and I can’t believe it took me reading Melisandre’s column to get that! Check!

Dany/Jorah flirting non-stop on Instagram for days? Check!

#canIkeephimtho – check. Check and fucking check. I died, guys. I really did!

The bloopers? Did you hear Jorah’s laughter in the background whi le Dany was laughing? Please tell me I’m not the only one!

Dany looks radiant! She looks so happy and so does Jorah. Now, seriously, I don’t know what’s going on between them, but it’s so good to see them like that. They deserve it!

I’m not saying that they’re together, but they’re totally together.

Also, yes, I am aware of the reason why they made that video, it sucks that they even had to, but they’re doing this in public. They want us to see this stuff!

Waiting for someone to tell me that it’s just a publicity stunt or whatever. I don’t care!

Ps: remind me to tell you how and when I fell down the rabbit hole, I realised I never did!

 

OTP: can I keep him, dany x jorah, Good Queen Alysanne

 

 24.500 notes.

 


 

 

Rehearsal Day 9

 

“You’re an evil, evil woman!” He said between chuckles.

Daenerys Stormborn: excellent actress, mother of an adorable toddler, breaker of the internet extraordinaire.

Also, he was starting to suspect that she was the love of his life, but years spent trying not to think too deeply about what he felt for the woman currently in his arms had taken their toll on him. Or, he was a tosser who could not believe his luck. He wasn’t truly picky.

He couldn’t stop smiling, however. It was hard to stop doing that, lately.

He was smiling because he was dating an amazing woman who put up with his insecurities, who had spent one day teaching him how to use Instagram and hashtags, so that he wouldn’t look like an idiot when he posted the video and if they had managed to sneak out some kisses in between, after making sure no one watched them, well – that had been nice.

He was smiling because wooing Daenerys Stormbon was surreal and, in the end, they were meeting in the middle because Dany must have realised that he hadn’t been wooed for a very long time.

So, he had managed to cook dinner for her, on their second date, in her hotel room, because going outside with paparazzi still hounding them was out of the question, but she had picked the music and the wine and it had been his favourite.

They were also falling asleep together most nights, either on his sofa or hers, and they woke up in a tangle of limbs, hours later, and it was getting harder and harder to say goodbye to her.

He was smiling because rehearsals were almost over – Thank the Lord! – and except for the day where Jon had an existential crisis in the middle of rehearsing a pivotal scene in the movie, or as Dany had later told Tyrion: “He lost his shit, but in a very romantic way!”, they had worked really well and he was actually looking forward to starting the actual shooting of the movie.

They had a very tough scene to rehearse the following day, it was their last scene and it was all about Professor Reid and Anne and how the events of the movie had pushed them together and tore them apart, personally.

Yet, they hadn’t even touched their scripts that night, they had been too busy making out like teenagers and flirting on social media and if anyone had ever told him that he would ever do something like that he would have scoffed in disbelief.

There were things they should say – things he wanted to ask her: like why she had volunteered to be the one hiring Varys, even if she was the one who had more to lose.

When he had broached the subject, that night, she had shaken her head: “No. Not now” She had said.

It was only fair, he had decided. He had asked her for more time, and she was doing the same.

Her commentary on people’s answers on their posts on Instagram had him chuckling again, but he could not stop looking at her: he had told her that sometimes when he looked at her, he still couldn’t believe she was real, and he had meant every word.

He still couldn’t believe that she was there, in his room, that after she bid goodnight to her son, she seemed happy to be with him.

She could have so much more, and yet, she was choosing him, every day.

“I’m going to miss you this weekend.” She said, finally putting her smartphone away and inching closer to him on the sofa.

It was becoming familiar to have her in his arms, but he didn’t think he would never truly get used to it.

They were having a two days break before they started to shoot the movie. Costume fittings had been done while they rehearsed and those who still need adjustments were staying behind in Belfast. Daario and he were among the lucky ones who would remain there and hold the fort.

“Me too,” He replied. It was the truth – he had been alone (and so bloody lonely) for years and he didn’t particularly like the idea of being apart from Dany. He also realised how co-dependent it made him sound, but he was too tired to care.

“Next time, if you want, you could come with me?” She said, and it came out as a question.

Did he want to meet Dany’s son? Of course, he did.

There were still things they need to talk about, things he needed to tell her, things he felt she wanted to share with him.

They had time, however.

“Dany,” He said after a moment…but trailed.

 

I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long.

Please, be careful.

 

She was looking at her, and he was humbled by the trust and the love he could see in her eyes.

“You know that you don’t owe me anything, right?” He said, finally. It was not what he had meant to say and he knew that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear because there were things that she wasn’t ready to talk about.

“It’s not about owing you anything.” She said, after a moment, “even if I do,” When he tried to contradict her, she placed a hand on his chest.

“I do.” She repeated, “people don’t know what you have sacrificed for me. It took me years to learn the truth, and I still don’t know everything. But it’s not about that!”

She smiled, and she said, “I think I’ve been in love with you for years, Drogo knew it and I think even Lynesse did, or Varys wouldn’t have done what he did.”

He doubted Lynesse cared one way or another that he had fallen in love with his co-star, she had been too busy spending his money with her lovers, but Varys had known.

And, apparently, so had Drogo.

“The thing is,” Dany continued, “I’m doing this for us. Because I’m sick and tired of hiding and pretending and dancing like a puppet to what men like Varys or people like the Lannisters decide we should do. I’m using them for a change!”

Did Dany just tell him that she loved him? Was she fighting that war for him?

And they knew each other so well, or he must look like an incredulous sod because she rolled her eyes and said, “Yes. You heard me well: I’ve been in love with you for a very long time – and I’m doing this for us. Also, I like Sansa and even Jon when he’s not a stroppy bastard!”

He wanted to tell her that he loved her – he had for a long time too, but he didn’t, she didn’t let him talk; she kissed him, hungrily, chuckling when he let out a very undignified sound when she tickled his sides.

“Stay with me –“ She asked between kisses.

“Always.” He replied.

 “I can live with that,” She replied, moments, later against his chest.

He closed his eyes; he was the luckiest sod alive, and he would protect what they were building with everything he was.

 


 

 

From Instagram: transcription of a story posted by Daenerys Stormborn:

 

She is without makeup, she is wearing a hat and a scarf. She is in the passenger seat of a car – it’s clear that there is someone else sitting next to her.

DS: Good morning everyone! It’s six and –

She turns to her right, Jorah Mormont in the background says, “Twenty five”

DS: - still smiling – it’s six and oh my God in the morning, it’s still dark outside as you can see, we’re heading to rehearsals. It’s our last day!

She looks at her right again, and a second later a script of Good Queen Alysanne, hold by Jorah’s hand, appears next to her face.

DS: - grins – We have a couple of hard scenes to rehearse today, wish us luck!

 


 

 

Last Day of Rehearsals  -  Jon

 

Rehearsals had been hard. He hadn’t lied to Tormund when he had told him that the material demanded longer rehearsals. It did. His vision of the movie was made of a series of technical nightmares that would have to stay strictly within their budget.

They had wrapped rehearsals at a decent hour, which had been sort of surprising considering the hours they’d been having for the past week, and he would have loved to drag his sorry arse to bed and pass out, remember what it felt like to have a full night sleep.

Of course, Tyrion Lannister had come up with the idea of celebrating the end of rehearsals, or as he called it: “Snow's boot camp for actors and the crew”.

Tyrion loved parties and he loved to celebrate; he was a good man, he looked as tired as all of them, he was loved by the cast and the crew, so when he had said, “We deserve to have some fun after the past week!” no one had truly objected.

It turned out that it was a decidedly smaller affair than the party at the pub in London, and Bronn had discreetly instructed each and every attendee not to use the studios’ cars and had given them the precise location.

Yes, they were paranoid sods – but he couldn’t really blame them for erring on the side of caution.

The party was held in an elegant loft, and it soon turned out that it belonged to Tyrion.

“No loose lips, nothing that will come up on social media unless Dany decides to break the internet again!” Tyrion had explained.

People had laughed at that because Daenerys, who had a huge following on social media, had been steadily turning the tide against Joffrey Baratheon and all the naysayers about Sansa, first by chiming in with ideas about the bloody video and then by posting pictures and stories on either Twitter and Instagram. People were seeing a close-knit group of people working their arses off all day to make a good movie.

He had been looking at his cast and crew for a while, and he realised that Tyrion was right: they deserved to celebrate and relax after the week they had had!

Didn’t paparazzi get bored? How many shots could they have of the cast and crew either getting in or out the soundstage, looking like robots and dressed always the same?

Apparently, they didn’t, and since there weren’t any new scandals, they were still hounded.

It was sad that it had become routine for all of them.

And yes, the rational part of him, the one that had not forgotten where he came from and his childhood and still remembered how things worked in real life, knew that they were lucky because being hounded by paparazzi might be a pain in the arse, but it was not working 10 hours a day at minimum wage or feeling like a fucking Dickens’ character from time to time.

And yet –

And yet it had been a long, hard week for all of them and having arseholes saying nasty, vile things to him and to his cast had been exhausting.

He hadn’t lost it again, in front of cameras, it didn’t matter what those leeches said. Both Oberyn and Tyrion had told him to keep it together, and he had. Mostly.

One day, however, he hoped he would be as good at dealing with those leeches as Jorah Mormont, whose face never, ever betrayed what he felt in front of cameras; even if he had seen, with his own eyes, how the man’s hand had shaken with fury and frustration that morning, when an arsehole had asked him whether it was true that Rhaego, Dany’s son, was their lovechild and if he liked to watch while he had threesomes with Dany and Sansa.

They had managed to keep it together, he had done his job and he had not avoided Sansa; she was his leading lady, and it wasn’t her problem if he had feelings for her; Sansa had a very demanding role, people attacking her left and right, therefore he would be there for her – even if he was starting to think that it would drive him to distraction.

There weren’t paparazzi anywhere, they hadn’t been followed and Tyrion had only invited people they could trust – those he was sure they wouldn’t sell them out or report everything they said or did to Cersei or on social media.

Perhaps they were indeed paranoid – but he couldn’t muster enough fucks to care at that point.

Besides, he liked those people, and he was surprised by how close they had all got after such a short amount of time. Shooting a movie had that effect, usually: people got used to forming strong bonds in short amounts of time and it was a bit schizophrenic, but in that case, he felt that things were different. People genuinely cared about the movie and about each other, and they were lucky to have that.

Some of the crew and cast had already worked together, but others had only met for the first time when production began. He was aware that they had hit the jackpot: his cast had amazing chemistry together, his crew was immensely talented and they were all, for the most part, decent people.

He heard them chatting and discussing plans for the weekend: some of them would go home and he couldn’t help smiling when he heard Brienne say, “I will murder anyone who dares me to call before noon tomorrow! I need some fucking sleep!”

God, but he could relate! Brienne, however, was staying in Belfast: they had about a million meetings to attend before shooting began.

Daario was chatting with some crew members – despite his initial scepticism about his casting, he had to admit the actor had done an impressive work with some of his scenes and Sansa and he had been working a lot on building their chemistry from scratch.

Sansa was – stunning. She was wearing a dark-blue dress, her auburn hair was loose on her shoulders and – bloody hell! He couldn’t stop gazing at her! She was smiling, while talking to Tyrion and Bronn, she looked tired, but at ease.

He forgot, sometimes, that Sansa had met Tyrion before her screen test; and he wondered, not for the first time, what he might have seen or heard while she had been engaged to Baratheon.

He would never ask him, of course – but he couldn’t help wondering whether it had been Tyrion who had sent the pages for the screen test to Sansa’s agent.

He heard Tyrion asking, “Did Cersei’s people contact yours?”

“Oh, yes. They’re still laughing.” Sansa replied, “Jaqen H'ghar’s exact words were: ‘over my dead body’.”

 He was the director of the movie, but he had the distinct feeling that he was being left out from a lot of stuff. He intended to talk to Tyrion during the weekend; he didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he was tired of feeling like he was always missing something.

Sansa seemed to sense that he was staring at her – big, bloody surprise, there – because she turned and looked at him, smiling.

They locked gazes for a moment, and it felt like a scene he would never direct because his life had never been a rom-com and he didn’t believe in fairy tales, but that feeling, the almost physical sensation that they were the only people in the room and she was the only thing clearly visible in a monochrome world, was nonetheless there and it was impossible to ignore.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

He broke eye contact between them and moved in the room, spotting finally Davos, Jorah, Dany and Baeric chatting; as he got closer he heard them discussing Oberyn Martell’s latest idea: a photo shoot of the cast and crew.

He had dropped the news that morning, during a break saying, “Since people on social media are stanning you AF right now, we’ve got to ride the wave.”

He still didn’t know what the hell he had meant, but it was clear that his crew had very precise ideas about it.

Davos was saying, “There is no way in hell I’m going to do that!”

They all nodded their greetings when he joined them and he listened as Baeric teased the older man; Dany, who was sitting on a sofa next to Jorah, reminded him about the video they had all made and Davos scoffed, “That was your brilliant idea, Stormborn!”

She shrugged her shoulders and Jon noticed that Jorah’s arm was drooped around her shoulders.

It was a casual gesture – much as Dany’s hand on Jorah’s knee. Casual, familiar – intimate.

He remembered seeing them on stage, in New York, how he had been transfixed by their stage presence and, later, when they had started working together, he had, of course, noticed the chemistry between them – how they had worked so seamlessly together, making the relationship between their characters a complex one, more than a foil to Alysanne and Jhaerys’.

But – that was not flirting on Instagram while on break during rehearsals, or posing for pictures that were first vetted by Martell before they were uploaded anywhere.

God – critics and fellow directors lauded him for his attention to details!

He had been so wrapped up in his work and his feelings for Sansa that he had missed the obvious!

Daenerys Stormborn whom he often saw having whispered conversations with Tyrion while at work, Jorah Mormont whom always listened to his input, almost as if he wasn’t a veteran actor with decades of experience, Davos Seaworth whom he considered his mentor (and also the closest thing he had to a father, since his own had buggered off when he was a child) and Baeric Dandarion, his first assistant director, all looked at him in silence for a moment, while realisation finally hit him like a ton of bricks!

If Tormund was there, he would tell him plainly how much of a moron he was, instead they all followed his gaze, and after the past few weeks, they had gotten quite good at reading one another.

“So,” He said eventually, “are you two…?” He trailed.

And Davos Seaworth, Bafta and Oscar winner, actually facepalmed at his words.

He couldn’t even chalk it up to being drunk: he had been nursing one beer that night.

Dany and Jorah inched even closer to each other and he felt a bit stupid. No – he felt very stupid!

“Good!” He said, hoping he would sound smooth, but not exactly holding his breath over it.

He was saved by further embarrassment (and he wasn’t even going to broach the subject that they’d need to keep things professional on set since he had not even realised that his actors were dating until that moment!) when Sansa, Tyrion and Bronn joined them.

“What did I miss?” Tyrion asked.

“We were just talking about the bloody photoshoot!” Davos replied. He truly loved that man, Jon decided.

Tyrion shrugged, “Might be fun. Martell knows what he is doing.”

Sansa didn’t comment and John knew she wouldn’t say a word about it, she would be a trooper. She was one of the least demanding actresses he had ever worked with.

Dany asked Sansa whether she had already picked up the dress she would wear on her hot date.

He was a simple man – and he had also recently realised that when it came to Sansa Stark he was a possessive idiot!

He didn’t speak, of course, he had put his foot in his mouth enough for one night, but he felt his blood boil.

Luckily, it was Tyrion who spoke; he handed Sansa a glass of champagne; there was a moment where they looked at each other and he saw some sort of a silent conversation going on between them and, eventually, Sansa nodded and accepted the champagne.

“Oh, a hot date! Do tell!” Tyrion said, grinning.

He wanted to know – but he also wanted to smash things. So, he settled for drinking his beer.

“Oh, mum’s film premieres tomorrow. We are all going!”

“Isn’t Ned in New Zealand?” Davos asked.

Sansa nodded, but said, “Dad never misses mum’s premieres if she decides to attend them.”

He had gotten quite good at reading Sansa, or so he hoped; she was an extremely expressive actress but was very guarded in her private life, so much that it was hard, sometimes, to get a good reading of her. However, there were tells, and he thought he could spot them, usually.

She sounded wistful and embarrassed at the same time, there was something in what she had told that was making her uncomfortable.

She was saying the truth – because he could usually say when she fibbed, but she was also withholding some information.

“So,” Dany asked, “did you pick up the dress? Are you going for virginal or slutty?”

She was smiling, but he was aware that she had not stopped looking at him as she good-naturedly teased her co-star.

“You’ll see!” Sansa replied with a wink.

Goddamn, that woman was going to be his undoing!

Tyrion took pity on him and he changed the subject. They didn’t talk about the movie – and he relaxed while listening to his cast, his friends making small talk, swapping past set experiences and when Brienne and Daario joined them, he realised that he was standing right next to Sansa (how – and when did it happen?) and it felt a bit like before Baratheon was a little shit on Twitter – except that he was very much aware now of his feelings for Sansa, he had stopped lying to himself.

Jorah had all of them in stitches when he told them about some of the adventures Ned Stark and him had together through the years: first when they were at RADA and then when they worked together.

Sansa chimed in saying, “I came on set with Robb and mum one day, you were doing that period piece…”

“Which one? I’ve done a million of them!” Jorah replied with a smirk.

“No capes this time around,” Tyrion chimed in,

“And no bloody armour!” Jorah said, nodding his head. He looked at Daario and grinned, “Sorry, mate!”

“I hate you!” Daario replied good-naturedly.

They all laughed, then Sansa said, “It was my first time on a set, you were shooting the scene where you died.”

Jorah smiled, “I remember that! You couldn’t stop crying, after, but you held it together until the director said cut!”

He was endeared by the tale – and also very fucked – but he was also happy that Jorah seemed genuinely fond of Sansa, despite the well known falling out between Ned Stark and him.

Dany added that she too remembered that movie and how she cried her eyes out when Jorah’s character died.

“You never told me that,” Jorah said looking at her.

And yes, he was totally clueless – how could he miss the way they looked at each other? That man was totally besotted with the woman sitting next to him. And she was so clearly in love with him!

The director in him was suggesting to him all the ways in which he could exploit that knowledge, and he tried very hard to squelch that voice.

He also missed Dany’s reply – and when he focused back on his cast Dany and Sansa were laughing together and he couldn’t help noticing that they were scarily in synch and were unconsciously mirroring each other’s gestures – God, they truly had been spending too much time together.

He exchanged a look with Jorah, who was smiling – and yes, he was irrevocably, utterly fucked.

Someone brought them a few guitars – how, why or when Tyrion Lannister would even have guitars in one of his spare houses was something he truly didn’t want to know, he didn’t even know what had prompted the whole thing, it must have happened while he was thinking about how to use Dany and Jorah’s chemistry in the movie – and it turned out that Jorah, Baeric and Bronn were quite good at playing the guitar and they all ended up singing, and Jon truly felt like the other shoe had to drop at that point! It had to because they were too relaxed, they were enjoying the others’ company too much so, he was positive that they would get a phone call from Oberyn Martell telling them that Joffrey Baratheon had leaked some nude pictures of Sansa’s (in which case he would personally bash the little prick’s head in), or someone from the studios would call them to tell them they were backing out from financing the movie or some other catastrophe would happen.

But, except for Dany taking videos and pictures for posterity, nothing happened.

Well – something did happen: Sansa and Dany started to sing a John Legend’s song a cappella; it was not perfect and both women were tipsy and giggled while singing, but he was absurdly glad when he noticed that Bronn was filming the whole thing and he chocked on his beer when Tyrion whispered, “I’ll send you the video later.”

Tyrion grinned at him; he was a weird man: he had chosen him to direct the story he had always wanted to tell and he was trusting his vision; he claimed he was a cynical man, but he had seen him using his clout and power to give a chance (on more fronts, it appeared) to two actors he had worked with in the past; he was fiercely protective of the cast and crew and even of him.

He was aware that there had been meetings with the executives that, as the director of the movie, he should have attended, but Lannister had chosen to protect him because he might be a relative newcomer, but he was familiar with the concept of plausible deniability.

When he looked at Tyrion, he saw a man who put everything he had and was in his job and was bloody lonely.

He could relate, to be honest.

Tyrion was now chatting with Baeric and Davos and he chose not to listen to what they were saying; he focused on Sansa who was still next to him, and he hated the tension he could feel in her because before Baratheon had unleashed paparazzi on them they had always chatted easily, and the silences between them had never been awkward.

He should have made things easier for Sansa; he should have cleared the air between them right away so that they wouldn’t always be on alert when they were together and in public, like they were now. They were behaving as if they had done something wrong; as if Joffrey Baratheon was right!

He wasn’t!

Sansa would have got the part even if he hadn’t been attracted to her from her audition.

They would be spending months together and he could not let Joffrey Baratheon ruin his relationship with his leading actress! They had a responsibility toward the rest of the cast and crew!

Anyway, that was his story and he would be sticking to it until his dying breath, especially when Daario, who had rented a flat not far from where Sansa and Theon Greyjoy were staying offered to drive her home; he couldn’t help it: he said that there was no need.

“I’m driving you home.” He said.

“You are?” Daario asked.

Now, he liked Daario just fine; he was an easy-going person, the crew adored him and so did his castmates; he had nothing against him, truly! The fact was that he was spending too much time with Sansa already – and it didn’t matter that it was just pretending, he didn’t like it.

“If she wants to, yes I am.” He said using his best, “I’m your director you don’t want to fuck with me!” voice.

He was oblivious of the way his cast – his friends exchanged glances at his words; he saw Bronn gulping his drink, and he was pretty sure he was trying to hide a smirk.

He had already shown his hand twice, one more wouldn’t kill him.

He was looking at Sansa, and he saw the way she got past her initial surprise, before she said, “I’ll get my coat.”

 

Smooth, Snow. Very smooth!

 

What the hell was he doing?

 


Last Day of Rehearsals  - Sansa

 

She hadn’t been alone in a car with a man since Joffrey – and it was one of the reasons why she didn’t drive any longer. The last time she had driven in a car Joffrey had been with her and it had been unpleasant. She still had faint scars on her collarbone to remind her just how bad it had been. To that day, she still panicked whenever she thought about it, that was why Bronn had driven her to Tyrion’s flat and Jon was driving her home.

Jon, however, was not Joffrey. She forced herself not to inch closer to the door, she willed her body to relax.

Jon was not Joffrey.

Jon was kind, he was patient – he listened to her questions about his stage directions and answered them. He was sweet – there wasn’t a malicious bone in his body; she had seen how he had looked genuinely surprised that night by how close the cast and crew had got, and it was mostly thanks to him.

She had observed him all night – listening to his cast, laughing with Tyrion or Dany, and she was not completely blind: she had felt the way he had looked at her and it didn’t make sense because Jon had been kind, polite, even sweet to her ever since the whole clusterfuck with Joffrey had gone down, but he wasn’t attracted to her. It couldn’t be!

Jon Snow liked women like Ygritte Wildings: free, outspoken, without baggage, without scars.

Jon Snow was a decent man, a good person who had dealt with more filth in the past week than in his whole career thanks to her ex-fiancé.

Yet, she had eyes – and she had learned the hard way to pay attention to the way men looked at her.

Even if she felt, deep in her gut, that Jon would never hurt her.

They hadn’t said a word when they had left; it was a cold night and it was raining. He had asked her address when they had got into the car and nothing else, which had been completely fine with her because she – liked watching Jon: he made her feel safe, and that was a feeling she had genuinely thought she would never feel again. She hadn’t felt safe for a long time, not even with her family.

She wondered whether she should say something, however – he had publicly defended her, but they had not talked about what had happened, yet. She had tried to broach the subject more than once, but after he left the soundstage the night he had shown Daario how he wanted the dance scene to be done, her resolve had faltered because the man who had come back, had been polite, sweet, kind – but also distant.

She wouldn’t even know where to start if she were to broach the subject of Joffrey’s tweets again. They had not slept together and even if Jon was attracted to her – it was clear that she wasn’t worth the trouble for him and she couldn’t honestly blame him for that.  

Yet, she felt like she owed Jon some kind of apology because he was being harassed because of her.

“Jon,” She said, clearing her throat before she spoke, “listen – we haven’t talked this week –“

They had avoided each and any personal matter. Jon had sat stone-faced during the meeting with Martell, he had not objected to Tyrion’s idea of shooting a video mocking Joffrey’s tweets, or Dany’s when she had chimed in suggesting that the whole cast and crew should be part of it.

That was the problem – Jon did not say a word. She had no idea about what he was thinking, whether he was sick and bloody tired of that mess and was regretting choosing her or whether he was okay.

“I need to apologise.” She said.

Her father had taught his children to be brave and always face their fuck ups. She knew that it wasn’t her fault that Joffrey Baratheon was a psychopath. Her mind knew that; her heart, however would always find ways to blame her for being such a stupid, naïve girl.  

Jon tilted his head on her side for a moment and he could see the hard look in his eyes even in the half-darkness of the car.

“No, you don’t.” He said. And she knew that tone of voice – it was the one he used when he was cross but he was too bloody polite and considerate of her to say it aloud.

“Yes, I do. It’s my fault, all of this.” She said. 

It was – regardless of what Theon, Robb, Maergery, Dany, Tyrion and her parents said. It was her fault because she had fallen in love with a monster and he would never stop trying and destroying her.

It was her fault because she had forgotten the basic rules she had learnt while growing up – and she had been just a girl who had a crush on a kind man, and if that crush had become something more, well – that wasn’t Jon’s problem. It was her own, and she would have to deal with it.

“No – it’s Baratheon’s fault. You have nothing to apologise for, not to me or anyone!” He said and he sounded almost angry.

They stopped at a red light, and Jon turned toward her and said, “I mean it, Sansa – none of what Baratheon did or say is your fault!”

He sounded so sure, so earnest – and she wanted so badly to tell him why it was her fault! She wanted to tell him that she had been so young and naive, but that wasn't an excuse because she should have dumped Joffrey, run and never look back the first time he had shown her his true colours before he started to see her as his property.

 

More valuable than my sport bag, but far less than my car.

 

 

She did not dump him, she didn't run away and that was her fault.

She should have been stronger and report him to the police regardless of what Jaime Lannister had told her to dissuade her. She had to live with the fact that Joffrey was probably hurting some other girl because she had been weak.

She wanted to tell Jon that she was afraid. She couldn't even drive a fucking car without having a panic attack because the last time she did Joffrey had been there and things had become unpleasant.

The tweets and being hounded by paparazzi were a small price to pay if it was the only thing Joffrey stuck to. He could do and had done much worse to her.

She couldn't burden Jon with her mistakes, however. It wasn't fair.

 "Let me thank you, then." She said, focusing on Jon's hands on the steering wheel. He had strong calloused hands, bit she was sure that he had never laid a finger on a woman;  and yes, she was very much aware of how appearances could be deceiving, but it was a feeling that she couldn't shake...and it almost brought her to tears.

Almost.

She was Sansa Stark and they had been taught not show weakness in public, and she had learnt the hard way never to lower her guard, not even with the people closest to her. Especially with them.

They had almost arrived, Jon slowed the car to a halt, and then turned toward her and said, “Don’t. Please.”

Why? He had trusted her, given her the chance of a lifetime and she had caused nothing but troubles.

 And she must have drunk more than she thought because she voiced some of those thoughts aloud.

Jon shook his head, “Who made you think that you are nothing less but amazing?” He whispered.

“Why are you avoiding me, then?” She asked – because that was what she had wanted to say all along; and she felt – vulnerable, exposed, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. Even the constant fear she felt in the pit of her stomach seemed far away in that moment.

 “I mean –“ She trailed, realizing that they were facing each other and he was so bloody close and even if they had spent virtually every waking hour together for the past few days, they had never been alone and she had missed him.

“Sansa –“ He said, and his voice sounded broken.

She had drunk too much, which was something she didn’t usually do, especially after Joffrey; she was tired, she would have to attend a premiere with her family because of those bloody tweets, she was under constant scrutiny: what she wore, how she looked, what she said and didn’t say – people felt entitled to insult her, she was being called a whore, a slut and the only person whose opinion truly mattered to her sounded pained when saying her name.

 She should open the door, get out of the car and leave; Jon would never mention what she had said, and she was sure they would have a civil working relationship – they both loved the movie too much, it was too important for too many people to fuck it up with their personal problems.

She should go – move, go to her room, rip her clothes off and stand under the shower spray until she could think clearly.

She really should.

She didn’t. Jon had just said her name, and the way he had said, had finally brought tears to her eyes.

She moved, even though she had never been bold in her life – and closed the distance between them. It didn’t take much because somehow their bodies always seemed to gravitate toward each other.

He was startled when she brushed his lips with hers. She had drunk champagne and beer, she hadn’t eaten all day and she felt lightheaded. He tasted like beer and mint, and his lips were soft.

God – she thought she had known what desire was, but she had been clueless!

Jon opened his lips and kissed her and she closed her eyes.

Yes.

Soft, warm, slow. Jon was still not touching her, and her skin ached, felt too tight; they moved, in that small car and when he cupped her face, she bit his lower lip, trying not to moan.

She had never been kissed like that – like she was being touched by fire and honey.

Her hands dug into his hair and he was the one who let out a soft moan.

Yes. Warm, languid, hungry – heat was pooling between her legs and she was dimly surprised about that. She was surprised by how much she craved the man who was kissing her.

They broke the kiss, for a moment, and Jon started to scatter butterfly kisses on her jaw and the side of her neck while one hand was in her hair and the other was still cupping the side of her face.

 Was it always supposed to be like that? Like she was going on fire and he was the only thing that could make it better?

Her hands trailed, roaming his back, feeling the strong muscles even through the fabric of his coat and shirt.

Clothes. Too many clothes – she needed to feel his skin, she needed to taste it, so she did, moving, inching his head closer to hers, so that she could kiss his face, taste the soft skin with the tip of her tongue and held her breath when Jon’s hand trailed down from her face, tracing her neck with his fingertips – could he feel how fast her heart was beating? She could feel his taste on her lips and her heart in her throat and she wanted more.

He did too; she could tell from the way he kissed her again, while his hand stopped on her chest and traced her nipples through the fabric of her dress.

Fuck.

They moved, again, almost imperceptibly and their chests were pressed flush against eaotherr’s.

Her hands slipped under his coat and she needed to touch his skin: it was so warm, so soft and it felt so good, so right.

They breathed together, taking gulps of air, locking gazes, for a moment and he was solemn even now, while the hand that had cupped her breast was trailing down. He kissed her lips, once twice, and she did the same, when his hand brushed her leg.

Her core throbbed, and maybe he felt it  because his hand trailed up.

Warm – hot, too hot.

She was wearing stockings and the feeling of his warm hand between her legs sent jolts of pleasures throughout her body.

She closed her eyes, not even caring, at first about the sounds she was making.

Damn, he was good – he was so good at it. He was taking his time, teasing her through her knickers.

 

“Spread your legs –“ He hissed against her jaw.

The tears in her eyes were making everything blurry. “Joffrey,” She pleaded.

“Now.” He said.

 

His kisses were sloppier now, his beard was tickling her face and his fingers were slipping through her folds.

Her breath itched.

Oh –“ He said.

 

Harsh. Dry. Hurt.

She wanted to clench her legs but she couldn’t move a muscle.

“It’s either me or my friends. I made a bet, I lost and Lannisters always paid their debts. What is gonna be, Sansa?”

“You.” She cried. Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she fight?

Fuck yourself on my fingers, then.”

She heard the chuckles, but couldn’t see who was laughing, didn’t even want to.

 

She was coming – but she couldn’t let him touch her. Fire was dangerous. How could she ever think that it was a good thing? That she could have it?

“Stop – please.” She cried.

 

 

“Shut the fuck up!” Joffrey said, his fingers pistoning in and out of her for everyone to see, “I’m making you a favour already. Don’t push it! Keep moving!”

She did. It hurt and her mouth tasted bitter, but she had just had one drink.

“Add another!” Someone said.

“Please – it hurts.” She whispered.

Joffrey grinned.

 

Jon was so quick to withdraw his hand that she felt her head spinning.

He had stopped.

“Sansa –“ He said, “I’m –“

She shouldn’t have – she felt cold, she felt the phantom taste of whatever drug Joffrey had given him that night in her throat, she felt her inner walls fluttering and she was sure that she was going to throw up, especially when Jon said, “I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear!”

It’s not you. I’m damaged goods. I’m a fuck up. It’s not your fault! She wanted to say.

“I need to go – “ She said, without looking at him.

“Sansa, I’m sorry.” He repeated.

“Don’t.” She said as she got out of the car. It was pouring, her knees wobbled for a moment, because she was tipsy and she had almost come and it was a good thing that it was raining because she couldn’t hide her tears any longer.

Jon didn’t leave. He was still in the car, and while she fished for the keys in her purse he kept looking at her.

Leave, dammit! Leave! She wanted to tell him.

Ygritte Wildings wouldn’t have left him high and dry – she wouldn’t have freaked out because of her former boyfriend. She didn’t need pr strategies and she was respected and admired.

Jon could do so much better than her.

And yet, when she turned, he was still there, in the car, looking at her and she looked back.

God. She loved him – and she had just fucked everything up.

Chapter 9: And -- action!

Summary:

In which Sansa attends a premiere, the Starks are out for blood, Jon is angsting and shooting begins.

Notes:

So sorry for the huge delay in updating, real life has been hectic. Also, I don't know whether you guys prefer shorter and more frequent updates or long ass ones. Let me know!:)
As Always, huge thanks to all the people who left kudos, bookmarked or left the comments on the story!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

From the website Blind Gossip: The #1 Blind Item Site in The World

 

Blind Item: The War

 

This is almost too easy; it is the story of two families, both of them are considered Royalty in the showbusiness.   

Family A is notoriously very concerned with their privacy and they are known for discouraging their children to get into the family business until they come of age.

 Family B, on the other hand, is, shall we say, much more under the spotlight, encouraging all their family members to be in the show business.

It is not a coincidence that despite their statuses and collective talents there haven’t been many work collaborations between the two families for decades. 

That didn’t change even during the short engagement between two offsprings of the families.

No, this isn’t Romeo and Juliet – far from it! It has become disconcertingly clear  that there is no love lost between the former couple and  recent events have prompted Family A to close ranks around one of their own – hence, their uncharacteristic massive presence on social media and the recent outing, which saw the whole family showing up at a movie  premiere.

The movie premiere and its afterparty were not just a showcase for one of the family members’ talent. It was a show of strength. And it succeeded.

Sources tell me that some members of Family B are worried because Family A is starting to actively use their clout and power to protect their own and to teach them a lesson.

People who were at the afterparty were heard whispering, “Family A is out for blood, now.”

 

Family A:

Family B:

 


 

 

From Scoop Online:

Sansa Stark attends her mother’s movie premiere – and she looks gorgeous!

 

Sansa Stark, along with her siblings and her father, Ned, attended the premiere of Cathelyn Tully’s latest project: “Lady Stoneheart” and they killed it on the red carpet. The Starks coordinated their dresses and suits: shades of black and white and looked glamourous, radiant and very close.

In the exclusive pictures below you can see moments from the red carpet and the afterparty: from Cathelyn Tully wearing her husband’s jacket at the after party, to Rob and Talisa Stark looking every bit like the newlyweds they are, to Theon Greyjoy hugging his adoptive sisters, the Starks seemed in great mood.

Sansa Stark, wearing a gorgeous Valentino gown, looked ethereal and radiant, laughing with her siblings and looking proudly at her mother.

Sansa, who is about to start shooting “Good Queen Alysanne” this week, has been at the centre of some controversy lately, both with her casting as the titular character in the movie, and after the defamatory claims her ex fiancé Joffrey Baratheon made on twitter last week. 

 


 

 

She looks radiant.

 

Perhaps she was a better actress than she thought, because she had felt anything but radiant the previous night – she was pretty sure the make up artists had pulled out a bloody miracle with her because when they had got to her mum’s hotel room, she had been a mess: too little sleep, her eyes still puffy and bloodshot, her skin had been too pale.

She had cried herself to sleep two nights before – making sure Theon wouldn’t hear her because the very last thing she needed was her brother breaking Jon’s nose because he misunderstood and couldn’t truly know what the hell had happened between them.

Besides, she truly had not wanted to think about what had happened with Jon; as coping mechanisms went, hers was rubbish, she was aware of that, but there hadn’t been time to do anything else.

So, she had worn sunglasses on the way to the airport, the previous morning, deciding that paparazzi could go and sod themselves for once.

She had – been a trooper, her parents’ daughter up until she had seen her dad. She hadn’t seen her dad for months, but she was pretty sure that she would have reacted the same way even if they had seen each other the previous day.

They had been alone – Theon and Arya had been at Robb’s, her mom had still been doing yet another round of press junkets for her movie; her father had looked at her and he had just known; and even if he had been very vocal in his disapproval when she had started dating Joffrey, there had been no accusation, no resentment in his eyes.  

Perhaps her father didn’t know the sordid details because no one truly did; but he knew enough and he still loved her, and it had undone her: she had cried in his arms, as he told her that things would be okay, that they would solve everything – and he reminded her that the lone wolf died, but the pack survived.

 As for her mum’s premiere – no, she definitely hadn’t felt radiant: it had been a bloody nightmare! She had been exhausted, scared and had felt like a bloody animal on display all evening.

Her new publicist, however, had carefully planned that public outing; Jaquen was a frankly scary man; he was attractive, but he exuded an aura of danger and power that she had found off-putting;  there was a reason, however, if his services were so expensive and he could afford the luxury to pick and choose his clients: he was the best at public appearances, he got things done quickly and seamlessly  and the producers of her mum’s movie had been only too happy to work with him – it had been free publicity for the movie, after all.

Cersei Lannister had also succeeded, apparently, in the seemingly impossible task to piss Jaquen off. She very much doubted that he cared about her on a personal level, but his answer to her ludicrous proposal had been a resonant and clear: “fuck off, this is war!”

 Her father – who was a honourable man, who had been in the business since he was a child, and hated publicity stunts with a burning passion, had smiled for the cameras and had followed the script they had all been given.

Even Arya who was much more comfortable in her fencing attire and would rather die than going to a premiere afterparty had worn a dress, high heels, had had her hair and make up  done, and she had been on her best behaviour – for her.

She couldn’t shake the feeling of shame thinking about the show her family had to make, for her – because she had been naïve and weak.

She had smiled, however, grateful for the make up and the nice dress she had been given and for the fact that her siblings and her parents had not commented on how shitty she had looked at first, not even Theon on the way to London.  

The old mantra had come back: the flashes were just bright lights, she had a script – words provided by Jaquen and no one – unless they knew her really well could tell that there was something wrong with her.

And there was – evidently, if she couldn’t even be touched by the man she was in love with without going into sheer, utter panic.

It wasn’t Jon’s fault. Jon had not known, he had stopped as soon as she had spoken. He couldn’t have known, and she didn’t blame him. He was a good man, he wasn’t Joffrey!

 It wasn’t her own fault – or so she kept reminding herself; but she truly didn’t believe it because blaming herself was easier than the alternative; it was easier than facing everything Joffrey had done to her.

 


 

From Twitter:

 

@sansaisagoddess: OMFG, she looks like a queen! #yourfavewillnever #SansaDefenceSquad

 

@sansaGQA12: it’s so good to see her smile! Is it just me or the Starks were sending a message here? #SansaDefenceSquad #alsoRobbhotdamnyoulookhotaf

 

@joffbratheonismyking: @sansaisagoddess she can walk a red carpet and pose for pics like a pro. How shocking! #queen #howaboutno

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @joffbaratheonismyking your obsession with Sansa is creepy, you know that, right? She dumped him #getthefuckoverit

 

@joffbaratheonismyking @jonsnowdeservedanoscar: said the fan of the director she’s currently shagging #sheisusinghim #youshouldbeworriedabouthim

 


 

 

He knew he looked like shit – he had eyes, and he had spent a considerable amount of time looking in the mirror trying to understand, how could he have fucked up so spectacularly! He had come up with nothing all he knew was that he had no excuses.

None.

Even if Sansa hadn’t frozen as he touched her, he still had fondled her like a horny teenager in a bloody rental car!  

What was killing him was that it had taken him far too long to realise that Sansa was not okay – Christ, how could he do that?

So, yes, he was acutely aware of the bruise like shadows under his eyes, oh how bloody pale he looked, of how messy his hair was and how unkempt his beard looked, he didn’t need Brienne, Tyrion or bloody Davos to remind him!

Apparently, however, no one had got the memo, and all of them, at one point or another had commented on his looks and his attitude.

He had focused on the job – because when everything went to hell, that was the only thing that tethered him; they were ready to start shooting the movie and even paparazzi had taken a day off, thankfully!

The internet, however, never slept and he might have set up a google alert about Sansa (he must have been very drunk when he did) because as soon as he woke up, he saw the coverage about Catherine Tully’s movie premiere.

And he was in that rental car again, his senses were filled with Sansa and the guilt he felt took his breath away, because underneath the make up and the beautiful dress (neither virginal nor slutty, he wondered what Dany would think about it), beyond the smiles she had for the cameras – which he hated because only a blind idiot would not see how fake they were, he had spotted the tells: Sansa looked tired and haunted.

But judging by the comments he read, no one noticed!

Well, who was he to complain anyway? He didn’t notice right away what was happening to Sansa in the car – even though he had thought he had gotten good at reading her.

The only good thing that had come out from the past twenty four hours was that he had had a long chat with Tyrion the previous evening about all the things that he had been kept out of.

Tyrion had looked genuinely surprised that he had noticed the whispered conversations Dany and he had, and how often he stayed back in the production offices after they all went home.

Yes, he had been too consumed with his work, but unlike what Tyrion might think he was not completely clueless.

He suspected that Tyrion still hadn’t told him everything – but he knew  for a fact now that there had been conference calls with the studios that he had not been part of,  which had been mostly about how to deal with the mess Joffrey Baratheon had made with his tweets.

Tyrion had also told him that Joffrey’s team was working on an official apology statement.

A statement. A fucking statement. Did that piece of shit and his batshit insane mother really think that a par boiled PR piece of garbage could fix things?

“Why isn’t he in jail?” He had asked.

Tyrion had cocked an eyebrow at his words. He had bypassed all the bullshit, shown his hand and gone to the facts because if Tormund had heard rumours, and he didn’t know the little prick directly, Tyrion must have known more.

Tyrion had downed his glass of wine and grimaced and, at that point, he had been positive that the man knew more than he let on.

“I don’t know all the facts.” He had replied. And he had no idea whether he had said the truth or was still covering for his nephew. He hadn’t wanted to dwell on that.

Tyrion was a good man, however – and he seemed genuinely fond of Sansa, to the point that he had gone against his own family and if half the stories he had heard about Cersei Lannister-Baratheon were true, he was in for a world of trouble.

“I saw my nephew almost choking her, once – and I saw bruises from time to time, I don’t know what happened after,” Tyrion had said, “I don’t know what made her decide to break up with him, I’m just glad that she did.”

I saw the bruises from time to time.

And he had felt her freeze in his arms, he had seen her flinching whenever Daario or his stand in touched her and she wasn’t expecting their touch.

Fuck.  

It had been Tyrion the first to suggest him, even before he had actually spent time reading stuff on the internet rather than just looking at Sansa’s pictures, that the Starks had declared war on the Lannisters,”

It hadn’t escaped Jon that Tyrion had not included himself in the family, and then the man had continued saying, “The thing is – we’ve both been in the business for a very long time, our families, I mean. Unlike us, however, the Starks don’t burn their bridges.”

“What are you going to do?” He had asked.

Tyrion had not answered.

 


 

 

Texts Exchanged between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark

 

Jon: Sansa, are you all right?

 

Sansa: Yes, of course. How are things going? Did you kill Baelish?

 

Jon: the git will be on set tomorrow, plenty of time for that. Seriously, how are you?

 

Sansa: I’m fine.

 

Jon: Listen, I should apologise about the other night.

 

Sansa: no need. It’s okay, really.

 

Jon: it’s not. I was… I don’t know what came over me. I have no excuses. I’m so sorry!

 

Sansa: would you stop doing that? I already told you: do not apologise. You did nothing wrong.

 


 

 

“The hell I didn’t!” Jon exclaimed looking at the last text Sansa sent him.

 He should have texted her sooner – hell, he should have phoned her, rather than waiting and driving himself almost to distraction with guilt and self-loathing.

He had vague recollections about his father and none of them were good, he knew that he himself was not a saint, not even close –   he had plenty of flaws, but he was not that sort of individual. He could be a selfish git, he could get so obsessed with his job that he forgot anything and anyone else; he had lost the only woman he had been in love with – and while the official reason was that the job had taken precedence over anything else, he had wondered whether the issue ran deeper. He was not perfect – but he was not that sort of man – like Joffrey. The idea of purposefully hurting a woman made him sick.

He could – still catch a plane to London, he had no idea where Sansa was staying, but if push came to shove, he could text Theon Greyjoy. It was crazy, he was aware of that, but he was functioning on very little sleep, too much coffee and guilt and why didn’t he step out of the car and try and talk to her the other night?  

He had seen her, he had seen how much she was shaking, he had seen how not okay she was and all he had done was staring at her like a bloody moron, rather than doing something.

It was nuts because they were going to see each other in the morning anyway, but he had fucked up and he owed her a true, face to face, apology.

He could be there in a couple of hours, talk to Sansa and worst-case scenario take the first flight out in the morning.

He had taken his duffel bag from the wardrobe and was in the middle of booking a flight on the internet on his mobile when it rang.

It was Sansa.

 


 

 

That was the first thing she had done for the past thirty-six hours which hadn’t been pre-approved by either Jaquen or some other PR mastermind.

Jon Snow was not Joffrey Baratheon or any of his arsehole friends she had met. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. That was one of the reasons why she had fallen for him, and it was the main reason why, even if she wasn’t such a mess, they could not be together.

Jon was – innocent, he was a good, talented man who might end up as collateral damage in the crossfire between her family and Joffrey’s. Jon was a good director who deserved to have a long career and she was not going to be responsible for his downfall, not if she could help it.

Jon deserved a woman who wasn’t damaged, who didn’t avoid thinking about the past like the plague because she didn’t want to face what her abusive ex had done to her.

Jon didn’t deserve to feel guilty about what had happened in his car and that was one thing she could fix.  

She had wanted it – she still did, but her mind was a fucking landmine and she had no clue what might set her off. Her body refused to listen to what she wanted and – she was aware that she should seek professional help, but until she had met Jon she had thought she was coping well, all things considered. She had celebrated each small victory, and ignored the setbacks because she had been sick and tired of feeling like a victim.

She couldn’t, in good conscience, burden Jon with that – and his texts were making the cracks in her façade deepen.

They were at Robb’s because Jaquen had suggested that it would be better both to be pictured all together and to be away from prying ears and eyes; Robb and Talisa’s house was – comfy, but it also reminded her a little of their own house even if it wasn’t a bloody castle in the middle of nowhere – but it had the same feeling to it: a house full of love, warmth and laughter.

The downside of it not being a castle – was that she had to go out, in the snow, to make her phone call.

There was no risk of paparazzi lurking outside because Robb was paranoid as far as his privacy was concerned, even though he refused the silver screen and had married a doctor therefore he was not exactly what paparazzi sought; he was their parents’ son, after all, and he loathed publicity and paparazzi with everything he was; he always had, even when they were children.

Her family was inside and she knew she didn’t have much time before either Arya or Theon – or worse, their father – came out looking for her.

“Sansa.” Jon breathed, he had picked up right away. She was still collecting her thoughts.

What the hell was she supposed to tell him anyway? Should she spill the sordid details to try and make him understand why it hadn’t been his fault? Was she supposed to being the ice queen bitch she could be when things got too tough?

She had no clue.

“Jon,” She replied.

Well, she had called him, it was only fair that she was the one who talked.

“How are you?” She asked. She was good at making small talk – and she needed to buy some time.

Jon let out a sound that was a mix between a chuckle and a snort, and eventually he said, “Tired, I need a vacation.”

Tyrion had jokingly called the rehearsals, “Snow’s bootcamp” – but there was some truth in that: they had all worked very hard and they still hadn’t started to shoot the bloody movie.

“Our director is a pain in the arse. What can you do?” She replied – and damn! Why was it so easy to use that tone of voice with him? She hugged one arm against her chest, while cradling the phone with the free hand and said, “look – I think we need to talk.”

Except that they should have that conversation in person, not miles away from each other on a bloody mobile phone. She had been raised better than that!

She heard Jon let out a breath – and she had no clue whether it was a sigh of relief or anticipation. She just wanted Jon to stop apologising and move on.

“Sansa I –“

“So help me God, if you apologise again I will hang up. Don’t!” She snapped.

The anger she had felt had surprised her; it was like fire, burning hot in her belly and destroying everything else in its path to come out. She was aware of how fast her heart was beating. She was scared by how angry she felt at everything and everyone.

“You don’t need to apologise, Jon.” She continued, her voice was soft, even if she was feeling anything but, “Besides, I’ve got your message loud and clear.”

Jon didn’t reply and she heard him moving – was he pacing the room?

“Which message?” He asked eventually. He sounded confused and she could picture him – and she didn’t want to.

She ignored his question and said, “If you’ve kept me at distance because – well, because we are attracted to each other, then we should just focus on the movie.”

It would be ludicrous to deny that she was attracted to him, she had kissed him in that car, she had arched meeting his touch and she had wanted him to touch her, she had been about to reciprocate when her mind had reminded her of – things she’d rather forget.

“I mean, I get it and I agree – our personal lives should not and do not have to ruin the atmosphere on set.”

There, she truly was a better actress than she had ever thought.

 


 

 

He took off his glasses, and sat on the bed. He could hear her breathing – and he could picture her: beautiful and angry and so scared.

She was scared – he knew because he had got to know her and except for one giant fuck up, he could usually read her tells pretty well.

She was scared because she had used the same exact words he had been using for years – and he knew why he always used the job as an excuse: he was afraid.

The Starks had declared war on the Lannisters by showing off their power and their connections, and Sansa was playing the game – because Joffrey Baratheon was a little shit who had beat the crap out of her (according to Tormund), almost chocked her once (according to Tyrion) and had probably done worse.

“I agree –“ He said eventually, not because he did, he didn’t give a fuck about the atmosphere on set, but because Tormund had been right when he told him that she was still too raw.

She was – and he had sworn to himself that he would protect her; he had fucked up once, he would not do the same mistake again.

“Still,” He said, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m truly sorry for what I did, I didn’t mean to force you –“

“Don’t be ridiculous!” She spat out, “I bloody well know the difference, you didn’t force me to do anything! And please, stop apologising!”

The “you’re making it worse,” although not spoken was very clear and he felt numb.

Did she realise what she had said?

Apparently not, because she continued, “It’s better to move on and just focus on the movie –“

He didn’t truly hear what she said after, his mind was stuck in a loop replaying her words over and over, the director in him (the kid with such a vivid and visual imagination who had found a venue for his weird mind in the movies he made) supplied him images that twisted his inside in painful knots.

I bloody well know the difference.

He might not have molested her – even though he still felt like he did, but someone else did. Joffrey probably.

“I agree –“ He heard himself say. His voice curt, all business like, as if he truly had heard what she had said. As if he truly agreed.

“Jon,” Sansa said softly, “I truly mean it – you did nothing wrong there, it’s – “

“It doesn’t matter, Sansa – you are right. I won’t mention it, again.” He interrupted her, his voice just as soft.

“Thank you.” She said, and he could hear genuine gratitude in her voice.

He closed his eyes as he whispered his good byes.

Ygritte had often said that he could be a clueless idiot, but he knew a few things after Sansa disconnected the call: he still felt guilty about what had happened in the car, he was still in love with Sansa even though he had just agreed with her that they should keep things professional between them and he would annihilate Joffrey Baratheon.

 


 

First Week Of Shooting

 

People didn’t believe him when he said that he had never been envious of Jaime – oh, no one ever dared to say it aloud, but he had seen the disbelief in those who had heard him say that he didn’t envy his brother.

Jaime was his big brother, it was as simple as that. Would he have loved to look like fucking prince charming, like his brother did? Yes – and he had spent decades trying to come to terms with the fact that his family hated him for his mere existence – Jaime being the only exception.

Jaime hated movie sets, even if he had grown up on them or, perhaps, for that very reason, yet, he looked comfortable and amused by the utter chaos which meant that they had officially started shooting Good Queen Alysanne and everyone was hyper.

“You don’t have to stay here –“ He told Jaime.

His brother smirked, “Oh yes, I have to –“

His own presence wasn’t strictly required on set, but he would burn in hell before he let Baelish destroy his movie.

The sets were majestic and there was something surreal in seeing what he had written in the script become real – well, as real as movie sets could be.

Jon was hard at work; he looked like death warmed over, but it wasn’t stopping him from checking with everyone that things were ready, Baeric was tweaking details and Brienne, was making sure that nothing got lost in translation, that everything was in order – and they were lucky to have her.

Jaime was looking at Brienne with amusement; the woman wasn’t exactly glamourous like the ones Jaime was used to seeing and interacting with (and he refused to dwell on the one who was in his brother’s heart), she wasn’t interested in looking pretty – she was a talented producer who had made a name for herself in a male dominated world, and he respected her immensely and so did Jon Snow.

 Even Petyr Baelish begrudgingly respected her because she was extremely good at her job.

“Attention everyone,” Baeric announced, “All non-essential personnel clear the set, now. Turn off your bloody phones and absolutely quiet on the set!”

Jaime, however, showed no signs of wanting to leave, he crossed his legs on the chair and turned off his mobile phone.

“Didn’t you hear our A.D?” Brienne, who was passing by, asked.

“Loud and clear, Ms --?” Jaime asked, amping up the charm.

Usually when he did that, women (and men) melt into puddles. His brother was a charismatic son of a bitch, but Brienne Tarth looked absolutely unimpressed. She was a very tall woman, she towered over Jaime who was not little by any stretch of imagination and he realised that Jaime was about to go against a woman who had had very little sleep for the past few weeks and was living on coffee and energy drinks.

“Tarth, Mr. Lannister and the only reason I haven’t kicked you out of here is Tyrion. So, don’t push it.” Brienne said.

 “I will be quiet.” Jaime stage whispered.

“You can be as loud as you want, Mr. Lannister, just not here. Why don’t I show you to our spectacular canteen?”

Yep. Totally unimpressed. And Jaime was usually not as much of a dick.

She turned and called one of the P.A asking them to escort Mr Lannister outside.

“Brienne,” He said, “it’s not necessary, this isn’t his first time on a set.”

Jaime, however, smiled his million dollar smiles, but he said, “It’s okay, Tyrion – I think our family has antagonised the good people here enough. I’ll show myself out,”

He winked at Brienne and followed the P.A. outside.

“He’s not wrong.” Brienne said.

“He seldom is.” He replied.

Right, he had forgotten that as far as most people were concerned Jaime was not very different from Cersei or their father, or God forbid Joffrey. Even if he was – but they didn’t owe people any explanation. And Jaime had all but told Brienne where to stick it, with his smile and his words.

Sansa had come on set and Tyrion wondered if that wasn’t the real reason why his brother had left.

“He’s not my sister or my nephew, try to remember that.”

“Oh, I do – that’s why I didn’t kick him out myself.” Brienne replied.

He sighed, and focused on Sansa and Dany, both in their costumes getting ready to start.

Jon was giving the last instructions to both women, and he furrowed his brows, noticing right away how he kept his distance from Sansa and how she was hugging her arms against her chest, while listening to him.

They weren’t rehearsing any longer – it was the real deal, and Jon’s sour mood had only worsened.

Great. Just, bloody great!

 


 

 

From Reddit:

Posted by JustAnExtra1314

 

I was an extra on Good Queen Alysanne

 

I don’t know a lot about the movie itself, except for the leaked script, but the scene where I was an extra in was not in the script that I read.

The stage was majestic, we were instructed not to take pics and although we haven’t signed a NDA we were asked not to be too specific if we shared our set experience. Baelish & co pulled all the stops for this movie; of course, I can’t judge only by the scene I was in, but the costumes were amazing – and the one Sansa Stark was wearing was beautiful and the details – I don’t know what it will look like on screen, but the dress she was wearing was extremely well done. The set was jaw dropping – I’ve been on tons of sets and this has got to be one of the best I’ve ever seen.  

The scene I was in took half morning to shoot, and it’s just Alysanne and Jhaerys walking down a hall during a feast. I can’t judge Sansa Stark’s talent by the scene I was in, but she was extremely precise, didn’t miss a mark, didn’t flub her lines, she looked very at ease with her co-star (who missed his mark more than once) and she is as far from a diva as one can imagine. I overheard crew members chatting, and none of them had nothing bad to say about her. She might be Ned Stark’s daughter, or she got the part because she fucked the director, but she was a real pro and I appreciate that she didn’t keep us waiting forever.

I saw Jon Snow, but extras were directed by the assistant director and Snow was mostly chatting with the DP and the line producer.

I didn’t saw either Jorah Mormont or Daenerys Stormborn, they weren’t due on set until the afternoon.

Oh, one thing that surprised me was that actors all fed lines to each other, even when they weren’t shooting their coverage. I heard that it was something Snow asked them to do before they started shooting, and they all agreed. All of them. That was a first.

I will answer to any questions – if you’ve got them. I just wanted to share my experience.

  


 

 

If he survived making that movie, he was going to sleep for a month and then have a long, very long vacation. The good thing about the long table reading and rehearsals was that the actors and the crew knew exactly what to do and what he needed from them; the downside was that he was exhausted and he was starting to dream about how to kill Petyr Baelish in ways that in other moments he would find upsetting.

Baelish needed that movie to be a success, it had become very clear, especially since Future Perfect had crashed and burned. The fact that he had hired Joffrey Baratheon and he had genuinely thought that the dipshit had the emotional depth to play that character told him that the producer had clearly lost his marbles. Even if he didn’t despise Joffrey Baratheon personally, he was a director, - it was part of the job description to see how right or wrong an actor was for a role, he had also read the script and even before he knew what an utter waste of air Joffrey Baratheon was, he had thought he was not right for the role.

Anyway, he could deal with Baelish and his thirst for a success, all of them wanted the movie to be successful but unlike them their producer didn’t love or even particularly like the movie they were making.

And it was unnerving, especially because he always looked disinterested while watching the dailies. How could he not see?

They had burst their arses off during rehearsals and it showed in the dailies: all his actors, his crew were superb.

Sansa was – amazingly talented; he had seen her potential during her screen test, and she had worked very hard during rehearsals, but in the first dramatic scene she had played that day she had surpassed all expectations. She had been brilliant in the scene when they had rehearsed it; but she hadn’t been in a costume, she hadn’t been on set, she had had her script in her hand even if she had barely glanced at it and she had stopped and taken notes of his directions or chatted with her fellow cast members.

She had brought people to tears, he had seen goose-bumps rise on Tyrion’s skin as she shot her scene – a long shot, without CGI, only her voice and body filling up the screen, with Dany who had stood still, like a statue, on and off for hours without even blinking.

Alysanne Targaryen was becoming more than the Queen they had all studied in their history books at school, or the stuffy, saint-like figure of previous movies: she was a woman, a queen, a fighter and someone one could fall in love with.

Well, he might be biased on the last part.

He smiled when Sansa, on screen, flubbed a line and apologised, and he heard himself saying, “Still rolling, don’t stop.”

She took a breath, and resumed from where she had interrupted and she was a vision – clad in black and red.

Baelish had only said that the scene they had shot that morning would probably grant Sansa her Globe nomination.

If she had heard him, she didn’t show – she went on briefly rehearsing the following scene with Dany; Baelish was right, however.

She was that good.

And he would probably go crazy before the end of the shooting.

 


 

 

From Melisandre Gossip: Celebrity Gossip, News, Photos, Rumours

 

Exclusive: First Pictures from Good Queen Alysanne set.

 

 

I have to admit that I didn’t expect to be so genuinely impressed by the costumes, even though knowing who’s at the helm, I should have been. What can I say? From time to time I can be wrong.

Sansa Stark looks devastatingly beautiful in her costume and I can see the chemistry between the two leads from here.

Speaking of chemistry: sources close to production told me that a strange phenomenon is taking place on set. They call it “the Snow Trigger”.

I made up the name, but the gist of what I’ve been told, from more than one person, is that Jon Snow, is shall we say overprotective of Sansa Stark?

In case you’re wondering that’s a euphemism.

No, I’m not saying they are sleeping together, none of my sources think that, but he is very protective of his leading lady. I cannot honestly blame him, considering the backlash Sansa Stark has encountered since she was cast in the role. He is doing his job, right?

The same sources, however, suggested me to watch this space for Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont. We have all seen how close they seem lately. Well, apparently, that’s not something limited to social media.

I will admit that even my old cynical heart sort of melt when I saw the video she posted on Instagram the other day of the cast and crew singing together (how and when it’s a mystery for the ages, my friends!) while Mormont played the guitar. The hashtags #howisheevenreal #sotalentedicanteven #noreallycanikeephim are everything I need to know. For now.

I told you Belfast was going to become love central, didn’t I?

 


 

 

 

People had talked about her relationship with Jorah – they had inferred a lot of things, some of them hateful, but what almost no one knew was that Jorah had been sceptical about her casting as Mrs. Muir, before they met.

In hindsight, she couldn’t really blame him; she had had virtually zero theatre experience at the time, and while she had been in a string of successful movies, the two media were vastly different as she found out pretty soon.

Not that Jorah had been anything but professional and a gentleman with her, even right at the very beginning, when they were two strangers who were reading together for the first time.

He had told her, later, many months later, during one memorable night where neither of them had been able to get any sleep and they had watched old movies on the telly all night.

She hadn’t been surprised, she hadn’t even been offended by his confession; if anything, she had – felt relieved! She had felt so intimidated and overwhelmed when they had first met: Jorah Mormont was one of the best actors of his generation; she had been a fan of his work for years and she was glad she hadn’t been a disappointment to him.

Incidentally, it had perhaps been the first time she had felt like a true actress, not just a pretty face who knew how to hit a mark and not flub her lines.

Years later, there was still the lingering fear of disappointing him, of not being good enough, of failing him even now – especially that day.  

Tyrion might have written both Anne and Professor Reid with them in mind, but both roles were as far out of their respective comfort zones as they came, and she was in awe with Jorah – what he was doing with his character, how he was walking the fine line between making him almost a villain and then sucker punching her with scenes where he showed sympathy, humanity, love, empathy was astounding.  

Each scene between Anne and Professor Reid was fraught with tension, with unspoken feelings, with layers upon layers of meanings.

And Jon Snow, whose stick, was apparently, permanently lodged in his arse, and had been so since the first day of shooting, was particularly hellbent on squeezing the life out of them for that scene, that day.  

Unlike Captain Gregg and Lucy Miur, Anne and the Professor had a very physical relationship, mostly because Anne slipped further and further into Alysanne’s mind as they uncovered scrolls and secret documents.

It wasn’t the hardest scene they would have to shoot, but she was exhausted and so was Jorah. It had been a long week.

“Again, still rolling!” Jon said.

She cursed under her breath; so much for their plans for the night – it was the end of the first week of shooting, they were supposed to make love, even though they were lovers already, in every way that counted – she suspected that they were probably going to faceplant on either one of their beds, (they still had separate hotel rooms, but in name only).

The scene was intense – and never had she been more aware of Jorah’s height and strength as that day.

Professor Reid was obsessed with Queen Alysanne, and  Anne, at that point of the movie,  was just a pawn for him, a means to an end and as they rehearsed, the script had been modified, tweaked, so that Anne and the Professor would become more than foils to the Queen and her husband.

“What did you see?” He asked, grabbing her shoulders, his gaze bore into hers as he repeated the question – and damn how did he do it? He didn’t even look like Jorah in that moment. 

He was pitch perfect – and she wasn’t surprised, just like it didn’t surprise her how natural it felt to react, how the rhythm they had found while rehearsing was only getting better now that they were shooting.

And she would kill Jon Snow if he dared to interrupt them again.

He didn’t.

It was like dancing – moving together, using their bodies, their eyes and their silences to tell the story Tyrion had written.

Anne and the Professor were possibly batshit insane, for different reasons, and their immediate connection had to be explosive.

She forgot all about the marks, the lights, the people who were watching them; she forgot that Jorah and her were two actors doing their jobs – she became Anne, with her almost preternatural ability to delve into a queen’s mind, and Jorah became Professor Reid, whose obsession would cause a chain of events that would unlock long buried secrets and tear his present, and Anne’s, apart.

Jorah and her had made people root for them, love them, leave the theatre with tears in their eyes and satisfaction in their hearts without even touching each other – those same fans would see something completely different that time around; hopefully they would still root for the professor and Anne.

She didn’t even realise, at first, the almost unnatural silence on set when Jon finally called cut. She was ready to strangle him if he told them to repeat the scene; she felt like she had run a marathon on high heels, and Jorah looked tired as well.

 The applause coming from the crew, and the members of the cast that were on set, surprised her but, above all, she was surprised by the fact that Jorah was clapping his hands along the others.

She blinked. She had no clue about what she had done, but whatever it was, she hadn’t done it alone – Jorah had been with her, so she turned toward him and clapped her hands.

“Ok, fellas – time to shoot Jorah’s coverage.” Jon said, the stick was still firmly lodged up his arse, but there was a hint of a smile in his features.

“Ready?” Jorah asked.

She nodded.

God, she loved that man.

And Jon Snow be damned – she had a plan!

 


 

 

On their first off day when they were in New York, back when they two colleagues with far too much chemistry, but they were still virtually strangers to each other, they decided to sightseeing together.

They had reasoned that it was better than oversleeping; and at the time it had made perfect sense.

He later thought that he might have used that day to catch up with old friends, he could have done lots of different things, but he hadn’t – he had spent the day with that young woman and when they got back to their hotel, that night, she dozed off in the cab, her head resting on his shoulder, her gloved hands clasped on her lap.

That had been the first time it happened – to that day, no one knew about the day they had spent walking together, visiting museums and old bookstores, eating hot dogs and drinking giant cups of coffee, not even Tyrion.

There had been countless nights after the first one where Dany ended up falling asleep or dozing off with her head resting against his shoulder or chest and, more than once, he had had to resist the urge not to stare at her like a lovesick fool, especially toward the end of the run of their play; he had had to remind himself that they were both married and even if he hadn’t been, Daenerys most definitely was.

She was dozing off, now, in the car, on the way back to their hotel: she had crashed the moment they had got into the car; it had been a long, exhausting day and Jon Snow had milked their chemistry and pushed them to their limits.

He could feel her breath against his neck, and she had snuck her hands inside his coat in her slumber.

And no one and nothing could stop him from tilting his head down and stealing glances from time to time.

They were together, after all – everyone who counted a damn for them knew about their relationship, they had all but come out as a couple on social media and perhaps he should be worried because they had been spending virtually all their time together since rehearsals had started, but they wouldn’t shoot that movie forever  -- even if it had sort of become a recurring joke on set that they might indeed ending up doing that- and he couldn’t honestly imagine being away from her.

He had gone through it once – he wasn’t looking forward to repeating the experience.

He knew that there would be a time when they wouldn’t spend every moment together; after they wrapped Good Queen Alysanne they wanted to take a holiday together, but after that they already had some projects lined up (Tyrion Lannister was a bloody miracle worker!) and then they would have to start promotion for the movie.

Such worries, however, were far from his mind when he gently nudged her once they entered the hotel’s underground parking lot and the car slowed to a halt.

Usually, they would grin and bear paparazzi to get into the hotel, they were among the few who still had not rented a flat because moving in together was something they hadn’t discussed yet, not directly. It was a moot point, they had interconnected rooms, but they were for all intents and purposes already living together.

That night, however, he had asked the driver to alter their routine – Dany was exhausted, she had shot more stuff than he did, and he truly didn’t want her to face paparazzi while dead on her feet.

Dany looked adorable, however, she was rubbing the sleep off her eyes as she mumbled, “Sorry for drooling on you!”

He smiled and she took his hand in hers as they waved goodbye to the driver and headed toward the lift.

“I will kill Jon Snow!” She said between yawns.

He chuckled and she continued, “No, I mean it!”

Jon was a demanding director on good days – and it was clear that he was having a string of bad days and the result was that they were all exhausted.

He hadn’t missed the way Jon had milked his chemistry with Dany for all it was worth. He had used every trick in the book and had even come up with some new ones.

 So much for the glamorous life they were supposed to lead!

Well, all things considered, he was – deliriously happy: Dany’s arm was wrapped around his waist and his around her shoulders as they walked down the hall, they had the following morning off, they were shooting a movie they both loved, whose characters were complicated and were fun to play.

Yes, he had asked her to wait until the end of the first week of shooting to make love, but they were lovers already – he didn’t mind waiting for another day.

Dany, however, had other ideas.

 


 

 

Missandei was a saint. She was the best P.A. and friend anybody could ask for, she was also discreet and stealthy.

Therefore, Jorah didn’t have a clue that she had come to set and left a particular item in her trailer, nor did he know that she had spent hours in his hotel room (well, theirs, it was a matter of semantics at that point) following her instructions.

It wasn’t about sex – if it were, things between Jorah and her would have been a lot simpler and they probably wouldn’t be there, in that room, that night.

They had decided to wait until the end of the first week of shooting, but they hadn’t been bloody monks – therefore, it definitely was not about sex.

The look on Jorah’s face when they got in the room was worth, well – everything.

They had had a quick dinner with Sansa, Tyrion and Bronn, but there was Jorah’s favourite wine chilling in a basket, their favourite midnight snacks on the table, dimmed lights; there was no music playing, but she had a playlist on her Ipod that might be used later.

Jorah had wooed her, even though he truly didn’t need to – and she had done the same, it had been even easier.

The truth was that they were stupid for each other.

It was worth it – Jorah’s eyes were comically wide as he looked around and then at her, almost as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

 

I am the lucky one. She thought.

 

She was. She had told Jorah that she came with baggage and it hadn’t been a lie. It wasn’t just the fact that she was the widow of a beloved action movies star, whose fans were currently harassing Jorah on social media and whose family was a pain in her arse.

It wasn’t even the fact that she was a single mother; there were other things that belonged to her past, that made her lucky to be with him.

Jorah Mormont had taught her so much about her craft, about what and who she truly wanted to be.

He was setting her free in every way that counted.

“But –“ Jorah trailed, still looking around.

She smiled and slowly let her coat slide off on the floor, revealing the dress that Missandei had brought her that afternoon, while Jorah shot a scene.

“I’m not that tired.” She shrugged her shoulders, and she loved the reaction the simple pale pink dress was having on the man.

He smiled – and it definitely was not about sex, it had never been, not even in New York.

Jorah had been right the night they had kissed each other for the first time: they needed to be sure – and she was. She didn’t think she had ever been so sure about anything in her life.

“You got me!” Jorah said with a smile. He closed the distance between them and pulled her at him.

She could feel the warmth of his hands through the thin fabric of her dress and she definitely needed to feel more.

She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned, “Not yet, but that’s the plan!”

It was corny and they were both aware of that because they laughed as they hugged.

“Let’s go to bed.” Jorah said.

Four words – and it was Jorah, finally getting into his thick skull that she wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon (or ever, if she could help it), it was what they had done for the past few weeks – being together, faceplanting on their beds after a hard day on set or spending hours making out or chatting.

It was their life, and sex was just part of it.

It turned out, however, that sex was extremely good.

Somehow, Daenerys had had no doubts about it.


 

 

She had known Theon Greyjoy since they were children – she clearly remembered how angry and sullen he had been when he was a teenager. To her, he had always been Sansa’s older brother, not as handsome as Robb but, nonetheless, a childhood friend.

The last things she had expected was to fall in bed with him –

Well, they were young, single out of town, they had been spending a lot of time together. She would start shooting her show soon and Theon worked at home, Sansa was away for most of the day and well, the first time it happened it had been mostly out of boredom.

She wasn’t in love with Theon – and she was reasonably sure that the man wasn’t in love with her. They just had fun in bed and were friends when they didn’t tear each other’s clothes off.

Usually, they didn’t stay in bed, after – at least, not when she was staying at Sansa and Theon’s flat.

“I don’t want to scar my sister for life,” Theon had said.

“Darling, I have known you since you were twelve, I remember the girls you brought home.” She had replied, once. Smiling and thinking that she didn’t know whether she should be offended about the man’s words.

“Point.” Theon had conceded, “Nevertheless, let’s just not – okay?”

So, they usually had sex – which was getting better and better (Theon did things with his fingers and tongue that made her wonder why on Earth he was still single!) and then they each did their thing: Theon edited his tv programmes while listening to directors’ notes and groaning at their memos and she could hardly reconcile the hyper teenager who couldn’t sit still to save his life and the man who patiently watched frame after frame and edited them so seamlessly, she read the scripts and drove him crazy repeating her lines.

“Oh, God, you are even worse than my family! You know the bloody thing, would you shut up?” He shouted from his room as she rehearsed in the living room.

Sometimes, they had dinner with Sansa, sometimes they went out together.

Her grandmother had raised an eyebrow when she had told her; a few years before she would have told her that she could do better than Theon Greyjoy – but she also knew her very well and she knew that Theon was helping her with something very important.

She was aware of the risks, and they were all calculated. She loved her job, she loved her craft, but she would not end up destroyed if things went pear shaped.

Besides, the Starks were finally using their power and clout, therefore when she decided to strike she might not lose her career.

There was something unusual, however, in staying in bed, after they had sex. It felt too intimate.

They had worked almost all day, she hadn’t even opened her script and Theon had used his laptop for their (her) plan – she had noticed his head had been elsewhere, while they had sex.

“It’s my fault,” Theon said, breaking the long spell of silence that had fallen between them.

She turned toward him breaking their embrace and asked, “What is?”

“Joffrey and Sansa.” Theon said and she heard the hitch in his voice as he said those words.

“I was supposed to watch over her. Dad told me not to leave her alone.”

She shook her head. Did he seriously think that?

“You can’t mean it –“ She said.

“She was just a kid and I forgot about her!”

She sat on the bed crossing her arms over her naked chest and looked at Theon who was looking at the ceiling.

“Theon, look at me!” She said.

She had suspected that guilt was the reason why Theon was helping her bringing Joffrey Baratheon down, she just didn’t expect it to run so deep.

“Greyjoy, look at me!” She repeated.

He did. She had known the man next to her for most of her life, and she didn’t remember ever seeing him looking so miserable, so haunted; she remembered when Theon went through a phase where he wanted to know more about his biological family and how sad and angry, he had been at the time.

That was different; even during the worst of identity crisis when he was a teenager, Sansa had still been his sister, whom he teased but loved beyond reason.

“How could you know?” She asked, “You had just won an award – you couldn’t –“

“She is my sister, and I let her down.”

“Did you know about Joffrey?” She asked.

“No – I mean, I knew he was an arsehole, but I know plenty of actors who are arseholes on set, but are pretty decent with their partners. They don’t beat the shit out of them because they are bored!”

She blinked once and again, Theon’s eyes were boring into hers, now. It felt like the words had been ripped out of his chest.

“Did he – “ She was trying to find the right words, but there weren’t any, not really.

“Did he? Oh, yes, he fucking did. The only reason the prick is still alive is that Sansa begged Robb and me not to do anything stupid – like ripping his balls off and feeding them to him.“

“Do your parents know?” She asked.

Theon nodded, “We told dad after the twitter thing, but he already knew – and it’s my fault, I saw Cersei and the little shit walking toward Sansa and I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t – it’s not your fault! What is it with you Starks and self-blaming? Sansa blames herself for the ‘hassle’ she caused to production,” she said making air quotes, “she blames herself for Joffrey’s tweets and now, you! What’s your bloody problem?”

“I’m not a Stark.” Theon said.

“Trust me, Greyjoy, you are! And you are an idiot! You were a kid yourself, and you are seeing how good the Lannisters are at covering up their shit, how could you know?”

“I should have protected her, I will never --” Theon trailed and got up from the bed, not finishing his sentence.

Oh, bloody hell… she thought.

“I’m one of her closest friends, and I didn’t know – I’ve been talking to people, to women for weeks and I never connected the dots,” she said.

Theon slowed down his movements, he had put on his trousers but was holding a shirt in his hands.

“She blames herself.” He said.

“A family trait, apparently.” She said, she got up from the bed and  quickly put on a shirt; that was not the sort of conversation one could have naked, she also realised that they were leaving the fuck buddies territory, but she would think about that later, first she had to make Theon see some reason.

“Joffrey Baratheon is the only one who deserves blame here, not you, not your sister!” She said.

Theon scoffed, “That’s genius, I have never considered that! Tell it to my sister the next time she has a nightmare or has a panic attack when she is in a car with me!”

He wasn’t making any sense. Panic attacks? She realised Sansa was very good at hiding her feelings but, perhaps, she should have paid more attention to her.

She was relieved when Theon didn’t avoid her touch. There was nothing sexual in it, but she didn’t want a good man to feel so guilty for something he was not responsible of.

“Please, Theon – stop this! It won’t help Sansa and it will drive you crazy!”

“Already there, sweetheart.” Theon said and gave her a smile.

“She dumped him – and we will bring him down, I swear!”

“I don’t know what he did to make her finally dump him. I’m not sure I want to know.” He said after a moment.

He looked – younger and heartbroken and as he hugged him, she realised two things: she was not in love with Theon and their fling had to end, but she realised just how much Theon wanted to bring Joffrey down, especially when he said, “You should talk to Daenerys Stormborn – coordinate with her, she’s got her own plans, you know?”

She nodded, while still hugging him.

He was right, and he surprised her once again when he kissed her cheek and said, “I guess this conversation has just killed my chances to have sex again with you -”

“Let’s get decent – Sansa will be home soon,”

Theon smiled and broke their embrace, “One day you will tell me why you are doing this. The real reason.”

“Someone has to –“ She replied.

It was a lie, but Theon accepted it.

 


 

 

Second Week of Shooting:

 

Joffrey Baratheon’s Statement first published on his Twitter and Instagram Accounts.

 

I want to address the recent events prompted by two tweets I wrote a few weeks ago. I realised that I should have intervened sooner and clarify that my tweets were nothing more than a joke. It was not tasteful and I deeply regret what I have written. One thing, however, is true: the label of nepotism has accompanied me since I was a child, therefore I sincerely think Sansa Stark did not get the titular role in Good Queen Alysanne because of her surname.

I also regret the media storm that my tweets caused and how different media outlets have taken words I said out of context thus magnifying what, at its core, was a bad joke.

I apologise to Jon Snow, a promising, extremely talented director whose moral integrity is well known in our business.

I apologise to the cast and crew of “Good Queen Alysanne” for the hassle my bad jokes caused.

Now I am aware of the extent of the impact of my actions and the power words wield on social media and how much they can hurt people in real life.

The hardest regret to live with is what you have done to hurt someone else and I can hardly wrap my head around what was borne as a joke caused to people I love and admire.

I have spent my career trying to set an example for men and women of my generation and I have failed, for this I apologise and I invite my fans to acknowledge my mistake and move on from the constant harassment online of both Sansa and Jon.

I will now take a step back from social media and try and learn from my mistake. Thank you for reading.

 

Joffrey Baratheon.

 


 

From Twitter:

 

@TlannisterforReal: our second week of shooting is underway and we made it, lads: @DanyStormborn4Real, #JorahMormont #SansaStark and I finally convinced our immensely talented (and pain in the arse) director to join Twitter! Go and say hello to @JonSnowVA , be gentle and don’t tell him it was me who tattled him out! 😉 #GoodQueenAlysanne

 

*

 

@JonSnowVA: it’s not me you have to apologise to. It’s not me you hurt.

 

 

Notes:

Cathelyn vs Catherine - they're not typos, there is a reason for that.
Also, there's a reason for the lack of smut between Dany and Jorah, which will become clear down the line.

Chapter 10: X Marks the spot part 1

Summary:

the consequences of Joffrey's apology. The shooting of Good Queen Alysanne goes on and Jon discovers a few things about Sansa.
Also, there is sex. Dany and Jorah have sex.

Notes:

My apologies *bows head in shame* I've been terrible at updating, but writing has had to wait because of real life issues. Also, season 8 of game of thrones broke my heart in a trillion of pieces and I'm still picking them up.
This is the first of, hopefully, lots of updates.
I want to thank you all the people who have left kudos and comments asking me to go on with the story.
I will finish it, I already the story all mapped out, so all I need is time

Chapter Text

From Twitter

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @JonSnowVA so immensely proud of you #miboineverdisappoints #yourfavewillnever

 

@ASansaStark345: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar proud of what exactly? Ur boy is kinda pathetic rn #urfaveisstupid #posseipower

 

@joffreybaratheonismyKing: @JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic: you didn’t have to. People clutch their pearls way too easily #trashpeoplearetrash

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @ASansaStark345 @joffreybaratheonismyKing: if you don’t get it, you don’t. You’re hopeless and it’s scary irl to think about it. #beingdecentisnotpathetic

 

@itkTGQA: @joffreybaratheonismyKing : oh, yes, he had to – and it’s also too little too late, I think.

 

@sansaisagoddess: @itkTGQA @joffreybaratheonismyKing @JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic: It's not difficult, it takes six words: “sorry, Sansa, I was an asshole.” And he couldn’t even bother #kingoftrash

 

@itkTGQA: @sansaisagoddess: believe me, people are very much aware of that.

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: can paparazzi and leeches leave them alone now? They’re sort of working!

 

@itkTGQA: I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.

 


 

From Twitter: Groupchat #jonsa

 

fireandice456: what the fuck was that statement? I mean – I get the bad breakup, I get that he is an asshole, but how stupid can one be? Seriously, I can’t even –

 

snowismyfire: well, didn’t the itk told us something like that was coming, but not that.  I think they’re shocked that Joffrey did not really apologise to Sansa. The asshole apologised to Jon Snow because he’s hot stuff right now, but he ignored Sansa. WTEF? Anyway, I dmed them earlier, since they were online, but they haven’t replied yet.

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: can we talk about Jon’s tweet? I mean, I honest to God got tears in my eyes when I read it.

 

sansastarkGQA: let’s. You’re not the only one. I’ve been digging and asking questions around– and everyone who’s been anywhere near that set is saying the same thing: Jon is very, very protective of Sansa. Still, that tweet. My God. 

 

snowismyfire: as if the “fuck off” to the paparazzi didn’t make it very clear lol. Anyway, shall we talk about the elephant in the room? I can’t be the only one thinking that Jon is going above and beyond the line of duty here. Also, to change the subject the itk told me something about a photoshoot, at this point, I tend to think it’s legit. Can you imagine Jon and Sansa posing together? #evaporates

 

jornaerysownsme: well, @snowismyfire: duh! No one has said it and it brings back memories of when Dany and Jorah first worked together and no one said it aloud either, not even in closed chats  – but yeah, he’s definitely  going above and beyond the line of duty.

 

fireandice456: I’m not the resident expert on all things Jon Snow, but his tweet. Goddamn, I got chills when I read it! And c'mom, everyone knows he was sending a message to the douchebag there! The only reason he didn’t tag him is, I think, because he didn’t want to drag Sansa into a twitter feud.

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  lol I am the resident expert here, and you’ve got to understand this about Jon Snow: he hates talking about himself – if you watch his interviews you can see that it’s like pulling teeth for him. Fans knew he had broken up with Ygritte because *she* got tired of the questions and told people to bugger off. This tweet is like – idk, but I have never seen him like that. I’m shook. For real.

 

snowismyfire: what should I ask to the ITK anyway? Asking them if Jon and Sansa are together would not go over well. By the way, do we think they’re together? Also, I don’t think we need to ask anything about Dany and Jorah, I mean, we all have eyes, don’t we?

 


 

 

From: Melisandre Gossip: Celebrity Gossip, News, Photos, Rumours.

 

Apologies done wrong.

 

It was frankly disconcerting to go through Joffrey Baratheon’s statement: clearly, it was something that was carefully crafted, but whoever did this – or had the final say about it, forgot to notice that Mr. Baratheon skipped one apology that was due: the one to Sansa Stark.

I may not be Sansa Stark’s biggest fan and I still believe that a more experienced actress should have been hired to play the titular role in Good Queen Alysanne and it had got quite tiresome to write about her day in and day out when she was engaged to Mr. Baratheon.

  A young actress sleeping with her director to get the part is not exactly news worthy; the whole cast of the movie said actress and director are shooting coming to their defense and half of town joining the ranks is the news, here.

The apology that never was is yet another piece of the puzzle: Joffrey might want to reconsider his actions and words, for real.

But what are you thinking about Jon Snow’s reaction to Baratheon’s statement?  Asking for a friend.

 

*

 

Second Week of Shooting.

 

Tormund was a bastard.

No, he wasn’t, not really – he just knew him very well, so he had trapped him.

It had begun with a text about an idea he had had: a nice visit to set, some good footage to show around to let people know how hard they were working to make a decent movie, despite the rumours, the press and bloody Joffrey Baratheon.

Tyrion had said it was a good idea, even Baelish had agreed which didn’t happen very often, lately.

He should have known –

He should have known that the first words he would tell him on skype would be: “Have you lost your fucking marbles?”

And since Tormund knew him very well, a little too well,  - or he had become bloody transparent - he had flipped him off when he had played dumb and told him he had no idea of what he was talking about. He also strongly suspected that Tormund had made screenshots of his face for posterity, he knew he would never, ever live it down.

“That was subtle, mate, why didn’t you go to Ellen while you were at it?” Tormund had said.

So, he might have said that he might or might not have seen red when he was showed Baratheon’s apology to set.

He might also have smashed the tablet of Brienne’s PA against a wall. Poor Podrick, he was a nice guy, he didn’t deserve it.

And Tormund might – who was he kidding? He had facepalmed and he was pretty sure that he had mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “fucking hopeless!”

That had happened an hour earlier. He hoped that Tormund at least still believed that Sansa and him were not shagging.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not fucked, mate!” Tormund had said at one point.

Truer words were never spoken.

Oberyn Martell was working his magic and chewing xanaxs as if they were candy and Daenerys had given him what he secretly called “The Stare” that morning and she had spent her lunch break in Tyrion’s office.

Just the two of them.

Fucked? Yes, why, he was!

He did not regret that – he didn’t even care about how his popularity online had skyrocketed apparently; he was a director, he was not a fucking superstar!

“How will it affect Sansa?” He asked. He had meant to ask Tormund since the very beginning.

Tormund arched his eyebrows, “What about your career and reputation?”

He shrugged, “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself!”

The redhead let out a snort and said, “Let’s think about the both of you, you still have to fucking finish the movie, aren’t you? I’ll get in touch with Martell  and  I’ll tell you how much you’re fucked when I’m on set at the end of the month!”

“Oh, joy,” He replied.

“Meanwhile, try not to break the internet again, please?” Tormund said ignoring his comment.

He was right, of course. He didn’t want to break the internet, he just wanted to finish his movie and – possibly, after, ask Sansa out for a coffee and a chat.

If he survived.

 


 

Daenerys had told him to stay in the hotel, to get some rest – or catch up with all the e-mails that were waiting for him and that he had been steadily ignoring for weeks; but the truth was that he got bored almost to tears while not working: therefore, he had indulged his partner – they had settled on that very neutral term for that moment – and he had overslept a little, he had caught up on his e-mails, most of which were from his managers, a few from his young cousin, and even some from Tyrion, which were about stuff they had already discussed in person and then had taken a cab and gone on set. His presence wasn’t required in the morning and Jon had had an uncharacteristic moment of kindness the day before and told him that an A.D. would feed Dany her lines.

As if.

He wasn’t surprised to see other people on set who weren’t even supposed to be there: Jon might still be an absolute pain in the arse, but Sansa, Dany and him as the leads (it was truly a matter of semantics at that point) had tried their best to make the set a nice place to work in. It was working. 

Of course, Jaime Lannister’s almost constant presence on set was something he still couldn’t wrap his head around, even though it was usually fun to watch Brienne and him bicker. Jaime, however, was not on set when he arrived.

When he had arrived on set Daario was feeding lines to Sansa – Jon’s kindness had not extended to the younger actor – and he saw other supporting actors on their chairs, watching the scene being played.

He saw Davos chatting with one of the A.Ds about the scene; since it took place inside Anne’s mind, Jon wanted the scenes to be different, without using any cheesy effects, therefore Davos had come up with manual alternatives, old school tricks that gave those scenes a starker feeling to them; it had been Jon’s idea that the viewer should share what Anne’s abilities felt like and that it had to be clear that it wasn’t pretty and dream-like.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult scene, but Dany had texted him during breaks earlier and she had told them that Jon had been in a sour mood

 

I swear I will hire someone to dislodge the stick from his arse. Or I’ll bloody do it myself!

 

 Dany was right: Jon was in a bad mood – and although he was always extremely professional, they had been spending far too much time together for them not to notice when the cracks in the façade appeared.

Jon was a professional but, apparently, the muscles of his jaws couldn’t help twitching whenever Daario and Sansa had emotional scenes together – which was happening a lot; the two young actors had been working very hard on their chemistry since the read through, they were doing their best to make their scenes together believable, to convey with every touch, gesture and look the depth of the legendary bond between King Jhaerys and Queen Alysanne Targaryen; Tyrion had researched for years and as a result he had written a script that was unlike any the many stage or film adaptations about the two sovereigns.

Sansa and Daario were doing a remarkable job, but it was a badly kept secret that Jon was a tad bit too possessive of Sansa and it showed.

They were all working long hours, everyone was striving to do their best – but Petyr Baelish was the other reason for Jon’s bad mood: the producer was thirsty for success. Not only did Baelish need the movie to be a commercial success, he also needed it to be paraded around during Award Season (which had caused collective groans, with Brienne swearing she would slit the man’s throat if she had to go through another award season circus for him) and which wouldn’t be an also run, that meant that he was starting to show an active interest in the movie and he was coming up with all kinds of ludicrous ideas to which Jon politely nodded to and then disregarded, usually with Tyrion’s help.

Generally speaking, however, they were lucky: they had an excellent crew made, for the most part, by good people who were taking in stride Jon’s moods, Baelish’s obsession with success, Jaimie Lannister’s comments often made within Brienne’s earshot and even the fact that two of the leads were together and were friends with the screenwriter.

Extras, however, were another matter. So far, they had been lucky – but he saw it the moment he laid his eyes on the scene they were now shooting, noticing that Tyrion as well, was looking at the same man, that they had just run out of luck. 

It was like a train-wreck when it happened; he couldn’t tear his eyes off the scene. To be fair, it wasn’t even Sansa’s fault, it started when Dolores Edd, who played the Lord Commander fumbled a line, which was a tongue-twister in itself. Edd recovered quickly and, to their credit, Daario, Sansa and Dany remained impassable, even though he could hear muffled giggling from some members of the crew who, just like him, remembered how that line had been a pain in the arse even during rehearsals and how much profanity Edd had snuck into it at one point. Edd didn’t even wait for Jon to tell them they were still rolling, they all resumed their mark and the man said his lines again.

And then Sansa missed her mark, tripped on a steep and bumped into an extra (the one who had been sending daggers with his eyes at her since he had come to set) and they both sprawled to the floor.

Sansa was not a clumsy person, not by any stretch of the imagination, she was always graceful in her movements and she usually had tight control over her body language – she had simply tried not to burst out laughing and forgotten to kick her gown as she climbed down the stairs.

Usually, they would all laugh, check whether she was okay and go on with the scene.

Not that day, apparently. Sansa apologized to the man while still giggling, but he roughly pulled her up and then, the idiot, who apparently was either high or was in it just for the quick money and not because he actually wanted to have a career in the business insulted her, repeatedly.

The worst thing was that it was just a reiteration of what at one point or another, they had all heard screamed at Sansa by paparazzi in the first few days after Baratheon made an arse of himself on Twitter.

The extra didn’t seem to realise that all eyes were on him and he could kiss his acting career goodbye, he didn’t even realise that Jon Snow, who was already in a sour mood, didn’t even say cut (thankfully, Dandarion did and Brienne looked ready to axe murder whoever dared to touch their mobile phones) and strode toward them.

Jon was, even in his prissiest mood, a quiet man – he was a good person, he trusted him not to fuck up the movie that could mean the resurgence of both Dany’s career and his, he trusted his vision for it, but, more than that, he trusted his heart – because it was clear that the kid had a good one.

He was also impulsive and Sansa Stark was clearly his weak spot; oh, he was protective of all his cast and crew members, but he was reasonably sure he wasn’t in love with any of them – just with Sansa.

 “And here it comes –“ He heard Tyrion say beside him. He looked at his friend, who was watching the scene and saw how Jon barely refrained himself from punching the man. It truly was the last thing they needed at the moment!

“Thank God! The unions would have my balls if he punched the little cunt.” Tyrion said under his breath and Jorah wondered when, exactly, the two of them had developed a telepathic bond. He decided that he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Jon might not have punched the man, who genuinely looked like he didn’t understand that he had insulted the leading lady of a movie, had pissed off the director and was making them all waste time and money.   

 Jon, who had just joined Twitter, just to publicly let Joffrey Baratheon and his mother know where they could stick their parboiled apology, who had violated Oberyn’s cardinal rule not to interact with paparazzi when he had told one of them to fuck off, hence becoming internet’s newest boyfriend, was now seething with anger as he demanded that the moron apologises to Sansa.

Said young moron was finally realizing that he had made a huge, life-altering mistake and he was trying now to explain himself, stammering apologies to everyone, saying that he had not meant what he had said, that he had just reacted badly.

“Get the fuck out of my set. Now!” Was Jon 's only reply.

It might have gotten even uglier, if Dany and Daario hadn’t intervened: Dany made wide gestures with her arms to Brienne, Daario went next to Jon and for a moment he was positive that their director would deck their leading man and Oberyn Martell would probably have a coronary attack.

It didn’t happen, he didn’t even know what Daario whispered in Jon’s ear, but their director stepped back, growled that the extra was fired and called a pause.

“And there he goes –“ Tyrion said.

Sansa, still in costume, with her microphone still on, strode behind Jon.

“Nope, still going,” Tyrion said and he was absurdly glad that Jaimie was not on set. His remarks would not go over well. Jon Snow looked positively dangerous at the moment.

Jon and Sansa had been civil toward each other since the shooting had begun; he doubted there was even one person on set who had missed the way they looked at each other and how they did their best to avoid each other whenever it wasn’t strictly necessary for them to interact.

It was becoming more and more clear that there was something off between them and it had been going on for a while, but that was a first – Sansa wasn't pretending that she didn't notice Jon being overprotective toward her, he could hear her, well...everyone could, even if she was hissing her words.

“What was that?” He heard her asking.

Jon huffed a breath and looked at her.

The kid was so utterly buggered!

His voice was sharp, however, in direct contrast with the soft, wistful look in his eyes when he replied, “I'm just doing my job!”

He wasn’t wrong, technically speaking, but whoever had spent more than five minutes on set knew that he was talking out of his arse.

And Sansa, who reminded him a lot of Cat, but was Ned’s daughter through and through said, “Were you?”

Jon Snow wore his heart on his sleeve as far as his leading lady was concerned; he had been doing so almost since day one but, apparently, the only person who was oblivious of that was Sansa herself.

“I’m doing what I should have done since the beginning – if I had…”

Sansa shook her head, interrupting him mid-sentence and said, “No one can protect me!”

Neither of them seemed aware of that fact that they were being observed: they had locked gazes  and Jon looked like he strongly and vehemently disagreed with what Sansa had just said.

It was Sansa the first who looked away – if she noticed the rubbish job they were all doing in pretending not to overhear their conversation, she didn’t show; she just stalked away, looking every bit as regal as the queen she was playing.

Jon, on the other hand, looked like had been just gutted by her words.

He ignored everyone and stalked away in Sansa’s opposite direction.

“What a mess –“ Tyrion sighed.

That was an understatement.

“What the hell happened between them?” He asked. Someone had to and even if he hated prying, he supposed that could be seen as an exception since Jon and Sansa hadn’t exactly been subtle a few moments before.

“No idea,” Tyrion said. He knew Tyrion, he had played poker with the man, but unlike Oberyn Martell he had made a living out of studying human nature and people’s body language.

Tyrion was hiding something. Perhaps, he didn’t know the specifics, and it didn’t exactly take a genius to understand that there were strong feelings between Jon and Sansa.

“Truly, I don’t,” Tyrion said, looking at him.

The look in the man’s green eyes told him that even if he knew something, he wouldn’t share it.

He crossed his arms over his chest and spared a look at Dany who was chatting with Daario, Brienne and Baeric.

“Who told Dany about Varys?” He asked after a moment.

He had rubbish timing, he was aware – he spent a lot of time with Tyrion offset, but usually, they weren’t alone.

Tyrion looked at him, his: “what the fuck, mate?” although not spoken was plainly written on the man’s face.

“Not me,” He said, after a moment. He wasn’t lying that time, he wasn’t hiding anything. He was quite sure about it.

 Daenerys wasn’t ever supposed to find out about what had happened during his divorce – she wasn’t ever supposed to connect the dots.

She was putting herself at risk because of what he had done and she was using the person who had used them at the time and he was afraid for her.  

“I mean it, mate,” Tyrion said, “You asked me to help you protect her, remember?”

Yet, Dany had connected the dots. Perhaps, she didn’t know the specifics, she didn’t know about how good Varys had been at blackmailing him into willingly submitting himself into a smear campaign, but she knew enough that she had chosen him, of all people, to break the wheel.

Who told her?

 


 

From the website: Blind Gossip: The #1 Blind Item Site in The World

 

The Good Director and His Leading Lady.

 

This is a two part blind item:

 

 

A good director makes his set a safe place for actors and crew to work in, that’s the general consensus in the industry. This particular young director might be taking the role too seriously; rumours are flowing in about how he is overly protective of his young, beautiful leading lady, to the point where he has fired crew members and extras for their behaviour toward her.  

I wonder what would happen if the director met his leading lady’s very famous ex significant other; their break up was far from amicable and sources close to the former couple implied more than once that the real reason behind the break up is far more sinister that it’s been let on.

It would be far easier if the director and his leading lady were lovers, as it’s been implied initially.

They are not, however. The good director and his good leading lady are far too professional to have an affair while filming.

Or so I’ve heard.

 

Director:

Actress:

Former significant other:

 


 

Third Week of Shooting:

 

 

A small part of her had been sure, positive even, that the undercurrent between Jorah and her, the one that they had both tried not to acknowledge – would fade once they had regular, mind-blowing sex.

She hated the word chemistry, it made her either think about school or humiliating screen tests and meetings with sleazy directors and producers.

That same small part of her had also thought before she got together with Jorah that, perhaps, she had magnified her attraction for a man who was twice her age because they had been both decent people when they had first worked together and had not given into temptation. A small part of her had also thought that what Jorah and she had felt the first time they had worked together and later during the read-through for Good Queen Alysanne could fizzle out and die even before they had sex.

 Physical attraction was not what kept a relationship going, that much she knew from experience. After all, with Drogo, even at the very end, when their marriage was unceremoniously sinking, lack of attraction had never been a problem between them.

But –-

But those parts of her had been very, spectacularly wrong!

No, sexual tension, apparently, didn’t fizzle out after having sex with Jorah!

Second, Drogo and Jorah were two very different people!

Third, she was a different person! And she was also an idiot!

The crux of the matter, however, was that she had been staring at her lover/partner for minutes like a love-struck girl, imagining all the things she would love to do to him – and all the things those hands and that, oh so talented mouth, could do to her. Being a professional had taken a nosedive, apparently.

And they were on set!

When they had first worked together, there had been a lot of sublimation on both their parts, as she had recently found out – the fact that their characters could never touch each other had helped, in some way. She wondered, for a moment, how things would have turned out for them if they had played Professor Reid and Anne, three years before.

Also, Jorah in a suit, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his elbows would probably be the death of her.

She couldn’t tear her eyes off of him, not even as they were prepping the scene, and it didn’t help that there was also a tiny bit of character bleed thrown in it, since part of Anne’s unravelling state of mind was due to her attraction toward a man who was frankly a douchebag obsessed with another (very dead) woman.

They weren’t even shooting a sex scene, that would have been better, it would have killed the mood: choreography, lights, mental gymnastics to try and remember where all the bloody cameras were supposed to be would have helped her focus.

No. it was a dialogue filled scene – one where Reid’s obsession with Queen Alysanne was fuelled by Anne’s words and the boundaries between them became more and more fucked up.

They also had been among the lucky ones who had been spared from the ten days from hell aka the shooting of the siege at the castle: the rest of the cast was miserable, running colds and Jon’s mood had taken a nosedive for the worse, last she had heard.

And yet, she wanted that scene to be done with so she could shag her partner senseless!

 

He didn’t scoop her in his arms, even she knew from experience that he could. People didn’t know, didn’t realize how strong Jorah truly was, inside and out.

He looked at her, and his knuckles brushed the fabric of her dress, his hands were warm, and yet she shivered, goosebumps appeared on her skin.

It was anticipation.

“Let’s go to bed,” He said.

Neither of them moved, however, and all she wanted was  to have Jorah out of his clothes.

Apparently, he had had the same idea, except that he was swifter than her and, to be fair, she was wearing far fewer clothes than him.

 

Jorah Mormont had strong hands; she knew that – they could also be gentle, capable. And yes, she was waxing poetry over her boyfriend (sod neutral terms, she was horny!) while Baeric Dandarion was explaining them the scene – they were on location, with the second unit and truly, why couldn’t she stop staring at Jorah’s hands and lips? Why couldn’t she focus on what Baeric was saying? Come to think of it, why couldn’t they shoot the bloody thing already? They knew the scene, they had rehearsed it within an inch of its life, they had even tried switching characters once, they had built the backgrounds of their characters together from scratch, for goodness sake!

However, since she was a professional, she was just nodding at the right times, but she wasn’t truly listening to a word he was saying.

Jorah was definitely too close.

 

She wasn’t exactly shy: millions of people had seen her naked breasts when she was barely legal in her first starring role, she had done some photo-shoots that hadn’t been exactly chaste in nature, and it wasn’t like Jorah and she had been bloody monks since they had kissed each other in another hotel room two weeks before.

And yet, she was blushing, standing naked in front of him, which was stupid, especially when Jorah kissed her forehead. It was supposed to be a chaste gesture, but she felt her heart drumming in her chest.

They twined fingers as they walked to the bedroom.

And he was still wearing far too many clothes!

 

She was standing next to Jorah as their stand-ins took their places to check the lighting and the blocking. She was grateful for the makeup she was wearing because she was blushing and Jorah was either blissfully unaware of that fact that his co-star was having impure thoughts about him or he was aware and he was getting a kick out of it.

Jorah Mormont was such a good actor that she genuinely had no clue about what was going on.

And then he smiled at her and she knew.

He was aware.

Fine, then: two could play the same game.

 

He chuckled – an honest to God chuckle – against her naked skin as she all but ripped his shirt open, once he had taken off his coat and jumper.

Here she was naked in her bedroom – theirs – and it had been two long weeks and, before that, all the time they had spent together side by side, barely touching but yearning so much and she needed him out of those clothes, she needed to touch his skin, to taste him, to drink and breath him in.

Jorah was a patient man and even though she could feel how much he wanted her; he was acting as if he was in no hurry.

And she knew it wasn’t really an act, he might drive her to distraction with his mouth, his tongue and his hands before making love.

He kissed her and she caught a glimpse of hunger, pure lust in his eyes that betrayed his calm demeanour.

They walked backwards to the bed, still kissing, and she was past the point of caring about how in synch they were, it was a given that they would follow each other blindly.

They tumbled down on the bed and Jorah rolled them over so that she was on top of him.

She grinned and he did the same.

 

He was a bloody robot! Or he truly was the most disciplined thespian she had ever met!

And he knew! She had caught the knowing glances he had given her, not only was he aware that her mind was elsewhere, but he also knew where it was and was doing his best to drive her crazy!

They weren’t talking, they didn’t truly need to – besides, even though they weren’t exactly keeping their relationship a secret there were already too many not so blind items on gossip columns about them, they didn’t need to feed the Gossip Gods more.

The silence, however, didn’t mean that they weren’t playing – because they were. They were teasing each other while playing their characters and she expected Baeric to call cut any second now because Jorah was playing dirty!

 

They had been there before, in the same exact position, with more clothes on, and they had already had the conversation about safe sex.

“I’ve been a bloody monk for years!” Jorah had said.

“I’m clean and I’m always on the pill when I shoot a movie” She had replied.

She had felt Jorah’s hands on her hips, guiding her – just like he was doing now, except that it was really happening: Jorah’s back was against the headboard, he was drawing patterns with the pads of his fingers on her sides and she loved the feeling of their bodies pressed together, how well they fit.

“So,” Jorah said, “what’s your cunning plan, Miss Stormborn?”

And there – she heard the cracks in his façade, could clearly see the arousal in his eyes and feel how much he was striving not to thrust up with his hips.

She kissed him, languidly, open-mouthed, his left hand was at the nape of her neck to angle the kiss so that it became deeper and deeper and she was dimly aware that the only lights in the room came from the bathroom, and it was perfect just like that.

She was sure that there would be times when they were going to make love in broad daylight – she wanted so badly to see and count all the freckles on his body, but that night was theirs alone, within the half darkness surrounding them, in their home away from home, while the snow was starting to fall outside.

And yet –

Her skin felt like it was burning up, her core was throbbing with anticipation.

 

Dandarion was not calling cut – and part of her had noticed that Brienne was not on set even though she was supposed to, she was supposed to be with the second unit that day.

And weirdly enough, Bronn, of all people, was there without Tyrion, which was not only unusual but, for some reason she couldn’t name, worrying.

They went on – they knew their marks; they knew where each and every camera was placed; their scripts were filled to the brim with notes and stage directions. They knew every line, every beat, every pause in their scenes.

Jorah and she had talked at length about the subtext between their characters  -- but they were playing a different game now, stretching their characters and the scene in ways they had not anticipated, and since neither Jon nor Tyrion were there to stop them, they could do whatever they wanted with it.

And boy, were they!

It was almost like role-playing: she was Daenerys Stormborn, using the lines Tyrion Lannister had written, fraught with layers upon layers of deep meaning and subtext, using them to tease the man she loved.

Jorah Mormont was the kindest, most loyal man she had ever met -- he was also bloody good at playing, apparently; he was driving her crazy just using Professor Reid's words and gestures to tease her back.

They were experimenting with their lines, grabbing each other up before either of them could lose their momentum.

She liked the glint in Jorah's eyes, she liked how they were staying in character despite it all. It was crazy, the craziest thing she had ever done in her career.  

No one was calling cut, though.

"What are you doing?" Professor Reid asked, and it was the character asking that question and moving forward, but the hitch in the man 's voice was all Jorah.

She recognized the man she loved in the way he was touching her, how he was curling his fingers around her waist, how he was pulling her at him.

That was not the first time they played, she realized, they had done that in New York, three years before, and even recently, during rehearsal, but that was completely different... How much could they get away with before Dandarion finally called cut?

She knew how many scenes they still had to shoot together, and how some of them were meant to highlight their on-screen chemistry, but she was starting to think that Jorah and she would have to work harder at them to recalibrate the tension because they were setting up the bar incredibly high.

 

She loved him, loved to feel him inside of her, she loved to taste him on her lips and tongue.

She loved how he was touching her, how his hands were trailing up and down her body, as she rocked her hips as they set up a rhythm.

Not surprisingly, they met halfway.

 

Baeric didn't call cut during her coverage of the scene -- she thought he would say something, during the small pause while they set up her blocking, she expected him to tell them to tone it down a little, but he didn't. He looked concerned, but, apparently, not with what they were doing.

Meanwhile, she could feel perspiration trailing down her back, and when she looked at Jorah, she immediately recognized the look in his eyes: there was lust, of course, but also a hint of amusement.

He was having fun! And maybe she might be horny (no buts, bloody hell, she was!), but she was having fun too!

In the end, Baeric never called cut, whatever his other concerns were, he was not stupid though, he knew exactly what was going on, what they had been doing, but they were running on a very tight schedule and, apparently, despite it all, they had not cocked things up completely.

They were done, they had to head back to set, but Baeric smirked when he told them to take a long lunch break.

She exchanged a long glance with Jorah: they were still on their marks, still wearing their costumes and she immediately noticed how both of them were being careful not to touch the other and she experienced a moment of deja vu, it felt like when they were in New York: the space between them was bursting with energy and she genuinely thought that touching at that moment would not go over well.

“I will show you the dailies later!” Baeric said.

There was a long pause – or maybe time had decided to tease her as well – and then the man nodded, dismissing them.

“You might want to take those microphones out!” Baeric called after them as they were leaving (no, they were not sprinting away.), she turned and saw how the man was smirking.

Yep. He knew. And probably they would never live it down!

But Jorah, her Jorah, smirked back at the man and said, “Good idea, mate!”

And yes, they finally sprinted toward her trailer (it was the closest) not twining hands, not saying a word.

They didn’t need words.

Also – how long could a lunch break be?

And to be completely honest, she didn’t really care whether the second unit knew that they were (hopefully) going to shag each other silly during their lunch break.

They didn’t have much time and her priorities were definitely elsewhere!

Her trailer was the closest, besides, they had never minded whose trailer or hotel room they were using. Part of her couldn’t keep noticing how careful they were not to touch each other on the way to her trailer, and it felt like it was taking forever to get rid of the microphones and she resolutely refused to look at Jorah while they were doing it.

Well, okay, perhaps she took a peek at his chest through the unbuttoned shirt – she was human!

 

Jorah’s hands were on her breasts, she looped an arm around his shoulders to brace herself.

Harder, faster, pleasure that was building up in her body, silencing everything around them, except the sounds they were making: skin against skin, moans that neither of them could or wanted to suppress

 

They were still wearing their costumes when they got inside their trailer, they were very pretty, but they did absolutely nothing to protect them from the biting cold in Belfast.

Not that she felt cold. At all!

 She really hoped that the wardrobe department had some spares of their costumes because she wouldn’t mind wrecking them right now and, considering the way Jorah kissed right after she closed the door, she sincerely doubted he did either.

Speaking of their costumes –Anne’s unravelling state of mind, would come in handy; oh, so soon – and thank every deity, she wasn’t wearing any corset, or bloody trap, like Sansa, usually did on set!

“What,” He breathed against her lips, “the hell,” he kissed her, “were you thinking?” Another deeper kiss didn’t give her the chance to reply.

Well, she could always show him.

 

Lips against lips, as their movements, became more and more urgent.

God – she loved him! She loved the way he tasted!

 

There were still hints of Professor Reid in Jorah – and it felt again as if they were roleplaying a bit. Professor Reid was an obsessed arsehole who put Anne through hell, it was a dysfunctional relationship and Tyrion, during a memorable night out drinking had told her that he had written them as the exact opposite of the relationship he had seen Jorah and her having.

 

Apparently, Jorah had exactly that in mind, he was still playing.

God, he would be the death of her!

 

Her nails were digging in his biceps as he lapped and kissed the crease between her breasts and sucked on her nipples.

 

There would be hickeys and beard burn, later – and she didn’t care.

Jorah was a strong man, she had always known that, and she became suddenly very much aware of how strong he was when he pinned her against the wall, deepening their kiss.   

No foreplay, not that day.

Well, they had been teasing each other for hours, did it count?

Judging by the sound – where the hell did that come from? – he made as he pushed a finger inside her and the one she did after that, the part of her that could still think decided that it had definitely counted.

Oh, yes.

She arched her back, not caring one tiny little bit about the sounds they were making, welcoming the way Jorah held her up as she clasped her thighs around his hips.

“Quiet –“ He hissed, as he walked backwards, carrying her, toward the small sofa nearby.

She gulped.

She could live with that kind of character bleed.

And yet, the look in his eyes was entirely familiar and despite the throbbing, she could feel in her core, and how fast her heart was beating, she couldn’t help kissing him, on the lips, whispering against them, “I love you, you know?”

 She was straddling his lap, now, her naked flesh against him, he was still wearing his trousers and despite the soft look in his eyes at her words, he was firmly holding her waist, not allowing her to seek friction.

She had started that game; it was only fair that he would keep going.

No, it really, really, wasn’t, but she wanted him too much to complain.

In the end, they moved together, to free him from those pesky clothes, in a tangle of limbs, kissing each other’s skin, over and over.

 

Fingers intertwined, her moans hidden in the crook of his neck, the tasty, clean taste of him on her tongue.

 

Another kiss, his hands guiding her hips as he was finally inside of her. How would Professor Reid fuck Anne? There were thoughts, like confetti scattering through her mind.

Pleasure growing, hotter and hotter, she could feel the pad of his fingers tracing patterns on her back before cupping her breasts.

Her hands on his chest, their foreheads pressed together, as they breathed each other’s air, and she could feel how fast Jorah’s heart was beating, in her core and under her palm.

His hand covered her mouth as she couldn’t keep down her moans and she couldn’t help doing the same with him.

 

They were both close – and if it were a novel, or even a movie, they would come at the same time, but she had never experienced it in real life.

 

She could feel her muscles tightening around him – and they were close, there was no finesse in their movements, they might not be making any sounds, but she could hear the ones their bodies were making, she could see the scratches on Jorah’s chest (when did she do that?) and smell them in the trailer

 

She had been wrong, they were coming together, letting out moans and kissing each other over and over as they reached their climax

 

There, she could feel pleasure building, making everything else around her so vivid and she could feel the tension in Jorah’s body, they were both close, and all it took for Jorah was flicking her clit with his thumb for letting it explode, Jorah following her seconds later.

“I love you” He rasped against her skin.

Just – another day on set.

Only later, did she notice the missed calls and texts on her mobile phone.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11: Chapter 10 - Red Tape -

Summary:

In which stuff happens on set, and Cersei makes her move.

Chapter Text

Those sequences would be his death.

What the hell had he been thinking? On paper, it had looked magnificent - the storyboard had been epic, he still remembered how everyone had looked at it with marvel.

Shooting a movie in chronological order, using old tricks, trying not to rely on CGI had looked like a good idea, at first.

Who the fuck did he think he was Stanley Kubrick? Peter Weir? He was not.

The whole sequences of the raid to the castle had taken 10 days to shoot. Ten miserable days under the pouring rain, while shooting at nights, and it had been a logistical nightmare.

No one had complained while they were shooting, which had been a blessing. Not even Daario, who was still running a fever, since he had been the main player of the fights scenes outside.

The fact that Baelish looked giddy with excitement after seeing the dailies and, as Dany had suggested, he was probably already practising his speech to the Academy, only added to his frustration.

Baelish, however, was not on set that day. Every person who was not essential for the shooting was forbidden to be in it, which almost sounded like a joke, considering how they all seemed to live there, recently. It was definitely the most crowded set he had ever worked in. 

He had had the displeasure to have a conversation with Cersei Lannister-Baratheon the week before after he fired the moron who had insulted Sansa.

He had expected the woman to chew his head off for his conduct, but she had been oddly reassuring, telling him that she would smooth things out with the union and to focus on the movie.

“I have seen some dailies, you have a winner on your hands, Jon – don’t fuck it up!” She had said. She had been all smiles – which had been frankly a bit scary. 

No mentions of Sansa, of Joffrey, Tyrion – she had been all business, and he was reminded that not only had she followed in her father and husband’s footsteps, but she had thrived. Nonetheless, it had made him feel uneasy; he had expected to be stabbed in the heart. He still did, to be honest.

 Tyrion had not been surprised by her sister’s behaviour, he later told him that Jaimie had smoothed things over with her before his call. There was also the fact that Joffrey had a movie coming out soon and he truly could not afford any scandal or another flop.

He wasn’t sure why, but he had liked Tyrion’s answer even less than his conversation with his sister.

So, the shooting had continued.

Chronological order: extras who wore costumes which cost more than his first rented flat, the choreographer and master of arms who were constantly on set, reminding actors that real swords were heavy as fuck so they had to look like warriors, not actors who yielded fake swords.

Chronological order: ten days where all the actors, although feeling miserable, had given their all because no one wanted to repeat their scenes more than absolutely necessary. Therefore, they had all done their jobs: sparring in the morning and practising their moves with the stunts coordinator, the pages of their scripts tucked in the back pocket of their trousers.

Davos had done a marvellous job, the photography both in the exterior scenes and on sound stage was pitch-perfect, it was exactly what he had had in mind as he had read the script for the first time.

Ten days of fighting, cursing, slipping in the mud under the rain, spraying fake blood, a lot of it on the extras who spent hours playing dead in the mud had gone by and the material had been good, it had been what he had envisioned, what he

Daario had sort of been a revelation for him in those scenes; he might not resemble King Jhaerys physically, but he had gotten into the man’s headspace and he now moved, talked, fought as a king, a warrior who was giving everything he had to protect his family and his people.

Chronological order: it had been an abysmal idea, Tyrion should have whacked him with a blunt object when he had proposed it.

The men in the throne room were dirty, bloodied, some of them had very real bruises under their armours, Daario had a very real split lip because one actor had really hit him and the man had kept acting even if blood had started to flow in small rivulets on his chin, and his upper lip was now was swollen and slightly bruised.

The enemies had entered the throne room, they had dragged a scared, but determined Alysanne there.

Chronological order: they had dragged Alysanne from the chamber where she had hidden, even though she had wanted to be out there, fighting with her husband, for her husband, without using violence. The queen had followed the men, tolerating that one of them kept his hand on the back of her neck, ignoring the swords pointed at her.

In the script, the only thing Alysanne had in mind was knowing whether her husband was alive, there would be fire and blood, later - but in that moment her heart and soul were only worried about Jhaerys.

Sansa had been exactly what Tyrion had imagined. They had already shot Dany’s coverage of the sequences. She had been next to Daario, drenched in rain and mud.

She had walked alongside Sansa, and in her place.

The actors were tired, even Sansa looked pale, but they were chatting as they set up the lights and the blocking for the scene.

That particular sequence was possibly the most important one for Jhaerys and Alysanne. They would have to shoot some sex scenes, other moments where they would fight and make up, but in that room, in that scene, their love and bond had to shine through.

They had been through that scene a million times: during the read-through, during rehearsals, he had asked the actors to practice it with the stunt coordinator, even though it wasn’t strictly necessary.

Later, he would blame himself: he had been in a piss poor mood for weeks, he was aware of that, and he couldn’t believe it took an intervention from Davos and Brienne to drive home just how much of a pain in the arse he had been. Bloody hell, they had even enlisted Tormund’s help!

“Mate, when Cersei fucking Lannister is the reasonable one, you have to look at your life and your choices!” His friend had told him.

He would blame himself and yet he had checked — and made Brienne double and triple check Sansa’s costume.

Sansa had very strict rules in her contract about nudity; she was the least demanding actress he had worked with, but a couple of scenes and her costumes had had to be rewritten and redone upon her request.

“And…action!” He said.

Two men grabbed each Sansa’s arms. A third actor made his speech as Daario looked: defiance masking fear, love and worry for Sansa in each microexpression of his face.

They had already shot Daario’s coverage, however, but he was still giving his all, reacting to Sansa’s emotions, and he might be a jealous bastard, but Jon Snow the director was happy with what he was seeing.

Jhaerys and Alysanne were soulful, brooding, romantic and passionate

Professor Reid and Anne were both batshit insane, dysfunctional and passionate

Perfect foils for each other.

Ten days — actors who were usually good at what they did, they weren’t completely pants at it; too many hours into their characters’ head space, not all of them could turn it off between takes.

Ten days and accidents could happen: real bruises, real split lips and blood…

But he did not foresee, and he should have, because he knew and because it was his fucking job to make sure that things could not go south with that particular scene.

He had already told all non-essential people to bugger off somewhere else for that scene; he had done everything by the book to make sure the actors (Sansa) could not get distracted and do their thing.

It wasn’t the actors’ fault, he realized that right away: he saw the moment they got carried away, too deep into their characters after ten days of blood and mud. Literally.

He heard the tear in the fabric of Sansa’s dress loud and clear through his headphones.

He saw the men’s face, dirty with fake blood and real mud, their hair matted to their faces, sweat on their cheeks , dirt on their hands, blood under their nails, as they used too much strength, held Sansa too tight, ripped more than they should have as they forced her on her knees in the throne room.

Sansa was wearing a corset underneath her dress, and that was the only thing that was supposed to be seen in the scene, plus part of her cleavage. As per her contract.

There was a moment of utter silence after the actors fucked up and he could not conceivably fire them after ten days of shooting, he could not do a fucking thing because Cersei Lannister-Baratheon would probably feed him his heart if he tried.

He saw Sansa, he saw the panic, blind and heavy, in her eyes and limbs, her blue eyes filling with tears and how she tried hard to blink them away, not to break character because she had been chatting with those men and they had all said how tired they were, how sore and how they wanted a fucking hot shower and some fucking sleep.

He saw the scars on the exposed part of her skin: bite marks, round puckered scars that looked like cigarette burns, but could also be something else - something hot and small.

He felt his legs go numb, his blood boil, making everything red for a second.

He breathed, and heard his own voice, remarkably calm calling cut.

 Cut.

There were those too on Sansa’s collarbone: faint scars that he had never noticed until then.

Fuck.

He coudn’t punch the actors, he couldn’t fire them after ten days of shooting and all the money that had been spent on those scenes. He couldn’t do a goddamn thing.

He looked at Brienne, his voice still calm when he told her that they would need NDAs within the hour.

The blonde woman nodded and she was the one who approached the actors, together with her P.A., they would be escorted to the makeup trailer where some minion of the executives would make them signs the NDAs.

Everyone would have to sign them, he decided, and Baelish could go and sod himself before he let what everyone had seen ever be known outside that sound-stage.

He didn’t even get close to Sansa, he couldn’t do that, not in that moment. He couldn’t lose it, and couldn’t afford the luxury of being decent, of caring.

Daario did. It was Daario Naris who approached her, while the other actors were exchanging puzzled glances, with Brienne towering over them, ready to intervene.

  It was Daario, not him, who helped Sansa up, and fucking gave her his cloak to cover her bare shoulders and arms, like a fucking knight in a fucking shining armour!

Sansa was trembling. Sansa had scars on her skin. He had seen them all because he had eye for details and he wanted to fucking murder Joffrey Baratheon.

They were apologising to Sansa, they had all seen what he had seen, none of them was mentioning it, but they looked mortified.

He looked at Daario who was standing next to Sansa and, in that moment, the tall man truly looked the part of the knight in shining armour, who had not seen it coming and, unlike him, did not know about Joffrey.

“Take thirty.” He said.

Thirty minutes were a lot of money that Baelish would have to shell because there was no way in hell that what had just happened would ever get outside the set.

“Jon –“ Sansa said.

Her voice was soft, not a hint of emotion in it, but he would later see, while watching the scene before deleting all the unedited copies, the moment the panic had set in.

He would see how scared she had got because the scene had turned out to be completely different than what they had rehearsed.

He would count the scars and would remember each and any of them – he would wonder if there were more and would be stopped from smashing the computer only because other people would be there with him.

That would only come later, however; at the moment, he needed her away from the set and Daario was supportive, he was the one who gently coaxed her to leave the set, without her saying anything more than his name. And one day, perhaps, he would stop being a possessive arsehole.

“Gentlemen,” He said, “Not a word to anyone. Take thirty as well!”

It took a nod to Brienne  and she knew exactly what to do. The actors were indeed taken to the makeup trailer, where they would wait for some studio minion, he didn’t care who, with NDAs to sign.

The rest of the crew would not talk – but they cared about Sansa, and above all, they feared his wrath.

And he was very, very angry at the moment.

 


Texts Sent to Daenerys Stormborne ’s mobile phone

 

Texts sent by Maergery Tyrell:

I need to talk to you ASAP.

 

I mean it, Dany. Something’s happened. Bitch Mother made her move.

 

Stop shagging yor boyfriend and call me, bloody hell!

 

It’s going to get ugly. Get your arse to London NOW. Also, wtf happened on set?

 

3 missed call from Assholeswhisperer

 

Message sent by Assholeswhisperer

 

Assholeswhisperer: Call me. Time is of the essence, you need to come back to London. Your father in law has been contacted by the Boltons. 

 

 

*

 He had handed Dany the mobile phone, while they were getting dressed. Someone had knocked on the trailer’s door, and before Dany read the messages, and heard the vocal text from Varys, they had been giggling, handing each other pieces of clothes, chatting about how Jon would probably facepalm and growl when he saw the dailies of the scenes they had shot that day.

Dany usually had an almost symbiotic relationship with her mobile phone; she used it all the time to check on her son, to talk to his nanny, she had cameras all over her house and she constantly checked how her son was doing.

Missandei spent half the week in London to make sure the nanny did her job and Rhaego had a familiar face around. Dany felt guilty; she had never left her son alone since he was born, and choosing not to have the child in Belfast had been a hard one for her; she had made the right call, given that bloody paparazzi for a while had haunted them, like fucking vultures.

Dany always wished her son a good morning and she always read him fairy tales or made them up at night. She spent the weekends with him and she had started to talk about him to Rhaego, told him that a friend would soon join them, telling him all kind of flattering and nice things which had made him smile like a bloody loon.

He saw her furrowing her brow as she read Maergery Tyrell’s texts, but she paled, when she heard Varys’ voice note.

First of all: Varys never left voice notes. Ever.

Dany didn’t even need to have instructions; she deleted the voice note right after she made him hear it. She also deleted her call history and it was then that he noticed that her fingers were shaking.

It was Bronn who was driving them to set, now.

“I need to talk to Tyrion,” Dany said, and those were the first words she had uttered since she had read the messages.

Bronn nodded.

“I have to go back to London. Will he deal with Baelish?” She asked.

“Don’t worry about him - he’s not even on set today.” Bronn replied.

She was still holding the phone in her hands, she was still wearing her costume, and when he touched her hand it was cold. So bloody cold.

“I’m coming with you.” He said.

Daenerys Stormborn had a gentle heart, she was a good woman, but there was hardness, steel and fire in her; he knew why, but it was weird and for a moment heart breaking to see that hard look directed at him.

“That’s not up to debate, Dany. I’m coming with you!” He said.

It was Bronn who used the partition glass to give them a modicum of privacy, not that he gave a toss at that point; but there were things that surely Dany didn’t want them to know.

Too bad that he already knew them, and Bronn genuinely cared about Dany.

“You won’t pay again for the consequences of my fuck ups, Jorah! I won’t give them the change. Not again!” She replied, but she held on tight on his hand with both hers, her mobile phone slipped between them, forgotten for a moment.

They had never really talked about it - she had told him before that he would not have to suffer again because of things that had happened in the past. He had told her she didn’t owe him anything.

He still didn’t know how she became aware of what he did, and how much she knew.

“We are in this together, remember?” He said.

She nodded, but added, “There is no universe where I would let you gamble with your life again!”

What could he possibly reply to that?

He could tell her that he would everything again, in a heartbeat, that whatever Cersei had done he was ready and willing to take the fall for it, again.

But it was not what Dany wanted or needed.

“Well,” He said eventually, “I will finally meet your son, at least.”

She smiled, but he saw that she was fighting tears.

They both knew something would happen; they had known since the first night when Dany had hired Varys. He had naively hoped that it would happen after they went public with their relationship.

He should have known that Cersei would strike hard and fast the first chance she got.

Sansa was untouchable at the moment, especially since the Starks had closed ranks around her and Joffrey had a movie coming out which could possibly save his sinking career.

Nonetheless, it was unfair that Dany would have to face that alone; and he was angry at himself too.

He was powerless: he had used all his clout, all the favours he was owed, everything he had three years before, to protect Dany and what was left of his reputation after Varys and his wife were done with him.

He told her — because it was Dany, and she was the love of his life, and she was risking everything for a girl she barely knew and for him.

“I’m not alone in this -” Dany replied, and there was fire in her eyes, and complete trust. “I have got you!”

“And Varys.” Jorah added. He loathed that man.

 “That’s why I hired him in the first place. He is the assholes whisperer, after all!”

They laughed, for a moment, and he felt like they could beat all Cersei Baratheons and  the Boltons of the world.

Was he being naive again? Was he still too hopeful that the world could be a fair place from time to time?

His musings were interrupted by Daenerys who said, “I really need to speak with Tyrion — that is, if they’re sorting out the situation on set. Whatever the hell it is.”

He had got a text too, the same one Dany had got from Tyrion in which he told them about a fubar on set, and that they all needed to sign on NDAs.

“What can I do?” He asked. Whatever had happened on set could wait.

She kissed him, soft brushes of her lips against his lips and jaw and said, “Just keep being my strength.”

He kissed her forehead holding her at him, “As you are mine, Dany. As you are mine…”

 


She had forgotten what fear tasted like. It had been easy, really. In her experience, body and mind were only too happy to forget pain and fear.

Oh, she had been afraid for years after Drogo’s death; she had feared she wouldn’t be a good mother; she had feared she wouldn’t be convincing as a grieving widow; she had feared her career was over and done with.

Real fear, however, was something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

She had known ever since she had sided with Sansa, no - before that, actually, when she had kissed Jorah in a hotel room, that she would need Varys.

He was one of the most powerful men in their business and she had known that she would need his help.

And why not? It was his fault as well; he had opened Pandora’s box, he had been the one who had used strictly private information, with the help of Drogo’s management and her former one to trap her in a role, and force Jorah to withstand a smear campaign he didn’t deserve.

 The set was eerily empty when they came back; Bronn had hinted at something that had happened during the scene in the throne room. He still hadn’t signed a NDAs contract, but he was good at keeping things close to his vest when he wanted to.

“Something’s happened and Jon is - not pleased.”

Translation: something had happened to Sansa while shooting the scene and Jon was losing his shit.

Well, she had no time to deal with it, her mind kept going back to Varys’ words.

 

 

Call me. Time is of the essence, you need to come back to London. Your father in law has been contacted by the Boltons. 

 

The Boltons. Father and son owned newspapers, magazines, entertainment blogs and tabloids. Most of the tabloids…the ones who had attacked Sansa, who had turned what Joffrey Baratheon had tweeted into a shit storm.

And before - the Boltons had implied she was carrying Jorah’s lovechild, on the day of Drogo’s funeral, as a caption to a paparazzi picture of Jorah hugging her, after the funeral.

 

Your father in law is still grieving and hurting.

 

Varys had told her. And her first thought, and there was a part of her that felt ashamed for that, had been, “Huh? Jorah’s father is dead!”

Then she had realized that Varys had been talking about Drogo senior. And she knew, she was aware that he was still grieving for his son’s death. He had made it abundantly clear for the past three years.

They had been preparing for that particular scenario — there had been long conversation with Varys about it, but still — she was scared. She was properly, truly scared because Drogo Senior deep down blamed her for his son’s death because his son had been distracted that day on set, because he couldn’t conceive the possibility that his boy, the perfect fruit of his loins might have fucked up.

She was scared because she remembered, with vivid clarity what had happened after Drogo died, what his family and management and hers had put on the plate, what they had implied, thus convincing her to play the longest, least rewarding role of her life: the grieving, inconsolable widow of Drogo Dothraky.

Jorah knew. She didn’t know whether he knew everything, but what he had been told was enough for him to allow to be dragged through the mud to try and protect her.

There were things, however, that would not, could not become public knowledge.

Her Internet Movie Database stated that she had had a difficult childhood, which was true.

Her mother had died in childbirth. That was true. She had pictures of her mom, and a few items that had not been sold, after.

Her father and older brother had both died in a car accident, shortly after her mother died. Almost true, what it wasn’t mentioned was that her father had merrily driven while drunk out of his arse and taken a long drive on a short pier.

She had been raised by her tutor while her family’s money disappeared, and she had been convinced, since she was cute, she loved singing and acting at school to try and make it in the show business.

Of course, the part about the money and how she was reminded every day that none of that would have happened if she wasn’t born, wasn’t mentioned on her IMDB’s page; there were things written by her management which she had been only too happy to learn by heart and repeat interview after interview, year after year, until she almost started to believe it was true.

There were no mentions of her brother anywhere online. Her management had soon found out how batshit insane Vyserys was and they had succinctly told him to back the fuck off.

He had been unhappy, but money had started coming in — and when she had had doubts before her first major roles because she didn’t want the world to see her boobs, it had been Vyserys who had convinced her to accept.

Well, that was a way to put it; there were others, but she wasn’t one for crying over spilled milk.

Her Internet Movie Database’s page and her official website told that she had met Drogo at a party.

Well, if one considered a meeting among executives, managers, publicists and two young actors who were on the rise a party, then yes - it was the truth.

She wasn’t supposed to get married to Drogo — theirs was supposed to be a six months showmance to promote the movies they had both coming out in the summer.

But then, something happened — Viserys had been…himself  and Drogo and his family, a clan really, didn’t suffer fools.

No one had ever protected her from Vyserys. Their tutor was an old man who was frankly more interested in their money than them.

Drogo, however, had protected her from Vyserys. He had made her feel safe, truly safe, that was why she had married him. And why not? They were young, handsome, they made for a potential power couple, they had great sex and got along, mostly.

Varys knew everything, he knew that Drogo’s family had made sure that her brother could never touch her again, and it had been the moment she had stopped being afraid, knowing that he was locked up somewhere, a very expensive asylum from where he would never, ever get out. Not if she could help it.

Drogo’s father could not get Vyserys free; she was the only one who could, it had been Drogo’s idea (and incidentally the moment where she realized that they might be in love with each other), he could do a lot of damage however, especially if he talked to the Boltons.

They could twist and turn the truth until there was nothing left of it; they could make people doubt her sanity: after all her father and brother had been insane, so why not the girl with the almost white hair, blue eyes and nice tits?

They might take Rhaego away from her! After all, his grandparents, his uncles and aunts all lived together in that big mansion of theirs.

She needed to breath: in, out. Over and over.

Tyrion was finally ready to see her, and he would have no choice but to accept that she needed to skip a shooting day or two. He would understand since it was his sister’s fucking fault.

Her mind went to Sansa for a moment; Sansa, who had told her once that Joffrey was a monster, and she had wanted to tell her that she had known monsters too, monsters who had her own blood and slipped into her bed at nights to play. Monsters who had told her to get on her knees, on all fours, or with her legs spread open if a producer asked her because it was her bloody fault if their family was broken and broke.

She would usually be with Sansa — she had no idea about what had happened on set, she had signed the NDAs without even reading them, and she was sorry that she was still so raw, that she couldn’t get over what Joffrey had done to her.

She truly was.

Sansa Stark, however, was not made of porcelain — she was strong, stronger than she realized. She would have to chin up and face her traumas.

First, however, she needed to pay up. She owed her a favour.

“Tyrion is ready to see you,” Bronn announced.

“I’ll be right here…” She said.

She took her mobile phone and dialled Sansa’s number.

She answered right away, and she was really good at pretending. They both were, they were actors after all.

“Hey, I need a favour.” She said.

Sansa listened. She spoke.


 

Daario was with her. She had told him that it was not necessary, but he hadn’t listened. They had got into her trailer, while she was still covering herself with his cloak (she loved him to pieces, but that thing stank to high hell of mud and fake blood), he had made her some tea, waited while she changed into her street clothes, she had seen him nosing around in her trailer, observing the books, a couple of scripts she had got, the framed pictures on the walls and when she had finally joined him, he had handed her the still warm tea and had put on some music.

When she had met Daario, she hadn’t been impressed. He had looked like the typical alpha male, who made movies with lots of explosions where he was usually showing his (very impressive) abs, and little else.

She had been wrong both about his personality and his career.

Daario Naaris was kind, he had her in stitches between take with his sense of humor; he was smart and there was a reason why the crew and her cast-mates adored him, without exception: he was caring, decent and that movie was his chance to finally being seen for his craft, not his abs or his fighting skills.

They had worked hard together, from day one - building the relationship between Jhaerys and Alysanne brick by brick, word after word.

Daario was not blind or stupid, he must suspect that there was more to the lousy attitude Jon had had since shooting began and their relationship. He had never said a word.

And she was so relieved to be treated as a normal person. Daario wasn’t walking on eggshells around her, he wasn’t treating as if she had broken into a million of little shards.

He was a friend, who was currently singing along Florence and the Machine and their cover of the old classics “Jenny of Oldstone”

She was relaxing, the fuck up on set was almost forgotten, and she felt no shame. Not about those scars, not about that. It wasn’t her fault. It was Joffrey’s.

“You know,” Daario said as the song ended, “A close friend of mine works in domestic abuse centre, in London —”

He wanted to say more, it was clear; he didn’t want to pry, that was also clear, he looked like he had pondered his words a lot, dwelt over them before saying them to her.

She didn’t let him finish, however, the mobile phone rang and she saw that it was Daenerys.

“Dany -” She said.

“Hey, I need a favour.” She said, and she sounded scared.

Daenerys was fearless, she was brave and to her it was a war: she was there to kick asses and take names, to hear her sound like that, scared her.

“What happened?” She asked, but yes, of course she would help her.

“We signed those bloody NDAs — but Jon didn’t need to do that. We’re on your side, you know that.” Dany said, evading her question. Funny, Daario had told her more or less the same thing about the NDAs. 

“You’ll get a call from J’Haquen,” She said, she didn’t talk for a moment, and she heard her walking and opening a door, “I really need a favour.”

“Yes, of course - anything.” Sansa replied.

“Thank you, I’ll explain when I get back.” Dany said and disconnected the call.

Get back from where? What the fuck did just happen?

Daario was still there, the words he had previously said forgotten; he waved her goodbye as her mobile rang again.

It was indeed J’Haquen.

“What happened?” She asked.

The man’s voice was mesmerizing, and for a moment she thought about Arya making his impression on Skype, while Theon facepalmed and mumbled that their sister had found what she wanted to be when she grew up: a creepy figure who was feared and respected in the showbusiness.

The man’s words brought her hastily back to reality, and in her reality, Cersei had just struck back. In her current reality the Boltons which were the scum of the Earth, the ones whose tabloids and gossip sites made The Star and The Daily Mail look like children’s magazines.

“Needless to say, the success of the movie, of your future career and everyone who is involved heavily depends on stopping Mrs. Baratheon’s scheme.”

He sounded calm, like everything was in control.

“Daenerys told me she needed a favour,” She said, and if her voice came out harsh, cold it was because she was furious.

“Call your father.” J’Haquen said.

He didn’t add anything else. He didn’t really need to. She didn’t ask any questions.

She still had no idea what sort of trouble were Dany and Jorah involved too. She didn’t need to know, she didn’t care. She knew, however, that the only reason why Cersei had struck against Dany and Jorah was because of her, because Daenerys had sided with her, she had ridiculed Joffrey Baratheon, made him a laughing stock, an internet meme. She had done it for her. 

She sat on the sofa, she was alone in her trailer now wearing jeans and her favourite jumper.

The scars were still there, they weren’t going anywhere and she couldn’t care less about them, now.

She had felt humiliated on set, heartbroken because Jon had ignored her and yet had called cut and imposed NDAs to everyone in order to protect her.

She was past that. She was angry, angrier than she ever remembered being. And she perfectly got why she had to call her father.

Her family, from both sides, was powerful. Her father was respected, admired and he had lots and lots of friends in the business.

He had clout, a vast network of connections and it made sense that Dany would ask for his help.

There was the matter of the falling out between Jorah and her father, she didn’t know why they had fought and she didn’t particularly care. As she dialled her father’s number she thought that she would fight for Dany and Jorah as they had fought for them, she would.

It turned out that she didn’t need to do much. Her father had been already informed.

“How are you?” He asked.

“I’m fine!” She said, and she truly meant it, that time. It was the truth: she was fine.

“Look, I need your help about something…” She said.

Her father was still in New Zealand, but it felt like it was just next to her, on the sofa; she heard his familiar gruff voice as he told her to go ahead and speak.

“It’s about Jorah Mormont,” She continued, and she had to smile when he asked about Dany.

“Yes, of course - and Dany.” She said.

After all they couldn’t have one without the other.

 


 

The scene was good; it was even better than the one he had written, and he had seldom thought that in his career.

It had been a shit day, as a writer he could come up with more appropriates terms to describe just how fucking terrible that day had been.

Watching Jon brooding,  his eyes ope wide and his lips pressed into a thin line of sorrow, heartbreak while watching the dailies had to be the cherry on the bloody cake.

Sansa should have reported Joffrey; he didn’t know why she hadn’t, and after taking a look at those scars, he truly wished his nephew was in jail. He would punch him the first change he got, most probably after he tried to put some sense into his sister’s head.

He should have done something at the time, when he saw the bruises on the girl’s neck or face, when his nephew treated her like garbage. No one had ever done anything to rein the little shit in, except his father. After Tywin’s death, however, not a single person had tried.

There were other people in the room, watching the dailies: Davos, Samwell Tarly, Baeric and, of course Jon.

It was Sam the first person who spoke, and he was absurdly glad for that because that silence had become unnerving.

“We could erase them during postproduction.” He said.

Them.

Jon was looking at him, he knew that Dany had some issues; the kid, however, had no idea about how things could go pear shaped if the Boltons really interviewed Drogo’s father. He himself knew very little, and he had helped Jorah in the past.

Jon had very expressive eyes, or maybe they had developed some sort of telepathic link working so many hours together.

He had no idea which was the case. It was clear, however, that Jon was silently asking him to intervene. Jon who would most probably hide that scene from Baelish, showing him just Daario’s coverage of it.

Jon, who was probably living a dilemma: the scene was extraordinary, it was visceral, superbly acted, its photography was pitch perfect and he had showed once again that he knew how to use the cameras.

Jon Snow, pain in the arse director was satisfied. Jon Snow, the man who was glaringly in love with Sansa Stark was probably thinking of ways of killing Joffrey as he watched his nephew’s handiwork on Sansa’s pale skin.

“We should ask Sansa, first.” He eventually said, and it looked like Jon was one step away from a panic attack, so he continued, “I’ll deal with it.”

He should also deal with his sister, but that would take copious amounts of alcohol and knowing what Varys would come up with.

His sister, who was usually an incredibly smart person, still didn’t get the point: she couldn’t play dirty that time, because he would do the same. He was willing to use Sansa’s scars, and when he looked at Jon again, he suspected the younger men knew.

Jon didn’t object to his words and he wasn’t surprised. One day, he would have a chat with both of them, they had to stick their heads out of their arses!

One impossible task at the time. He thought.

One by one the others left the room – Jon and he were supposed to work on a schedule for the next day, Brienne would join them in a while.

“Whatever it is – whatever you are doing to stop your sister, I’m in.” Jon said.

Bollocks! Bollocks!

He knew he would say it, he knew! Even Bronn had told him Jon would want in.

He should say no. Jon Snow was – a rarity in their business: he had a good heart, a strong work ethics, and he wasn’t involved in the politics and the dirt of their jobs. He deserved better.

“Are you sure?” He asked, instead. He was a selfish bastard. What else was new?

Jon was angry, there were no traces of the thin veneer of calm he had kept throughout the day. He was furious and out for blood.

“Start talking!” Jon hissed, “Tell me what the fuck is really going on here, and don’t lie to me! Not now!”

So, Jon Snow was truly in. Another member of Team Good Queen Alysanne – the band of buggered who was trying to make a movie and shake the system at the same time.

“I won’t.” He said. And for once, he was sure there would be no omissions and lies in his words.

They were at war, after all.  

Chapter 12: All in a day's job

Summary:

In which Sansa has an epiphany and Dany meets her past.

Notes:

Thank you for those who commented on the story and left kudos, thank you for sticking by the story even if I take forever to update.
Question: would you prefer smaller chapters and more frequent updates or big chunks? Let me know. please!

Chapter Text

 

From Tumblr

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

 

Anon asked:

Hey, you never told us how you fell into the Dany/Jorah shipping. All you do is swooning on their Instagram posts. I get it, I’m right there with you! But I’m curious. Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine😉

First off. Why anon? I don’t bite!

I had forgotten about that post! It’s like living a dream lately. All the new content is giving me life.

It’s a long story and believe it or not, it’s all true.

The Ghost and Mrs Muir is one of my favourite movies, and I’ve been a fan of Jorah Mormont since I was a kid.

Seriously, if you’re crazy enough to follow me, and you go back and scroll through my Tumblr you’ll see that I’m not telling lies. I used to post all Jorah all the time. I still do, but that’s beside the point!

What happened was that my kick-ass sister bought me a ticket for TGaMM in London, shortly after they started selling tickets.

It wasn’t the first time I saw him on stage, or even the tenth…#notobsessedatalllol. Anyway, it was their second week of production, I saw the play. It was awesome! I cried, I laughed. and I noticed the chemistry between Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn filing it away in my boy ha chemistry even with lampposts file, in my head. Yep, I have such a  file. Among others!

No offense  to Dany, she was great in the play, it was then I became a fan, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before.

I remember them at the stage door (silly me, I didn’t take pictures because I didn’t want to be that type of fan!); they were cute together, they were comfortable with each other, they looked friendly with each other.

I saw them and, as I said, I filed it all away as a case of Jorah Mormont being a sexy mf who has chemistry with everything that moves, and even some things that don’t. And sorry, not sorry, that is still true to this day. He had chemistry with Ms. Ice Queen in that play back in the day. Do you remember?

A few months later – make it five or so – I was in New York with my friends and my then-boyfriend; we had planned that travel way before I had even heard about the play, it was my college graduation present and the last thing I thought about was Jorah Mormont.

It happens, I swear.

We saw the billboard; I sort of had a heart attack because …do you remember the American billboards for the play? Do you remember how beautiful they were? My boyfriend (who’d later become a douchebag extraordinaire who cheated on me, but that’s definitely off topic here) wanted to try and get tickets for us.

We had no idea that it was almost impossible to get tickets because as we soon found out the play was sold out until the end of its run, I had been out of the loop because of college, so I thought we were short out of luck and that I would only take pictures of the billboards.

And then fate intervened. I made a plea here on Tumblr and my dear online friend @JornerysOwnsMe (at the time @JorahMormontisdaman) who is from New York, answered right away! She texted me and she told me that she had already seen the play twice (honey, thank you! I will owe you forever!) and she had one spare ticket so she would give it to me. We also spent the afternoon together, she told me all about what she had seen, told me about the sightings of Dany and Jorah in New York, but that’s a story for another day.

Now, before you ask, it wasn’t the last run of the play, I wasn’t that lucky – I still envy the lucky bastards who were there and saw it. It wasn’t the last one, which it’s been dissected in fandom, but it was nonetheless a revelation.

What I saw that night was pure magic, I don’t know how else to describe it. It was the same play I had seen, but it felt different, it felt intense. I’m not talking about sexual tension, it was there, sure – I mean there was some serious eye fucking going on there – but I felt, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one because I listened to other people’s comments during intermission, like it was too intense, too real. It also felt intimate. There were moments where I genuinely felt like I was snooping on them.

And yes, they were actors doing their jobs. I am aware of that, thank you. I tried to rationalise what I saw. I tried to file it away in a folder in my brain.  

The truth is, however, that what I saw didn’t compute! I had seen Jorah at different times of his stage productions, I had met him at the stage door with his co-stars.

I had seen his plays getting better and better with more practice, well, what I saw that night was completely different!

I also know that they were both married at the time. And no, I have never thought they had a fling back then, there was too much sexual tension!

I don’t even know if they are together now, they totally are, but ever since that night I have shipped them together.

I fell right into the dark side, and look! We have cookies! Perhaps, if I hadn’t already seen the play, I wouldn’t have noticed the difference and I’m expecting anons telling me that they had just got better, that they had been doing that play for almost six months.

Yes, thank you, but no. I know what I saw!

I’ve been a fan of Mr. Mormont since I was a kid. I have seen almost everything he has done (yes, even that horrible film with what’s-her-face, you know that actress who looked like she had to be the next big star and disappeared? That one…the brunette who had done that sci-fi show about mutants) and I have watched everything Dany has been in. It was different.

So, here’s my story.

Also, can you fam, please stop asking me why haven’t they gone public already? I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m just happy that they look so happy together.

 

#danyxjorah #ihavenoregrets #otp: can I keep him tough #shuttingdownanonsforawhile

 

22500 notes

 


 

London

                                                                                  

 

 In her dreams she came home with Jorah and introduced him to Rhaego in broad daylight, she had dreamt of them having a picnic in her garden, right under the old Sycamore tree.

She had imagined Rhaego studying Jorah, his eyes were blue, like hers, but the shape and the way he looked at people was all Drogo’s.

She had imagined introducing Jorah to her son telling him that the blonde man was the friend she had been telling him about: the brave knight of her goodnight fairy tales.

She hadn’t thought they would have to run back to London, that Rhaego would wake up in the middle of the night because of the noise, wearing his light blue pyjamas, his curly black hair suffering from a severe case of pillow head, his small hand holding his favourite stuffed bear by an ear.

“Mummy?” Rhaego had said.

And – she had lost it. She had slid on her knees and held her son in her arms, like a mad woman, trying not to scare him, trying not to cry, trying not to shake.

She wasn’t sure she had succeeded.

She knew that she hadn’t introduced Rhaego to Jorah because the man she loved had left them alone. She had slept in her son’s room, in his bed, holding him, wearing a nightgown that made her look like her grandmother, crying herself to sleep, while trying not to wake her son up.

She dreamt about Vyserys. It was more of a recollection, actually. In her dream she saw her brother, his grey-blue eyes filled with outrage, disbelief, betrayal as he was carried away, he kept screaming her name, over and over and she was there, looking at how the monster under (in) her bed was dragged away from her and she felt Drogo’s arms around her shoulders. By the end of the dream, however, her brother came back – hi long hair loose on his shoulders, his eyes bloodshot, and she was alone as he attacked her.

It felt so real that she woke up and panicked when she saw the empty bed.

For a moment, just one moment, she was sure, positive that Vyserys had taken Rhaego, which was absolutely batshit insane. Her brother was in a padded cell, heavily sedated and he would never, ever get out of the Asylum where he had been dragged.

She had sold her soul so that it could happen and she knew now, that it had been one of the incentives used on Jorah after Drogo died.

She wasn’t usually so paranoid – and before Varys’ message and the conversation she had had with him later, in Tyrion’s office, she hadn’t thought about her brother for years.

Paranoid schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and half a dozen of diagnosis which kept him the fuck away from her.

She didn’t like secrets – and she had told Jorah everything, she hadn’t lied to him when she had told him she came with baggage. There had been sleepless nights spent in each other arms, as she told him about her childhood and Jorah had listened to her, even if they had a mad schedule and shooting was brutal and she would probably throttle Jon Snow because of it.

Jorah knew, however. He had always known.

She went to her bedroom, Jorah had made the bed, she realised that immediately, it helped that she saw his trolley next to the chair under the window and his pyjamas neatly folded on the chair.

She could also smell him. He was already up – and she felt terrible for ignoring him.

She had a shower and she went on getting ready for battle: hair, make up, her I-mean-business-you-don’t-fuck-with-me suit. She looked at the reflected image in the mirror and took a deep breath before taking off her wedding and engagement rings. She had been asked to never take them off (God, how pathetic was that, really? How terrified had she been when she had said yes?).

It was a rainy morning – shocker in London – and she found Jorah and Rhaego in the kitchen; Missandei was drinking her coffee and nodded at her.

“Thank you for waking me up!” She said to the three people in the room. She was trying to be cheerful, but she was afraid she sounded like a raging bitch.

“You’re welcome, babe…” Missandei mumbled in her mug.

Rhaego was busy playing with his oatmeal and Jorah, the love of her life, wearing his best suit, had oatmeal on his face and hair and was trying to help her son with breakfast.

“You needed the rest.” Jorah said.

“I hate you.” She replied.

She could hear Missandei’s eyeroll.

Even Jorah smirked. Rhaego had decided that he liked the oatmeal after all and was eating it, looking both at Jorah and her.

It wasn‘t exactly what she had dreamed, but it made her heart burst in her chest all the same: she was in the kitchen with her son, the man she loved and her best friend. She didn’t want to lose that.

She just couldn’t.

“Ready?” Jorah asked.

No. She wasn’t. She wanted to stay in the kitchen, play with her son, go in her greenhouse and see if the lemon tree she had planted before shooting began taking root.

Hell, she’d rather deal with Jon and Sansa’s utter inability to stick their heads out of their arses and notice that they were stupid in love with each other.

The doorbell rang, and she felt her heart jump in her throat.

“That must be the lawyer,” Missandei said and left the room to go and open it.

“Everything will be okay,” Jorah said.

He got up, as Missandei got back in the room – with a young man.

She exchanged a look with Jorah, that couldn’t possibly be the cut-throat lawyer Mr Varys had promised her.

Missandei introduced him: “Mr Greyworm, these are Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont.”

The man – kid, my God, how old was he, 20? – curtly nodded at them and said, “I’ll wait for you in the car!”

Missandei looked impressed with him (lucky her), and she was smiling as she took Rhaego in her arms leaving her alone with Jorah.

She got close to him, and took a napkin from the table to clean up his face and his hair.

She didn’t give a toss about her career, it could crash and burn and she wouldn’t miss it – but if the Drogo’s father ever told the Boltons the truth about her family history, about her brother, she could lose everything – she might drag Jorah down with her and he didn’t deserve that. He had already sacrificed so much for her.

“We’ll be fine.” He said.

She clung onto him for a moment.

“You took off your wedding ring,” Jorah whispered against in her hair.

“It was about bloody time.” She replied.

Jorah smelled like soap and home.

“Once more unto the breach, my love…” He said.

“I don’t think Shakespeare continued it like this…” She mumbled closing her eyes for a moment.

He kissed the crown of her hair and said, “Sod him anyway.”

She chuckled and for a moment she was sure they would make it.

 

*

Belfast

 .

In the end, his chat with Sansa had been painfully polite, formal and it had been all about the job. Bloody, goddamned movie. He had meant to talk to her in person, but when push came to shove, they had briefly spoken on the phone, at a miserable hour and it had been like pulling teeth.

He had meant to tell her so many things, but she had sounded cold, tired and distant. He had probably sounded like a bloody moron and nothing had been solved, in the end. Shocking news, there should be a blind item about that, for a change!

He had spent yet another sleepless night to reschedule shooting for the day with Baeric and Brienne.

Tyrion had done all kind of magic tricks with the unions and they were keeping silent with the studios. It wasn’t exactly how things were done, but so far no one had complained, and as long as the movie got made, they should be fine.

He was getting used to feeling short of breath, with butterflies in his stomach, every time Sansa came to set wearing her costumes. She was a vision that morning; she was wearing a pale blue gown, her hair, loose on her shoulders made a stark contrast with the colour of her dress and her skin. Sansa didn’t look tired, he usually noticed when she was, even if the make up artists knew their jobs; he recognised the tells in her body and her eyes.

She looked radiant, she was moving like the queen she played, but there was more to it – he couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a strength, a force that hadn’t been there the day before, or even when they had talked on the phone.

No one had objected to the change of schedule: Dany and Jorah were too loved among cast and crew, and as Davos had told him once, during rehearsals, they were not only checking egos at the door, they were leaving them at home.

He had been a pain in the arse, he had forgotten how to keep it inside, and be a professional. For the good of everyone he had to remember how not to be a dick while shooting a movie.

Especially that day.

Sansa was waiting for the stand ins to and Davos to finish setting up the lights and her microphone was being checked. Either she didn’t notice, or she didn’t care when Jaimie Lannister got in and sat next to his brother.

There was a reaction, usually. And he was an obsessive sod, he was aware, but he had caught Sansa’s face on the screen as she noticed when Tyrion’s brother came on set, and he had seen the genuine displeasure on her face and in her body language at seeing that man.

He didn’t see any of it that morning, she kept chatting with the actors and the crew, thanking the p.a. who brought her coffee, checking on Daario who was still running a fever, and would have to rely on his acting training not to sound completely clogged in that day.

Baeric, who the night before had also showed him the dailies of the scenes Jorah and Dany had shot on location – and he hadn’t known whether to facepalm or pumping his fist in the air – checked that everyone hit their mark, then looked at him.

They were good to go.

Another endless day on the job had begun.

 

*

 

London

 

He was alone in the car, now.

As soon as Dany and the kid, their lawyer, had left the car he had checked all the messages he had ignored for hours: Tyrion, Jon, Sansa – they had all been asking and telling him things.

He knew one thing for sure and it was Tyrion who had told him the day before: no matter how things went with Drogo sr., he had to go back to Belfast that night. He was due on set the next day at 8 a.m. sharp.

They could shoot some scenes around Dany’s absence if things came to that, but technically he had more screen time and more lines than her. Even Dany had insisted about him going back to set, on the way to her ex-father in law’s house.

“The show must go on” was not a saying, it was not just a cool song from the Queen, it was their job. It was one of the prices they paid for being rich and famous. Not that he usually complained about that, but he felt sick at the idea of leaving Dany alone. 

He had also got messages from Davos, Brienne and Baeric all trying to reassure them, all saying that they stood by their sides.

 He was glad for their colleagues and friends’ support, but he truly wished he had been allowed to go with Daenerys and Mr. Greyworm inside that big mansion.

He would settle for kicking the Boltons’ faces in: both father and son, gladly and without remorse.

He had only very recently (the day before, to be exact) found out that the author of the picture taken the day of Drogo’s funeral was Ramsey Bolton. Their tabloid which had always been tied to the Baratheon family had all but stated that Dany had been carrying his love child. And the story had spread, other tabloids and entertainment outlets had run with it.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true, it didn’t even matter that he had seen Daenerys with other people before Drogo died. It had been on the internet, it had been implied in the news, therefore it had to be true.

Unless…

That was when Varys and Drogo’s people and Dany’s former management had come in.

He heard his mobile phone ringing, and he was tempted to ignore it, but both Tyrion and Sansa had told them, repeatedly, that Dany and he weren’t alone in that, that help was on its way.

He didn’t recognize the number id but recognized the man breathing on the other side right away.

Ned Stark.

What the fuck?

They used to say that they were brothers from a different mother; they used to be inseparable when they were young and were both trying to start a career in the business. Ned had never taken advantage of his position and had worked hard to get his first parts, as hard as he had done.

In hindsight, he could admit that Ned had been right when they had fought. Both Ned and his own father had hated Lynesse on sight. He had met her at a party – she had been so beautiful and he had been so young, lonely and horny and frankly an idiot!

He hadn’t listened to his father, he had been patient with Ned because he was his best friend, because he was family…… he loved his kids and Cathy was like a sister to him, but he had been in love with Lynesse.

Ned had tried to tell him that she was the wrong person for him, that she was only after his money and status. Things had gone south when Ned had told him that Lynesse was not a good person, at heart.

“Mormont,” Ned said, like he used to do. As if he hadn’t punched him straight in the face for his words.

Only a few people knew that he used to be a prideful person. He had been proud of his talent and his craft, of the career he had built for himself, of his reputation and means. He had been proud that he had managed to keep his private life away from the public, even while working with divas right in the middle of very public divorces. He had been proud that his own messes had stayed private.

Pride, however, had become a luxury to him. Despite what Lynesse had done to him during their divorce, he still had a good reputation in the business. Most of the casting directors were not completely stupid. What he lacked was power and clout.

Unlike Ned Stark.

“Stark,” He said, “how are you?”

If Ned and his wife decided to help, perhaps things might turn out all right.

“Worried about my girl and about an old friend.”

The way Ned put emphasis on the worry about his daughter, made it clear to him that Sansa must have talked to her father, as she had told Dany that she would do.

He had also decided to forgive him – and he was oddly moved by his words.

“How are you?” Ned asked.

Unyielding bastard. He might have forgiven him, he would help him if it came to that, but he wanted him to ask for his help.

“I mean it, Mormont,” Ned said a moment later.

And he was man enough to admit that perhaps he had been wrong – he had underestimated his best friend – for a very long time.

“Worried.” He replied eventually. He was scared for Daenerys, not for her career, because it could survive it if her family history became public; he had no doubts about it. He feared for the consequences in her life: the questions that might be asked about how her brother had been locked up in an asylum, the means used – and what her late husband’s family might do might have consequences in her – their lives.

He heard Ned clicking away on his laptop, he was still terrible at it, like he used to, loud and messy, but eventually he said, “The Dothraki family is in the business.”

He was aware: they provided animals, props, stunt people, they had made a fortune and Drogo was the only member of the family who had been an actor.

“Yes” He said.

“We’ve been in this business long enough to know that they’re not the only ones in town or even the best. The Lannisters alone aren’t enough to let their business run, and sure as hell neither are the Boltons!” Ned said.

He wanted to tell him that he knew that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had already used everything he had got to protect Dany and save what was left of his career after Varys was done with him. He could do nothing.

Ned Stark was a stand-up man, a decent human being, and he didn’t remember him ever threatening someone, or trying to use his own power, his own connections, not even after his sister in law went batshit insane and was on the front cover of every bloody tabloid in the world.

 As far as he knew Starks and Tullys solved their problems without using their connections and their power.

He had heard that Joffrey Baratheon was facing some troubles getting new parts, Tyrion had told him that Cersei was blaming Ned Stark for that and he had told him that Ned would never do that.

“Starks and Tullys have lots of friends, Joffrey Baratheon is a snotty little brat. There is no conspiracy here. Your sister should be smart enough to see that.” He had told Tyrion, once.

What Ned was implying, however, was different. It meant actively using their combined power to help Daenerys and consequently him.

“Sansa thinks the world of your friend.” Ned said, and there wasn’t any trace of irony in his words. There was no veiled contempt. It was just Ned trying to be discrete while being a good friend.  

 “I have worked with her once,” Ned continued, “she is a good girl. Her heart is in the right place!”

That was the best compliment Ned could do to an actor.

“It is – she has a gentle heart.” He said. There was no time and no use in waxing poetry on Dany to Ned. Besides, he had all but signed it in blood and in public that he was in love with that woman.

Ned didn’t reply at first. He ran a hand through his hair, still fighting the impulse to get out of the car and be with Daenerys, by her side, as she talked to Drogo’s father and the one to stay still and wait for Ned to make up his mind.

“Just say the word.” Ned said eventually. “Oh, and you are both invited to Rob’s show. It wraps next week.”

He heard the pride in the man’s voice. He had also read the reviews of the play, and he wished nothing more than going out in public with Daenerys. They couldn’t.

Baelish wanted to use their relationship to promote the movie, since they were both very loved and “shipped” whatever the hell it meant, on the internet. They were resisting the man, as he told Ned, but he was their producer.

“Sod Baelish, I haven’t even started with him!” Ned replied. 

He wondered how much Ned really knew about what was going on, and asked him.

“Cersei Lannister and her inbred son are on the warpath against my daughter. Yes, I am very much informed.” Ned replied.

And did he just break an unwritten rule in the business? Everyone suspected or knew about the Lannister twins. No one ever commented on it, no one had ever dared to – but it was common knowledge. He wondered whether it was the reason why Jaimie had left the business. And he realized he didn’t give a shit, he just wanted them to stop mess with their lives!

“Too bad we can’t do anything about the Boltons.” He replied to Ned, eventually.

Ned snorted, “One problem at a time. I’ll be in touch.”

Three years before Varys told him a story – by the end of the tale he was told he had two possibilities: ignore what he had been told, Daenerys’ past, and strike back against his wife with everything he had got, or follow Varys’ advice.

Neither Oberyn Martell, who later saved what was left of his reputation, nor Tyrion Lannister knew the details. They had tried to talk him against following Varys’ advice and he had used the picture and Dany’s pregnancy as an excuse.

He was sure that his ex-wife knew the truth, but she had signed a contract and she was too busy spending his money and shagging around to care about Daenerys Stormborn.

Drogo’s family, however, knew – and he didn’t think he had ever seen the woman he loved as scared as she had been the previous day.

He could only wait – and think about the worst-case scenario: how a family matter might change their lives.

He sent a text to Ned, eventually. He said the word.

 


 

Belfast

 

Baeric and Jon had pulled off a goddamned miracle, rescheduling the shooting plan around two of their leads’ absence. The actors and crew were going above and beyond the line of duty, without exceptions. He would personally thank them and give them money when they finished shooting.

Sansa was killing it that day, she was in rare form, she reminded him of his mother: all fiery determination and pure talent. He realized, and he was sorry that it took him so long to do that, that she truly was the lead of the movie they were shooting. She was setting up the bar incredibly high, and she had been doing so for weeks. He had been so busy with the behind the scenes crap that he had missed, skipped how bloody good she was.

She had been tired the previous night when they had talked, he had seen the shadows under her eyes, how her eyes had been glistening up with tears, but he had seen no traces of that woman that day, so far.

She was laughing between takes, being a mother hen to Daario, being the ideal lead of a movie to crew and extras.

The one who worried him was Jon, he still hadn’t got over what happened the previous day and possibly what he had told him. He was also worried about Daenerys and Jorah.

He didn’t know what Drogo’s father had on Dany, he suspected Oberyn Martell did, but he was a spin doctor and once he signed a contract there was no way in hell that he would ever utter a word to anyone. He hadn’t told him a word three years before and he wasn’t answering his phone now. He had tried to contact his sister, but she wasn’t answering her phone either. The worrying thing was that she wasn’t replying to Jamie, either.

He had had a talk to his brother because that situation was getting out of control, even for Cersei standards.

He heard Jamie huff a frustrated snort and then the man whispered, “This is going to backfire.”

So, it was official: Cersei was behind that mess. They were all right about it. He was appalled. And he had grown up with the bloody woman!

“You can’t deal with the Boltons and expect to come out of it clean.” Jaimie continued.

He tilted an eyebrow while looking at Jamie, he didn’t say, “No shit.”, but his brother got the message anyway.

Jaimie would never forgive him for that, but he hadn’t told him that he knew for sure that Sansa had talked to her father and as far as he knew, Ned Stark had been only too happy to help his daughter.

His brother was not stupid, he would tell their sister, he would protect Joffrey. Blood was thicker than water and all that bullshit he was frankly tired of thinking about.

Jon called cut – things had been going smoothly that day: no extra had been unprofessional, no one had flubbed their lines. If it weren’t for Dany and Jorah’s thing it would be a perfect day on set.

Sansa strode toward him and as it always happened when she approached him Jaimie would make himself scarce.

That time he even waited, after Sansa politely asked a p.a. to switch off her microphone.

He said goodbye to Sansa, which was a first, and Sansa nodded her greetings, oozing contempt toward his brother.

That too was a first.

She sat next to him, still dressed in her costume, she smiled and it felt like watching something cold and shiny, like ice or a razor blade.

“I thought about what you told me yesterday,” She said.

He knew both Ned and Catherine, he knew Robb Stark – and Sansa was a Stark and she was finally remembering that.

“Leave them there.” She said.

She was talking about the scars. She had agreed to have them removed during post production the previous night, he had a meeting with Samwell Tarly and the vfx people already scheduled about it.

He looked at the young woman, she had clearly thought about that, and maybe she wanted to help Dany and Jorah that way.

Or she was striking back against Cersei.

“They’ll say it’s all makeup.” He replied because he knew they would.

Sansa shrugged her shoulders, “You know my family and I spend our holidays either in Greece or Croatia?”

He honestly didn’t see that coming and he thought that Cersei would probably lose her shit if that happened.

“Arya and I were just talking this morning about starting a throwback Friday thing on Instagram. We’ll share some family pictures, even my parents agreed!”

She wasn’t smiling any longer; she was looking at him, her legs crossed and he understood for a moment, why Jon had fallen head over heels in love with her.

“Oh, and my friend Maergery Tyrell? Do you know her? She’s shooting a movie right next to our stage.”

He knew who Maergery Tyrell was – he hadn’t met her, but from what he had heard she was clever, resourceful and she had got close to Dany.

“Tell her to come visit us – “He said.

“I will – “Sansa said, she smiled and said, “She is going to share some pictures of our holidays together.”

He was ready to bet that each and any of the pictures she would share were taken before she got together with Joffrey, she would be younger and without scars.

She leant up toward him and lowered her voice when she said, “your brother asked me to delete some pictures I had in my mobile, and I did! Imagine my surprise when I found out last night that they were still up in my cloud – where everyone could see them if I were hacked.”

She drew back and smiled. She was not bluffing. He had no idea which pictures she was talking about, but he remembered the bruises after Joffrey was done with her a few times.

She was very serious, she meant business, and if it wasn’t clear before it became abundantly so when she said, “Your sister used to call me little dove, do you remember that? Your nephew – well, you heard him enough times, you bloody well remember how he called me.”

He nodded. He remembered, he had loathed him for that, but he had done nothing about it.

“I am Sansa Stark” She said.

It sounded like a warning, like a threat.

Sansa hadn’t changed overnight; it had started long before that morning: he had sent her agent the scripts’ pages because he had felt guilty, he hadn’t imagined she would get the part, he hadn’t suspected she would blow everyone away during her screen test. He had underestimated her.

He suspected that Sansa had done the same with herself.

He had thought she was doing that for her cast-mates, but he was starting to believe that she was doing it for herself.

Perhaps they had all underestimated Sansa Stark.

A p.a. passed by telling her she was due on stage. She smiled at the p.a., thanked her and told her she would be there in a minute.

She looked like the kind woman they all knew.

Before she went, however, she said, “Leave Jon out of this.”

That was the Sansa he could recognize: vulnerable, apparently made of porcelain, even if her words and her voice sounded hard.

The girl had it bad for Jon Snow and he wanted to facepalm so hard that he had to physically restrain himself from doing so in front of her.

She had just threatened his family and he believed her. He did, but when she said, “I mean it, Tyrion.” He was pretty sure that if he facepalmed as hard as he wanted to do, it would be seen on google maps.

Only then did he notice that Jon had been observing them, possibly the whole time, and the only thing that sprang up to mind was that Cersei was utterly buggered.

He just wanted to make a movie. He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of that mess. He didn’t want any mess for the movie he had dreamt of making all his life.

He looked at the time when Sansa went away. Dany was probably already talking to Drogo’s father and their perfect shooting day could and would turn into shit pretty soon: when Sansa posted her first picture scar-free on Instagram or if Drogo sr. would talk to the Boltons.

 


 

London

 

It felt like she had been in that house only the day before. There hadn’t been many changes: there were more pictures of Drogo, of course, there were some of her son with his grandparents, uncles and aunts, but she wasn’t really surprised when she saw that there were none of her.

There weren’t any pictures of her, and yet there had been a time when the Dothrakis had been her family, the only one she had ever had.

As she walked down the wood covered halls, she remembered that she used to love that place. She had been happy to get married in the park outside the house, she had felt honoured to wear her mother-in-law jewels for the wedding. Her sisters-in-law had helped her to get ready that day. God, she had been so young – she had felt so invincible.

 She knew that house like the back of her hand; she hadn’t missed it, not in the least, and she had been very good at finding excuses not to visit her in laws whenever she could.

 She didn’t even need Drogo’s assistant to find the man’s study, she remembered exactly where it was. The last time she had been in the hall outside of it, there had been a lot more people than that day: her management, Drogo’s, executives from her husband last movie and so many bloody lawyers.

 She had been good at masking her nerves, so far, it sure as hell she was doing better than the last time: she had masked how the noise her heels were making on the wooden floor was grating her nerves, how every sound made her heart jump in her throat. She was sitting next to the kid Varys had sent her.

He had promised her the best of the best; she had asked for a cut-throat lawyer who could scare Drogo’s family into silence – she had gotten what it looked like a choir boy, wearing a bespoke suit, who didn’t talk and was looking around wearing a frankly shitty, abysmal poker face.

I’m so buggered. She thought.

Rhaego loved that house – his grandparents allowed him to do whatever he wanted, he could be reckless and his uncles and aunts were already introducing him to their world: horses, weapons, stunts. Whatever the press may have implied Rhaego was Drogo’s child.

Even though she would fight tooth and nails not to have him anywhere near the showbusiness.

Provided that she still had rights over her son when the time came.

Drogo Sr’s assistant, a woman in her late fifties who had she never seen before, told them they could get in.

“Mr Dothraky is waiting for you.” The woman said.

Somehow it didn’t really surprise her that there were no lawyers in the room, and Drogo’s father looked unimpressed with hers.

He reminded her so much of Drogo: same height, same stance, same look in the eyes, his hair was long, gray at the temples and pulled in a ponytail. He must be over sixty now, but he looked younger. If Drogo had lived – he would have looked exactly the same.

“You look well, Daenerys.” The man said. There was a time when the man said those words with love and pride. She had been part of the family and he had accepted her, flaws and fucked up past, because she had made her son happy.

It wasn’t her fault Drogo had died; it wasn’t her fault their marriage had been sinking even before she had won the part of Mrs Muir after three auditions. It wasn’t her fault she was still alive. It had taken her a hell of a long time to get that.  

“I feel well.” She replied. It was the truth, and she knew that the man in front of her loathed bullshitters as much as his son had.

“Everyone knows how good you’re feeling lately!” Drogo Sr. said.

He was a hard man: a master of arms, she had seen him sparring with his sons and it had been like watching an action sequence in a movie, he was a former stunt man and the only reason he had retired was because he had built a small empire, he provided animals, props and stuntmen to the business.

It was clear that, despite his status, he still spent a lot of time in the open, he was tanned, he was wearing jeans and a military green v shirt.

“People in our family are used to grieving longer for their lost ones.” Drogo said.

She knew! Did he forget that? She had had to retire from acting, she had had to play the grieving widow, even though Drogo had agreed with her that their marriage was over because he hadn’t been stupid and perhaps, there had been someone in life as well – someone who was maybe still truly grieving his death, far more than she had.

 She was also aware that the divorce would have been called off once she found out she was pregnant if he had been still alive, they would have tried hard to make it work because  she had grown up without her parents and it had fucked up her life and he had grown up in a family where couples stayed together and divorce was unheard of, especially if there were children.

Ifs and buts, however, would not solve anything – she had to focus on the current situation not thinking about imaginary scenarios.

“Is that why I’m here?” She asked.

You asked to be here. I only obliged because you are my son’s wife.” The man replied, sitting behind his desk. He gestured them to do the same.

She stood for a moment longer, “Widow,” she said, “I’m your son’s widow!”

She sat as Drogo made a gesture with his hand. She had seen him doing it countless times. It meant, “Whatever – I’m right anyway.”

“Why are you here?” Drogo asked.

She knew that man. She couldn’t bullshit her way out of that. She couldn’t use her charms; she couldn’t do anything but being sincere.

“I’m here for your interview with the Boltons.” She said. And there, she couldn’t be more sincere than that.

That caught the man’s attention, he cocked an eyebrow and bloody hell, the uncanny resemblance to her late husband was taking her breath away – because there had been a moment, years, to be correct, where she had truly been in love with Drogo.

“I haven’t made up my mind about it yet.” The man replied. But she knew that it wasn’t the whole truth. Varys had been informed that the Boltons wanted to do an expose on Drogo and her. It was true that her father in law hadn’t signed a contract, yet, but Varys had come into possession of the questions the man would be asked, and that was what had terrified her.

“I’m surprised you noticed – I have seen how busy you’ve been lately.” The man replied and there was contempt in his voice. If it had been just about her taking a job, he would have told her that she didn’t need to, that she could live comfortably with her husband’s money and what the insurance had paid after his death.

But she had done more – hadn’t she? She had taken a job and she had fallen in love. And she wasn’t afraid to hide it.

“Is it about Jorah?” She asked. Was he truly going to deal with the Boltons because of her relationship with Jorah?

Would she be there, in that room, if she had just started to date Daario Naaris or Jon Snow? Would he look at her with such contempt and anger?

Well, neither Daario nor Jon had been singled out as her baby’s father after her husband died.

Drogo Sr., apparently, had not forgotten about that.

“You don’t really believe in that crap, do you?” She said. And she could see him almost telling her to watch her tongue. Her lawyer wasn’t moving, wasn’t telling her to shut up, he was checking documents in a manila folder he kept open on his legs.

Fuck.

“You are abandoning your child to fuck that old man!” The older man said. That was the man she recognised, she could hear the anger and the blame loud and clear, now.

Of all the things she could have criticised her for, he had focused on Jorah’s age. She knew he was older than her; she had done the math, and when Jorah had tried to broach the subject – and she knew he would try again sooner or later – she had deflected that. She didn’t care, but she knew that Drogo Sr. was just the first of a possibly long list of people who would criticise her for that.

They could all go and sod themselves for all she cared.

“I am protecting my son! We agreed that he was never to appear in pictures, remember? We agreed that he was not to be used by paparazzi!” She said.

Among all the stupid, pathetic and frankly insulting requests that had been made to her after Drogo died, that was the only one she had wholeheartedly agreed with.

“You have a very selective memory about our agreement, girl!” Drogo Sr. hissed.

Girl. Again.

She was a girl again, the one with blue eyes, almost white hair, nice tits and lips and a bit of acting talent.

She was a girl again, who had agreed to a show-mance because her brother wanted more money, more everything and her management team was made of greedy, sleazy bastards.

A girl.

God, again!

But, if she had to be truly honest, Drogo was right: they did have precise agreements, she wasn’t supposed to resume acting for a few years still. But how could she say no to Anne’s role? She had said yes before she even knew Jorah would sign up for the movie. And yes, she had fallen in love with him (or allowed herself to fall, same difference) and she could have made things easier for her by hiding their relationship, Jorah would have agreed, but she had refused to do that to him. She had refused to make him into her secret after everything he had sacrificed for her. She had refused to get into another loop of secrecy and lies and half-truths.

For the first time in her adult life she had been completely honest.

Yes, she had ignored part of their agreement, and no, she did not regret it. She would never regret loving Jorah and not having to hide it more than absolutely necessary.

“I did everything you asked me to! Everything! Was I supposed to mourn him forever? I’m sorry, I’m not that good of an actress!”

It was – crazy. It was crazy that she had to justify her actions, her feelings, her choices to that man. It was ludicrous that she had accepted his terms in the first place, but she had been numb with grief, she had felt guilty and she had been scared. Her people, Drogo’s had done a very good job at scaring her into submission. And she hadn’t known at the time that they had done the same with Jorah.   

“Aren’t you?” Drogo asked. She didn’t know that tone of voice – he had never used it with her, she had been family, and that man protected his own with everything he was and he had got.

Maybe she should have seen it coming. She knew Drogo blamed her for his son’s death. His fans, his management, his friends did – so why not his father?

He blamed her – and it turned out he thought she had pretended to love his son. He truly thought that she had used them all to get rid of her brother.

It hadn’t even occurred to her at the time that there were ways to get Vyserys out of her life, what the hell was he talking about?

“How convenient that you found that you were pregnant right after my son died!” Drogo said, after a tirade that made her sincerely doubt about her father in law mental health.

She couldn’t help it, she rolled her eyes and said, “Not this bullshit again! How many times do I have to tell you? Do that bloody DNA test already!”

It was ludicrous. Rhaego was the spitting image of his father and grandfather! She couldn’t believe they were still talking about that. She was past the point of being insulted, that ship had sailed three years before. She was sick and tired of hearing about that crap!

“Mayhap, I shall let a court of law decide.” The man said.

She felt her stomach drop. The man’s stare was unrelenting, cold as he continued, “Yes. Why don’t we let a court of law decide whether you’re fit to have Rhaego’s custody once they have all the facts?”

That man was not stupid, he had eyes and a functioning brain, he knew perfectly well that Rhaego was his own blood, he had her lulled into thinking that it was about Jorah and her, but it wasn’t, not really. It was about blood. His own blood. How could she have been so stupid? She had fallen for it hook, line and sinker!

Drogo’s words were what she had feared all along, if only it had been about an imaginary fling with Jorah!

He wouldn’t talk to the Boltons if he didn’t have a very clear agenda. And she knew that he could destroy her if he truly put his mind to it.

She didn’t give a damn about her own career, but she knew that it could survive a Bolton’s expose, that was one of the reasons why she had hired Varys in the first place.

Drogo’s family, however, had the means to raise all kinds of questions about her mental health. They knew the facts, they knew the truth, the one that her former management had been able to bury once she had become hot commodity.

If the truth about her family, about her brother came out through the Boltons, she could lose her son. It was as simple as that. The Boltons were scum, but their blogs, their trashy tabloids were read all over the world. And it was so simple, truly, to twist the truth and make it unrecognizable.

Tyrion would hate her because it would be yet another shit storm for his movie, a real one that time,  because Joffrey Baratheon’s tweets might have been a pain in the arse, they might have been humiliating for Sansa Stark, but they didn’t cause any real damage – they had been able to turn the tables in their favour and paparazzi had eventually got tired of insulting them and following them around.

And when did she become so jaded, anyway?

“I didn’t do that on my own,” She replied after a moment, since her lawyer was not talking. She didn’t spare him a glance anyway, as she went on, “you know that. I never asked any of you to do that!”

Which was the truth. Vyserys had been her problem, one she had thought she would have to deal with for the rest of her life. She hadn’t asked for help; she wasn’t wired that way. She had had to learn pretty soon in her life to deal with her problems on her own.

“That’s not how my family recalls it.” The man replied. He smiled – and it broke her heart a little because there had been a time when she had truly cared about that man, about that family, as weird and dysfunctional as it was.

“We took pity on you – and we helped you because you begged my son!” The man said and she shook her head in disbelief.

Really? Was that how he wanted to play it? She looked at the man, he had just said an outrageous lie and she noticed the way he was sitting on his chair, how his hands were grabbing the armrests of the chair.

What the –

She had made a living out of observing people. That was what actors truly did, after all. And she was a good actress. And she got that her former father in law was thinking that they were recording that conversation. It was a shot in the dark, it was possibly the part of her that still couldn’t believe that a man she had admired for his no-non sense attitude would ever interact with the Boltons.

And the thing was – she wasn’t recording their meeting. And she was pretty sure the kid wasn’t either.

It hadn’t occurred to her and she didn’t know whether to feel very naïve or sad because of that. Part of her, realised, had still thought of him as family, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.

What did that man want, truly? Did he want revenge because his son had died in a stupid accident on set, while riding on a horse, while she was still alive?

Did he want her to go back playing the grieving widow even if he knew that she had sunk that bloody ship herself for the past weeks?

Did he want Rhaego for himself to raise him to be just another Dothraki who could wield weapons and ride horses and do incredible stunts for the business? And maybe die in a stupid accident because he believed he was immortal?

She was a mother – she couldn’t even fathom the idea of losing her son, she did not want to imagine having to go through that kind of grief.

“Nothing of what you said is true and we both know that! I never cheated on your son and please stop insulting my intelligence with that crap!” She said.

It was true. Well, sort of. She had not cheated on her husband because she had believed in her wedding vows, even when she realized that Drogo and her had nothing in common besides physical attraction and ambition.

“Will you tell the Boltons that Rhaego is not your own blood? Really? Will you stain your son’s honour and memory with that lie?”

The older man, for the first time since she had got in the room, averted his eyes. No, he did not believe any of that crap, he never did. And he cared about his family’s honour more than anything.

“He is your blood. He will always be – you have always been free to visit him, whenever you wanted. Isn’t that true?” She said and she meant every word. She was an orphan, she hated that her son would never meet his father, she would never do anything to cut ties with that part of his family even if they were a pain in her arse and had forced her to do things she would not have done in a million of years, after Drogo died.

Drogo’s father had to be aware of that because they had known each other for a long time, but didn’t answer her and she was starting to lose her patience. She was fighting tears of anger and it was only adding on her already frayed nerves.

“What do you want?” She asked. If he wanted his son’s money back, the house she was ready and willing to give it all back, even if she knew that it wasn’t about the money.

“Are you in love with that man?” Drogo asked, still evading her question.

Funny, his son had asked her pretty much the same thing one of the last times they had talked before he died. The only difference was that her husband had sounded curious more than angry. She had taken it as a sign that their marriage had officially and unceremoniously sunk. Her husband had stopped her before she could answer, disconnecting the call and the next time they had talked, it had been about trivial things – about work, about an event they were supposed to attend together, posing and smiling for  the cameras like they had done so many times before.

She wondered, now, why the hell did Drogo’s father care. What did it have to do with the Boltons and Rhaego?

“I do,” She replied, however because it was true, “with all my heart.”

“So,” Drogo said, “if you have nothing to hide, why does a simple interview terrify you so much?”

She sighed. Drogo’s father was officially getting on her last nerve. He couldn’t be that dense!

 “Because,” She said, and her words were coming out harsher than she had originally planned, but she wasn’t strong enough to care at the moment, “they are under Cersei Lannister’s thumb – do you remember that bloody picture and the article that came with it? It was the Boltons! They twisted the truth and made a spectacle of your own son’s death and you want to talk to them?”

The man didn’t reply, clearly whatever he had in mind was more important than his son’s memory or he had lost his fucking marbles because it just did not compute.

And the feeling of being stuck in the middle of a nightmare went up a notch when Drogo opened a drawer of his desk and took something from it: it was a pack of letters, that he placed on the desk saying, “Your brother has been writing a memoir.”

She looked at her lawyer, who was keeping a blank face – at least she hoped it was his poker face and not being an incompetent arse – and then at Drogo and said, “My clinically insane brother is writing a memoir. How fascinating!”

The old fear, the one she had been only too happy to forget it had even existed in the first place was back, with a vengeance. 

“So,” she said, praying that he couldn’t read through her and see how terrified she was, “Are you seriously telling me that you trust the Boltons and my brother’s words not to turn your son’s memory into a farce? What about Rhaego?”

“I want my grandson here. I want him to live in this house, I want him to know who his father was, I want him to know his family’s legacy,” Drogo said.

She had known all along. It had been her first thought when she had been told about the interview. All the chatter about her being a liar and the comments about Jorah, meant nothing. That was what the man wanted.

“I will allow you to visit him, the child needs his mother, after all. You will have the weekends and summer holidays, if you can free your schedule, of course.” The man smiled, “I’m not heartless.”

 She didn’t move as silence fell into the room. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, and she looked at the letters on the desk. She didn’t even know that her brother was allowed to write letters and send them, she would have to check in with the doctors.

“These are my terms, or I will talk to the Boltons.” Drogo said.

At least they were done bullshitting around the issue. She thought. Her gut instinct had been right, Varys had been right – and she turned to look at the kid, who had not uttered a sound ever since he had introduced himself back in her house.

The kid smiled and said, “The autopsy on your son’s body, the real one, not the one the insurance saw, shows that he was drunk at the moment of the accident.”

Wait – what? She didn’t know that. Drogo never drank before action sequences.

Drogo’s father blinked, not showing surprise at the man’s words. Did he know? Was it why he blamed her for Drogo’s death? And yet, she had heard him that day, he had sounded fine, they had plans to attend a premiere together and then talk to their people about the divorce. He had sounded fine.

“We also have witnesses that can and will confirm under oath that your son cheated on my client at least on three separate occasions.” Mr. Greyworm continued.

Good for you, Drogo. She thought. She hadn’t technically broken her wedding vows, but it had been only because Jorah had been as decent as she was.

Honour, however, was something the Dotrhaki cared about.

Perhaps Drogo’s father blamed her for that too. If they had been truly happy in their marriage, if they hadn’t let it sink, he wouldn’t have cheated on her, she wouldn’t have to fight her feelings for Jorah.

Mr Greyworm didn’t seem to care that the things he was saying were a complete surprise for her too. And he didn’t look like a choir boy any longer. Perhaps his choir boy appearance was a trick as well, because looking at him now, she didn’t see any traces of the kid she had met that morning.

“By the way, just to put the argument to rest, we have run a blood test which clearly shows that Rhaego Dothraky is your grandson.”

He handed Drogo’s father a white envelope. “You are free to run your own tests, of course, but I would trust my client’s words if I were in you.”

The kid was talking out of his arse because unless they had taken Rhaego’s blood samples without her consent, there had been no DNA test made that she knew of. She had to take back all she had thought about the kid’s poker face.,

Damn. It was good!

“My client has honoured her part of a deal she was coerced into agreeing into three years before. A deal that had no legal basis to which she agreed under duress.” Grewyworm said. Drogo’s father was looking at her, now. They both knew the truth but, apparently it did not truly matter.

“As for my client’s brother, we know that whatever he might have written is not admissible in a court of law and most of all you’d need my client’s permission to publish it since she is his legal guardian.”

“He changed his mind.” Drogo senior said.

“Too bad. He doesn’t have a say in it until his next psych evaluation, but even if he did, my client is still his legal guardian at the moment, so you can’t use those letters without her permission.” Greyworm replied without missing a beat.

He put a manila folder on the desk and that time she knew what it was. It had been humiliating and it was the only thing she had not told Jorah because he wouldn’t understand, because he loved her and he hadn’t met her brother and he wouldn’t, not as long as she breathed. Yet another dog and pony show to show that she was not a nutcase that time, it was all there, in that beige manila folder.

She made a mental note to herself to tell Jorah about it – she knew that according to the shrinks and the tests she had performed she was not crazy. Not that it mattered, her brother had sounded perfectly sane most of the times.

God, she felt like she was going to be sick.

“To make this clear: you are hereby forbidden to use Mr. Stormborn letters. They are not yours.” Greyworm smiled and she had to give it to him: it was a scary sight.

“Blackmail is a crime, Mr. Dothraki” The young man said, “Nonetheless, I urge you to check on your mobile phone to have an idea of the scenario that would come to pass should you mention my client in any way, shape or form in any interview.”

Was it even legal? She had no idea about what the hell the young man she had mistakenly thought looked inoffensive was saying. He looked like he was having fun, Drogo’s father looked angry and she had her heart still stuck in her throat. She thought she probably deserved an Academy Award for the way she was trying to keep both her body and her face as blank as possible.

“I don’t want my grandson to grow up with that man!” Drogo said.

Mr Greyworm shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “Sucks to be you.”

The kid looked like he was having fun, while she felt like she was going to be sick and Drogo’s father looked paler than he had when they had got into the room.

As Greyworm had suggested, he did check on his phone and she noticed the frown marring his brow.

She had never seen that look on the man’s face. And the fact was that she had no idea about what was causing it.

“Tell them you have changed your mind,” Greyworm said, as if he was talking to a child, “I think it is reasonable that the child stays with his father’s family while his mother is shooting a movie and I am sure my client agrees with me about future arrangements.”

No, actually she didn’t, but she didn’t know what Drogo was still looking at and she had no idea about what her lawyer knew that she didn’t.

“My grandson will never have another name!” Drogo said, still looking at his mobile phone. He looked at Greyworm and then at her and said, “Are we clear on that?”

She thought for a moment about that morning – she thought about how she found Jorah in the kitchen with her son. Jorah had no children, his first wife had been too busy with her career and screwing around to have them – and it felt like she was on a freight train, all of sudden: they still had not talked about what to do after the movie wrapped and her former father in law was already thinking about things that Jorah and her had not even talked about yet.

She couldn’t imagine her life without Jorah in it, however. She couldn’t imagine living without him, so, perhaps, her former father-in-law had a point.

“Leave us!” Drogo sr. said to Greyworm, after a short spell of silence.

The young man (was he really young anyway?) looked at her – and she knew he wouldn’t going anywhere if she said no, if she said the meeting was over.

Drogo, however, was her son’s grandfather and he would always be. She had loved his son and she still felt like she owed them a debt of gratitude. She couldn’t change her past or how her heart felt.

She nodded at the lawyer who didn’t look pleased at the idea of leaving – and yes, appearances could be deceiving, would she ever learn ? – but nonetheless left the room, not before he said, “Sir, I just want to remind you that you have far more to lose by signing that contract with the Boltons than my client does!”

 She had a feeling that there was information she was not privy of, but that could wait. It had to.

“What the fuck is going on?” Drogo asked once they were alone.

Her eyebrows shot high, very high because that was the man she recognised, the man who had hugged her when his son had brought her home for the first time and told her that she was family.

How to begin and explain to him what was going on? Why she had decided to break the system because she was sick ad tired of being a cog in the machine and she had wanted to help a young girl that she had barely known because people like the Lannisters and the Baratheons were psychopaths who had fun ruining people’s lives?

Drogo sighed and asked, “Why are you fighting Cersei Baratheon?”

There was concern, now, in his voice – and she was surprised because so far, she had genuinely thought that the man had come to hate her.

She had thought he had hated her since the moment his son died.

“She started first!” She replied.

“Are you 10?” The man asked. He was right, it was an immature reply, but the truth was that her father in law was part of that system she wanted to tear down.

And she told him, “Somebody needs to – this business is rotten and I’m so tired of being a pawn!”

The man leant on his desk, studying her. She could see no contempt in his eyes, he reminded her of the way Drogo looked at her sometimes, before they simply fell out of love with each other.

“What makes you think that your position has changed?” He asked. He was asking a question and he sounded genuinely curious about her answer.

He sounded so different from the man who had talked in front her lawyer and she didn’t know whether he had lied earlier or he was being a liar now.

And she couldn’t give him an answer anyway.

“To shake up a system you need power – and you have to decide whether shaking the boat is really worth it. Hiring Varys is just changing master, girl!”

She didn’t like what the man had said. She didn’t even want to know how he knew about Varys. He was right, however: hiring Varys had been just swapping masters, but it had been a necessary evil.

Drogo smiled and showed her his mobile phone and she had to blink, twice, at what she read: it was an email signed by producers, directors, stuntmen in which it was plainly written that they would no longer work with his company if he accepted the Boltons’ interview.

Drogo scrolled the screen and she saw another email, that one was signed by Ned Stark. Sansa’s father had told the man that they weren’t threatening or blackmailing him. Since Drogo’s company signed contracts for single productions, they were just stating a fact.

“That’s a power play!” Drogo said, he didn’t sound angry or threatened, he almost sounded amused by that e-mail. “Was it your lover? I know Varys and that’s not his style. The kid who wants to drag me through the mud in a court of law is all him, but this one?” He said taking the mobile from her hand, “it’s not Varys. He wouldn’t shake the boat like that. The truth, girl!”

She shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t know. I asked Sansa Stark a favour.”

It was the truth, whatever had happened after she had hung up the phone with her, it was not told to her.

Drogo nodded his head, he handed her the folder with her brother’s “memoirs” and said, “You know me, I don’t like being blackmailed. So, I will talk to Boltons, tell them about my son, how happy you two were – and that is the truth: you made him happy.”

“He made me happy as well.” She replied. She wasn’t touching the file with her brother’s letters and she felt lightheaded.

“I will tell them that his death devastated us – and how brave you were to have a child during that time and how proud we are of you and how you are raising my son’s boy. And when they ask about your lover, I will tell them that you deserve happiness, that my son would want you to be happy.”

She had been good at fighting tears, but her voice came out nasal and her vision was a bit blurred when she asked, “Would he?”

“Yes.” He shrugged, “not with the man you chose; he was jealous of him.”

She smiled; it broke her heart the way Drogo talked about his son. One thing was true: his death had devastated him.

“What – about my brother?” She asked, eventually.

“They don’t know about him and I won’t tell them, but you need to come clean about him before they find out.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She asked. That was definitely not how she had expected the meeting to end.

“Because Ned Stark, unlike many leeches in the business, is a man of his word. I respect him. Varys would drag my son’s memory into the mud, you must surely know his m.o.”

Did she ever!

The man laughed and said, “Besides, I got what I wanted: spending more time with my grandson and know which side to pick in the little war you started in Belfast.”

The relief she felt was so powerful that she felt lightheaded for a moment – and exhausted.

Drogo got up from his chair and she did the same, taking in her hands the folder he had given her, they were almost at the door when the man said, “One more thing before you go: you were once my daughter, and you are the mother of my son’s only child – you know who is behind the Boltons?”

“I told you: Cersei Lannister.” She replied.

The man shook his head, “She uses them as much as you can use Roose Bolton and that piece of shit of his son. You told me about that picture –“

Fuck, that picture, an innocent hug between friends turned into something else. And yes, she was aware that she had feelings for Jorah even back then, and she knew that Jorah had feelings for her, but there had been nothing even remotely romantic in that moment. He had been a friend, the only one who had stayed and she had sought comfort in his arms.

“Why would Cersei Lannister care about you at the time? You had not worked for her, you didn’t even know her. You know who my son and you worked for?”

“Paetyr Baelish,” She replied.

“Got it in one.” He said.

But it didn’t make sense! She could sort of understand the picture, she had done a movie with Baelish and she was supposed to promote it when Drogo died, but they were making a movie together, now – one whose commercial success he needed.

“But why?” She asked, eventually because she truly did not compute.

“Ask your lover about Catherine Tully and Baelish, he has known them forever. There is also a story I heard: Baelish thought knowledge was power, he told Cersei Baratheon while they were on a set, she made two P.A. do all kind of things to show him the truth: power is power. Baelish still hasn’t learned his lesson. He also underestimates the Boltons. I do remember that picture and that article, Dany.”

Drogo hugged her and told her again to find a way to come clean about her brother before it was used against her.

He held her hand for a moment, “It might have seemed harsh and unfair to your lover, but at the time we were only trying to protect you.”

She was tempted to let go of his hand, but the honesty and regret in his eyes stopped her from doing so.

“You ruined his life.” She whispered.

Drogo shook his head, “No, that was Mr. Varys’ doing, not mine. And to be clear: we never told him anything, he already knew. However, I will help you now, in any way I can.”

It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

 


Belfast

 

 

Working with Dolores Edd was always funny. He was a veteran actor and it never ceased to amaze her how he could switch it on and off for the camera. Her colleagues told her that she could do it as well, that she was good at switching it on and off, but Edd was something else altogether.

She was feeding him lines and looked as he said his lines, mindful of not missing his mark, knowing exactly where and how to move so that the cameras would get the best possible shot and then he flubbed a line and no one could resist his sense of humour, even Jon usually smiled and shook his head at the new and inventive curses Edd came up with when he missed a mark or forgot a line.

Edd had named himself, “Exposition guy”, which was unfair because Tyrion hated exposition, he wanted the audience to pay attention and use their brains, but there were lots of names of places and people and Dolores had the misfortune of having to remember the most of them.

All things considered, it was a good day on set; they had been shooting around Dany and Jorah’s absence and the two of them would have to burst their butts when they came back, but if things went well, she doubted they would truly care.

Jon called cut, Dolores had not lost his momentum and turned his mistake into a solid scene.

Jon ordered that all the actors’ microphone had to be shut down – that was a new one, he had been obsessed with that instruction that day, and she was surprised when he approached her.

He was smiling because even while walking on eggshells around each other it was hard not to smile when they were around each other; he looked tired and worried, and she was so sorry that he was in the middle of that mess. He deserved so much better than that.

“Sansa –“ Jon said, “can we talk, later?”

She nodded. What else could she do, anyway?

“It’s about tomorrow’s scenes.” He added after a second.

Right – because they had not talked about each and every scene of the bloody movie and rehearsed it until they all knew each other’s parts.

She smiled because she had asked him to focus on the movie and he was obliging, she smiled because their relationship was fraying around the edges because she had fucked up and she was so very tired of feeling like there was no winning move. Yet, she smiled and told him that of course they could talk about the movie. He was her director and she was his lead actress and everything could go to hell because Cersei was out for blood and the only thing she was sure of was that Jon Snow could not and would not be collateral damage in that mess.

She spared them both moments of awkward silence and left him when she saw Tyrion getting back on the soundstage. He looked relieved and like he had forgotten the conversation they had had that morning – she hadn’t- because he grinned and said, “Bullet dodged! Your father can be a scary son of a bitch, apparently.”

She smiles as she sat next to him. Everyone would believe that it was her father moving strings behind the scenes. It was okay – but it wasn’t the truth.

Her mother was.

Starks were considered royalty in their business as much as the Lannisters, Tullys, however were different. Her mother was a power player. Tullys were headstrong, resilient and had been in the business long before the concept of stardom was born. Her family had made a move.

The lone wolf died, but the pack survived, his father said all the time and Jorah Mormont, despite the falling out, was part of the family – and so was Dany.

“Have you talked to your sister, yet?” She asked Tyrion.

“Nah, she will call me after her meltdown – I want it to last longer!” he replied. It looked like he wanted to make sure she knew he was not the enemy.

Frankly, Tyrion looked a bit scared.

She sighed and said, “’My beautiful boy’ opened two days ago, the embargo on reviews ends at midnight.”

Tyrion shrugged his shoulders.

“It won’t flop.” She said.

“It’s too soon to say that.” Tyrion said.

She took his hand in hers, and the gesture caused Tyrion to look at her.

“It won’t flop. And it will get traction.” She said.

Tyrion looked genuinely confused by her words and maybe the absolute certainty she had shown while saying them. She added, “I heard Tormund will be here on set soon.”

“And…?” He asked.

“Nothing,” She shrugged her shoulders, “just something to remind your sister of…”

It was a rare sight to see Tyrion Lannister at a loss for word, genuinely confused by  what was going on. It was good.

Tyrion didn’t know – couldn’t know about the long phone conversation she had had with her father the previous night. He knew it had happened, but he didn’t know that she had told her father almost everything. He had no idea about the long video call with her mother and Maergery Tyrell and the things she had been told, he couldn’t know that after those conversation she had finally stopped feeling like a victim. She had stopped blaming herself and feeling ashamed.

It had already started before those conversations, actually, the words she had heard, however, had helped her feeling like she could properly breathe for the first time in years.

She wanted to watch Joffrey and his mother being afraid, terrified as much as she had been for three years.

Daenerys Stormborn might have started that war, but she would have to win it.

The day before had been the last time Joffrey Baratheon humiliated her whether directly or indirectly. Her father promised her. Her mother and her sister had assured her – and so had Theon and Maergery, but it was the woman she saw in the mirror who made it real for her.

She recognised herself, that morning, after seeing the face of a stranger for so long.

And she knew she needed help, she knew how fucked up her mind was (case in point: her relationship with Jon Snow), she was also aware that making Joffrey and Cersei pay for what they did to her was not a cure, not even a placebo. She would think about that, later. She would think about the things she did not tell her family – but after she was done with the Lannisters.

Tyrion smiled at her, “My dear Ms. Stark – you might survive us yet.”

He laughed, squeezed her hand and continued, “Now do us all a favour and dislodge that stick from Jon’s arse. Put him out of his misery!”

 


 

London

 

The girl in his bed was sleeping – or was passed out – she bled all over his new silk sheets. Well, at least she had a ball gag on so she was a pain in his arse when she screamed.

It was an important week. It might possibly be the most important week of his career.

Unlike what his mother thought he knew that movie was his last chance before he ended up playing villains in B movies or having to hope BBC didn’t hate his guts and let him do period pieces until he died.

The film had opened and people had actually gone and seen it. He didn’t have a clue about the reviews, but there was an official premiere he had to attend, lots and lots of asses he had to kiss and it was all because of Sansa fucking Stark.

He did all they asked him to do, didn’t he? He apologised for the tweets – which was utter bullshit because Lannisters didn’t apology, his father would have told Sansa’s people to suck his cock before he apologised.

And yet he had.

He had ignored Jon Snow.

Do not engage.

People had told him, over and over and he had obliged even though he truly wanted to have a few words with Jon Snow

“Jonny boy,” He said aloud, “playing the knight for a whore…”

He could give pointers to Jon Snow on how to get Sansa on her knees, or with her legs wide spread in seconds if she hadn’t already done it herself.

His mother, his own mother had told him not to do anything, to lay low and to shut the fuck up. His mother had him living like a fucking recluse while he learned statements speeches and answers by heart in front of the mirror.

He would have to pretend to be contrite, genuinely sorry about his words and how degrading they could be for women.

He gave a look at the girl in the bed. Maybe she was dead. He didn’t remember much about the previous night. He remembered how tight she was, how nice it had been pounding into her while keeping her by the hair, her face down against the pillow. The ball gag had come later, he vaguely remembered.

Whatever.

He would have to look sweet, devastated and still in love with Sansa – because people would rather forgive someone who lie to their faces pretending to be still in love with a slut rather than accepting that he said the truth.

“You can’t fuck this up, Joffrey! I’m doing what I can, but I need your help!” his mother had told him.

Whatever, he was not stupid. He started to whistle as he started to prepare his lines of coke. He had already drunk vodka, so just a couple of lines and he was good to go.

“Joffrey!” It was his mother’s voice.

She didn’t even bother knocking on the door, apparently, he had lost his right to privacy for the past few weeks.

“Good morning, mum.” He said.

“Is she alive?” She asked pointing at the girl in the bed. He had to stifle a chuckle because his mother looked like she couldn’t give half a toss about the red-headed slut in his bed.

Cersei approached the bed and checked her pulse.

“She is alive,” She said, “but she bled all over the new sheets.”

“Shame..” He said, without looking at her.

Three perfect little lines: not enough to be truly noticeable in pictures or in interviews, but enough that he could go through that dog and pony show.

He started when his mother thew the small tray and its content on the floor.

“Mum!” He exclaimed.

His mother crowded his space, she was towering over him, because he was sitting and she looked crossed.

“Don’t even think about it! Tonight, when you come home, not a minute earlier. You have to work, now!”

She took a vial from her pocket and handed it to him saying, “This is from Doctor Qyburn.”

“I don’t trust that creep..” He said. It was true, but the stuff he gave him was usually top notch.

“I don’t care. It’s the best we’ve got. Now, be a good boy, drink that and go get ready. Do you remember your lines?”

He nodded as he drank the vial’s content, it tasted bitter, but he felt it was already working when he got up and said, “I am a fucking professional!”

His mother brushed his hair, she smelled like the flowers in their garden and he smiled when she said, “Of course, you are my love. Now, go have a shower, clean your nails, there’s blood underneath –“

He was already in character when he sheepishly asked her if she could fix the mess in his room, he thanked her on the way to the bathroom.

When that shit was done, he decided, he was going to have a long chat with both Jon Snow and his beloved ex fiancé.

A long chat.

 


 

Belfast.

 

He didn’t remember their suite being so full of people. They had dinner with their castmates or Tyrion and Bronn, but having what Dany called “Team GQA” plus Jon was something new.

He would have loved nothing more than whisking Dany away somewhere for the night and make sure she was all right, that they still had each other, that she would not lose her son – that he hadn’t destroyed her life.

It would have to wait because Daenerys wanted to share what Drogo Sr. had told her because Cersei had fucked with the wrong person when she had used the Boltons.

“I think,” Tyrion said eventually, “that it’s too easy. That’s not what they do when they want to bury someone.”

“Could have fooled me last night.” Dany replied.

“I think he wanted us busy, occupied, worried, distracted today. And I believe Sansa knows why.” Tyrion continued.

Sansa had had a long day on set, for once she wasn’t wearing oversize clothes and she looked relaxed, sitting on the couch next to Brienne.

She looked – different. He wondered, for a moment, whether Dany had realized as well.

“Care to share with the class?” Dany asked. She was still shaken, but he noticed the way she was looking at Sansa, how she was unconsciously mimicking the way she tilted her head.

“Joffrey’s movie opened two days ago. As we speak they’re drinking champagne after the premiere. The embargo on reviews lifts in a hour. He has been doing press junkets all day and he has more tomorrow.”

Right. The independent movie Joffrey had shot before Future Perfect, shot with little money, lots of talents at the helm and possibly one of the few roles Joffrey Baratheon had had to truly work on. Or so he had heard through the gravepine.

Dany was not speaking, she was looking at Sansa and he knew that look. She was pissed. Varys must not have informed her about it. He knew because he had been in the business forever and whether he wanted or not he always ended up knowing more than he wanted about productions.

Incredibly enough Jon was smiling, “He can’t afford to lose his shit.”

Tyrion nodded and added, “He cannot afford another flop. And this movie alone cannot truly save his career.”

Sansa shrugged, “Unless the movie gets traction and it is exactly what Baelish needs. It doesn’t feel like Oscar period without a Baelish production in the mix.”

“And Joffrey cannot afford to lose his shit.” Dany said, repeating what Jon had said, while looking at Sansa.

The way they smiled in synch, how Sansa tilted her left eyebrow and Dany the right was almost scary.

To think he had honestly feared they would not get along.

Sansa’s smile broadened before she said, “Shall we break the internet again?”

 Dany smiled, “Let’s rehearse our photoshoot.”

Jon stood up and said, “Allow me, ladies.” He was smiling, but the look in his eyes was scary.

He heard Bronn muttering under his breath, “We are so fucked.”

He gave a pat on Bronn’s shoulder as he got up and said, “Oh, no – we just want them to know that we got the message loud and clear and give our love.”

 

Chapter 13: #dinneramongfriends

Summary:

They broke the internet, again. There are consequences.

Notes:

So, here it goes. Last time I updated this, it was pre Covid, pre X, pre last season of Game of Thrones, perhaps (I'm not sure. be kind.). It took me forever to get past my real life issues. It's a long chapter, like 25 pages long?
When I started writing this, there weren't apps to make it look like Instagram, twitter and text messages, I've seen them while reading some fan-fictions lately. So, if I learn how to use them (big if), expect some serious editing of the fic.
Another note at the end of the chapter not to spoil those who want to read.
Wow. Hope you guys like it!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 From Twitter:

 

 

 @sansaisagoddess: my sexual orientation is now Sansasexual  #whosaidshewasacoldfish #dinneramongfriends #holyfffff #thechemistrywithJonandDany #SansaDefenceSquad

 

@sansaGQA12:  @sansaismygoddess ikr? The picture with Dany was kinda hot…#dinnneramongfriends

 

@fireandice456: sexy and funny. I’ve been telling everyone that Jon Snow has a dry sense of humour for ages, do you believe me now? #dinneramongfriends #hisinteractionwithAryaStarkwascomedygold

 

@sandanyshipper: no offence to Jorah, but I now ship Dany and Sansa and want that bloody photoshoot to come out now. #grabbyhands #dinneramongfriends

 

SansaAlysanne01@ everybody can go home now, the leading ladies of Good Queen Alysanne have slayeth #dinneramongfriends #thathotelroomisbiggerthanmyflat

 

@itktgqa: that they did. I heard it was a genuine, not pre-vetted, spur of the moment decision. #sometimesyougottadowhatyougottado #dinneramongfriends

 

@joffbratheonismyking: @sansaisagoddess @sansaGQA12 @sandanyshipper: we all know how Sansa is, Daenerys has better taste than that, #jonsnow is a lost cause.

 

@sansaisagoddess: omfg @joffbaratheonismyking: go win some poll and watch AGAIN and AGAIN your fave’s movie LOL #dinneramongfriends #iwouldwatchitifitwereamovie #hardpassonBaratheonmovie

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @joffbaratheonismyking: rolling my eyes so hard. Mate, let it go already! #dinneramongfriends #jonmiboiyoulookhotaf

 

 From Tumblr:

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

 

Daenerys Stormborn Instagram is a treasure.

 

Miscellaneous things I noticed upon the 100th viewing of the histories, videos and pictures posted by the cast of “Good Queen Alysanne”, especially Dany’s social media and things I’m wondering

 

  • Whose hotel room is it? I spied Jorah’s pink iPad cover on the table behind the sofa and what it looked like a pair of female slippers under the chair where Jon was sitting (when Dany and Sansa weren’t all over him in pictures)
  • Speaking of the sofa: was Dany sitting on Jorah’s lap in the first video, the one where Sansa is singing, or am I seeing things?
  • I take back all the doubts I might have had about Sansa Stark. I did not write anything in public, but I was sceptical about her casting. Not anymore. We stan Sansa Stark in this blog!
  • Jon Snow is hot. Very hot. Why didn’t anyone tell me? He usually looks like someone kicked his favourite puppy at public events or in paparazzi pics, but he looked totally fine, must have been the company.
  • I had never seen Tyrion Lannister dressed in casual clothes; his laughter is so cute!
  • My man Jorah Mormont looked exhausted, and so did Dany. #wiggleeyebrows
  • Ok, call me a fucking tin hat, but Dany wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I repeat, she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I’m shook.
  • You can anon me if you recognised Dany’s necklace and we can have a meltdown together. #somanyfeels
  • Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. Who took that picture? Did they know what they were doing?
  • I’m not into slash, but if I were, and if I weren’t Dany/Jorah trash, I would totally ship Dany and Sansa. The mirroring thing they did in that story and that one picture was It’s hot that Jon is credited as the photographer, it’s hot that it’s chaste and yet they have an insane amount of chemistry (when does the film get released by the way?)
  • I have read that #dinneramongfriends is still tending worldwide. I can see why. Also, I want to be at one of their dinners.
  • None of them sounded or looked drunk, high or stoned so to anyone who’s been saying they were: fuck you (you know who they are, and they suck just like their favourite actor)
  • My man Jorah sang. He has the voice of an angel, but we already knew that. Dany sang as well.
  • Duet. Duet. It lasted 10 seconds which are now on a loop.
  • No, really: Jorah, Daenerys – I would pay real money to listen to you two sing together: stageit !!!
  • Where the hell was Daario Naris? I loved his comments, however. “I should have answered my phone” had in me in stitches.
  • The Starks bickering on Instagram were hysterically funny. Arya Stark wins at life.
  • Elephant in the room: are Jon and Sansa a thing? Should our fandoms collide?
  • I want that bloody photoshoot now!
  • Dany without makeup looks sixteen.

 

There’s so much more to say. I like that it looks like they really like each other and like to hang out together, even off-screen. They’ve been shooting on soundstage for days, so no one has seen them for a while…paparazzi have finally stopped harassing them.

 I was surprised because I didn’t expect it. I thought Jorah had lost his Instagram password or something, and Dany had just liked some of Sansa’s throwback pics lately.  

On one of the Discord servers I’m part of, somebody said that they feared the cast’s overexposure before the film even premieres and it got me thinking because most of us want the film to be a hit. There has been some interesting discussion about it, and I’m not claiming to be an expert of marketing and PR, but I’m not naïve enough to think that they were just shooting the shit together like “normal” friends do. I don’t know what’s going on, but it didn’t look like one of Baelish’s dog and pony shows.

What should we expect during the press junkets?

Anons and mutuals keep asking me why Dany and Jorah are still officially single, even though the writing is on the wall. I don’t know and I truly don’t care. Stop asking!

She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. I don’t remember a picture of her off-set where she hasn’t been wearing them, and believe me, I have checked.

Call me a tin hat, watch me care.

 

#danyxjorah   #otp: can I keep him tough #kindastartingtoshipjonxsansa

 

26.500 notes

 


 

London

 

He fucking hated press junkets. He hated having to answer the same stupid questions over and over. It was pointless.

 He hated sitting down and having to shake hands with people and pretend they all gave half a toss about what they were saying. It was embarrassing.

 Things had been going well, however. It was too early to tell for sure, but the movie was doing well. People, not just his fans, went to the cinema to watch him, and they liked what they saw. He couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. It was nice.  

When he had told his mother that, perhaps, she should trust him a little, she had not spoken – she had let their people, his people, do the talking.

Lots and lots of words translated into: he had no new gigs lined up, he was not bankable, he wasn’t even fuckable according to the polls they had made. Therefore he had to suck it up, do whatever they told him to do and not fuck it up.

He couldn’t even take a piss without asking for permission; he couldn’t go to his social media; there was some intern that was managing his accounts; he didn’t even currently own a mobile phone because all his calls and texts had to be vetted by his mother’s people, first. He had to take all the interviews they told him to and eat shit.

His mother was a bloody cunt.

The woman who was interviewing him was a cunt as well; nonetheless, he had been on his best behaviour so far: saying thank you, asking people how they were, he had been kind to the P.A., to the crew members, to the girls and boys in hair and make up even when cameras weren’t on. He had also chatted with his fans outside, and his cheeks were sore because he had been smiling nonstop for hours.  

He was exhausted.

He didn’t even need to really pay attention to what the bitch was asking because all the questions had been vetted by his people.

And yet, lo and behold, a picture of Sansa and her co-stars and her director had just come up on the screen. Behind their chairs.

The blonde cunt was challenging him with the look she was giving him. They were live, and that woman wanted an opinion about the pictures and videos that were bloody everywhere!

 

People can fall out of love but still care about each other. Sansa and I will always be part of each other’s lives.

 

No, that sucked, and he had already used it.

 

I’m looking forward to seeing Good Queen Alysanne. It’s probably my uncle’s best script to date. Oh, yes, of course I wished I had been cast in the movie, but scheduling conflicts, mate…

 

Over his dead body.

 

“Did you see the pictures?” The woman asked. Her voice had been sugary sweet, but the look in her eyes was cold.

 

He ran a hand through his hair. He knew how to play it: bashful, humble, self-deprecating. He had it in the bag. He was a professional actor!

 

“Hard to miss them these days.” He said with a grin. He showed dimples and teeth, his body language was okay, not perfect, but he had just been blindsided, hadn’t he?

 

Sansa draped all over her director, Daenerys Stormborn on the other side, doing the same: they were smiling at the camera, knowing what they were doing.

 

“You did not comment on them on social media this time.” The woman said with a grin.

 

She gave him the opening they had agreed on to apologise for his comment on Twitter properly and what happened after.

 

That wasn’t my best moment, I know. It snowballed from those tweets, and I am not proud of what happened, and I’m not proud of how I behaved.

I didn’t expect that what I wrote would have such a reaction. Which is not an excuse, just the truth. What happened afterwards, made me realize how important it is to remember that words can hurt and have consequences. I was callous towards Sansa and I truly regret that. It was also unfair towards Jon Snow and the crew of the movie, including my uncle.

 

Fuck it! He had given variations of that apology for two days. He was sick of it! Nothing he had said was untrue, anyway – weren’t those bloody pictures proof that he had been right all along? And yet, he’d need to eat some more shit!

The cunt was waiting for him to say something, and he would make sure that it was the last segment of a talk show she ever hosted. Why the fuck did he agree to a live show?

Right, because people needed to see the fucking movie, so he would go to the opening of an envelope if it brought people to watch it.

“No, I didn’t.” He eventually replied. He was satisfied with the tone of his voice and his body language.  

“Well, here’s your chance!” The woman cheerfully said.

Was she for real? He knew better than to look around – he was a fucking professional, and that wasn’t his first press junket – he needed to keep it together. What the fuck was she thinking anyway? Ambushing guests who had to promote their job was not how things were done!

He forced a smile and took another look at the picture. He made sure to linger while looking at Sansa, and his voice cracked just the right amount when he said, “It looks like they were having a lot of fun. It’s a nice thing when it happens on set.”

Not that he’d know. He usually didn’t shit where he ate. Work and private life had to be separated; it had been drilled into him ever since he was a fucking toddler.

The cunt was not satisfied with his answer, he had not taken the bait, and she cocked an eyebrow at his glistening eyes. She wasn’t buying it, and he didn’t care.

His fans would wet their panties, shipping him with Sansa. The people in the business would snicker, and the Starks would not be pleased.

Fuck them all. All that mattered was that people saw the bloody movie.

Later, when he was sure that no cameras were around, that no one had a bloody mobile phone or a microphone handy, he would let the cunt know exactly what he thought about her interview.

 


Belfast

 

Paeter Baelish didn’t know that they had a group chat that included Oberyn Martell. It had not been very active ever since her mother’s movie premiere in London and she had frankly almost forgotten about it until the day before, when they had all woken up and found dozens of messages from Martell.

They had not told him about their plan the night Dany and Jorah came back from London – because it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. And yes, they had got carried away. They had fun. They had meant to send a message to the Lannisters (because whatever his surname was, Joffrey was a Lannister), and it had been received.

Oberyn had been part happy, part cross – apparently, the photo shoot would have to be slightly different, now – and part worried.

Cersei had gotten their message, and she was not happy with it.

They had also put Joffrey in a predicament. It didn’t matter how much he tried to apologise and try to polish his image during the press junket for his movie: his tweets and his comments were impossible to forget. Jon had commented that it wasn’t exactly their fault if Cersei’s spawn (his exact words) couldn’t act for shit on live television.

“True,” Martell had replied, “but that won’t stop him from trying anyway.”

And try he was. He had rave reviews; the movie was successful, and Baelish had his late release for the year’s Awards Season. Their world should be their oyster, instead, they were all seething with anger.

Not Baelish, not truly. He was under Cersei’s thumb, however, and he would do whatever batshit insane idea she had now.

Oberyn, J’Haquen, and Varys had all warned them: there would be hell to pay down the line. She knew that Daenerys and Jorah had been warned to get their ducks in a row as soon as possible because they were the weakest links in the chain at that moment.

Not even Cersei would try and touch her, now, not while Future Perfect was still haemorrhaging money and her studio releases’ figures for the year didn’t look that great. Her mother had told her that, and she knew much more than her about what truly went on behind the scenes and what Variety and Deadline wrote.

 Her father had told her that no one in their sane mind would dare to touch Jon Snow: he had no skeletons in his closet or, if he did, he didn’t give any fucks about them. Even before their movie, he was considered a hot commodity in the business, and now, with the buzz around “Good Queen Alysanne”, - touching him would be bad for business; also, Jon had apparently gathered a lot of goodwill in the business in the last few years.

The same went for Daario. He had a built-in fanbase that did more than troll the internet: they went to see his movies. He had an impressive track record with the box office, had a solid reputation and was universally loved by crewmembers across the board. Even Theon, who had only met him in passing before he moved to Belfast, genuinely liked the guy!

As the lead of the movie – it was still surreal to think along these lines – Martell had suggested she meet with Baelish to “discuss” the matter. Her castmates, her director, Tyrion and even Brienne and Davos had protested in the chat. She had agreed with him.

It wouldn’t be that day, however.

No pressure. She thought as she patiently waited for Jon, Davos, their production designer and the A.D. to finish doing whatever they were doing.

No pressure; it’s just your main scene in the movie.

Baelish had crudely called the scene she was about to shoot her “Oscar Clip” because that man was obsessed with Awards Season and was giddy with anticipation of his next vehicle. Her movie. Jon’s movie. Tyrion’s movie. It was Dany and Jorah’s movie the man wanted to turn into a dog and pony show to get more money through his Awards campaigns.

Baelish was not allowed on set. Jon was using everything in his contract and hers and all of Tyrion's tricks not to allow him anywhere near the soundstage during the shooting of the scene.

Only essential personnel were allowed on set. Technically, Jorah wasn’t in the scene, but since Daenerys was, he was sitting behind the monitors with Jon and Tyrion.

Baelish could go and suck it, as far as she was concerned.

That scene had been her beast to beat ever since day one. Even when paparazzi hounded them and the behind-the-scenes drama because of Joffrey had been in full swing, she had not stopped working on the scene: reading it, making notes, rehearsing it with Dany, with the other actors, with Jorah. She had read it with Maergery at home, and she had discussed it on breaks with Jon. It was a monologue, but it was also a choreography, a study of dignity and grief. It was public humiliation and rising from it, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Jon, whose mission was to make that movie a logistical nightmare, had decided that the scene would be a long take, with every actor having to up their games to get what he wanted from the scene. And she knew Jon – she knew he would get exactly what he wanted from all of them, even if it meant she was going to be dead on her feet by the end of the day. She sort of loved him for that, too.

Brienne announced that they were ready. The AD was giving instructions to the other actors in the scene: lights were fine, they were all hitting their marks, and she swallowed past the dryness in her throat.

Baelish would have to wait, and Cersei would have to fucking deal with it.

She was ready.

 


Most of being an actor was waiting. Especially while shooting movies. It was short bursts where they became someone else and long, long spells of waiting. She was not a method actress; she usually didn’t stay in character between takes, and in Anne’s case, given how scary and dark her mind could be, she was glad for that.

They were setting up the shot for Sansa’s coverage of the scene. She had been worried in the morning because it was the scene which could make Sansa’s career. She would hate to fuck it up for her. She knew her lines, of course. She knew where her light was. She knew where her mark was. She knew what she had to do.

That was why her mind kept going in circles around what Oberyn had told them.

“Get your ducks in a row; do it before Baelish gets to talk with Sansa. Nothing will stop Cersei after.”

It didn’t take a genius to get that Jorah and her were the weak links in the chain: that movie was their comeback, the one shot they had at being working actors again. They were the ones who were having a not-so-secret relationship fraught with ghosts from their past. They were the ones who had a shared history, and Jorah was the one who had been dragged through the mud to protect her skeletons in the closet.

All true. That said, she hadn’t hesitated to call a remote conference with Varys the night before. She had made sure Jorah was out with Tyrion and Bronn. He didn’t like it, but she liked it even less when he had to be in the same space with Varys.
She had hired him, but that didn’t mean that she liked the man and what he had done to the man she loved.

Far, very far from it.

 

“You make working for you difficult at times.” Varys had said as a form of greeting.

“You knew what you signed up for. My brother is clinically insane, weren’t you aware?” She quipped, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She couldn’t help it. All her interactions with Varys were like that.

“I was. That said, I take Martell talked to you?” He said, dismissing her animosity as if she was a child throwing a tantrum.

Gods, but she despised him.

“Yes – hence our call. We’re getting our ducks in a row.” She said. She hated that phrase. Her relationship was not a prop to be placed in the right spot. It had been weaponised even before they had acknowledged it. When would it end?

“Very good. Baelish will be on set, but I’ve been informed he won’t be able to talk to Sansa Stark tomorrow.”

Of course, he knew. Varys always knew everything. Did Tyrion inform him, or did he have people on set who told him everything? Why not both?

“What should we expect?” She asked.

“Miss Stark will have a tap on the wrist. No one would dare slap it now. Therefore, Baelish, on his boss’ behalf, will look for scapegoats.”

“Jorah and I.” She said. It couldn’t be anyone else. The Boltons had contacted her father-in-law, but they didn’t get anywhere near the Starks. Not even Ramsay Bolton would dare. As for why Cersei needed scapegoats, madness evidently didn’t just run in her own family.

“Here’s what I imagine might happen, knowing the players involved: Baelish might call in a meeting with you two. Martell might be present, against his wishes, to remind you of the possibilities. People online love you and Mr. Mormont. But to people who love gossip and have long memories, it would be easy to find and make flourish a built-in alternate narrative, one where you have been having a secret affair with Mr. Mormont since before your husband passed.

Martell wouldn’t like it, but he would remind you that there are no pictures of your son, a child heavily rumoured to be the fruit of your relationship with Jorah Mormont.”

And whose fault is it, asshole? She wondered, gritting her teeth in anger.

Varys asked, possibly sensing that her anger, for once, couldn’t be ignored, “Shall we focus on the matter at hand, Daenerys?”

He wasn’t being condescending, for once. He wasn’t being a dick just for the sake of it like he usually was. He had asked her a question with genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Yes.” She replied.

“Good. Martell would also point out a third, apparently less likely alternative: disbelief of the veracity of your relationship.”

“Who cares?” She shot back.

“It would call into question a number of events of your life, especially should the truth about your brother come out at the same time.”

Fuck. She could see that: being anointed as a liar, a terrible sister, an opportunistic whore who tried and sold false romance after false romance to stay in the spotlight. It could destroy her career, and it would hurt Jorah. And she had made an oath that he would never be hurt again because of her. So, no. She cared. A lot.

“What will Baelish do?”

“Would and might are the operative words here, Daenerys. It has yet come to pass. If you move quickly, it won’t.”

“Humour me.” She said. They were playing the game – it didn’t hurt to know what their enemies' potential next moves would be.

“Baelish would, of course, try to exercise power in your relationship with Jorah.”

He would. She knew he would. She knew that man. She had seen him create fauxmances for award seasons, which had turned decent people into abject horrors to deal with. She had seen him ‘suggest’ hiding true relationships for the sake of the movies, and it had seldom ended well.

“He would ask us to hide.” She said.

Varys nodded, “Hence Martell’s presence and what he would, I repeat, against his wishes, have to say.”

Martell had bought them time. He had warned them. He had talked to them, but he would have to play the game as well if push came to shove. That was his job, after all.  

 “Can you check your dedicated e-mail account?” The man asked. 

She wanted to roll her eyes. Varys had had a dedicated email account set up for their communications. She knew next to nothing about computers, but Missandei had assured her that it was the equivalent of a burner phone. The messages were automatically deleted within minutes of being opened; there were no trails. She had no idea how it was done, but she had seen it happen. She would usually make some snippy remarks about Varys’ paranoia, but when she opened the first e-mail, she was glad for it.

 There was a photo attached: it had been taken outside her house (which terrified her because she had burst her arse off trying not to have her address be public knowledge) the morning they had left to visit her father-in-law. She zoomed in the picture; she had not seen anyone outside the house.

It was an innocent picture; they had been walking side by side, the lawyer just two steps ahead of them even if he wasn’t in the frame. They looked sombre, but, in the picture, he was looking at her as she was saying something – she didn’t even remember what, and her hand was on his forearm.

She blinked when Varys said, “Open the other emails as well, Daenerys.”

She did. She clicked on the second email, glad that the first would disappear within minutes. There was another picture attached to it: that one had been taken at the airport when they had come back from London.

They were wearing different clothes, they were holding hands, and she couldn’t remember the presence of the paparazzi at the airport for the life of her. And she was usually almost preternaturally aware when people took pictures of her without her consent. Most actors were. It sort of became second nature after a while. She must have been exhausted and too distracted to notice. And so must Jorah, who was usually even better than her at noticing if there were cameras around.

He would not like it when she told him. Because she would. No secrets. They cleared the air about their past immediately, and they told each other everything. Even when it hurt.

“How –“She trailed, but Varys said, “Open the others.”

She did. In the third picture, she recognized Bronn, who had picked them up at the airport because Tyrion did not trust people paid by the studios.

Bloody hell, he was going to love that!

They were standing close; Jorah was carrying both their luggage, and she was circling his waist with her arm. It was a beautiful picture, and she had no idea about how it had been taken. It didn’t even look like a paparazzi photo, more like one a private detective would take.

  She had to admit that the fourth was a beautiful picture: they were outside their hotel, just about to get inside; it was just a moment of them locking gazes and smiling, standing too close and, apparently, so out of it that they hadn’t noticed someone sneaking a picture. A paparazzi, or someone paid by Baelish under Cersei’s order.

She had sided with Sansa. She had taken Varys away from her. Of course, Cersei would want ammunition against her. Of course, she would try to twist her relationship with Jorah, given her own life.

Her eyes welled up with tears when she opened the last email. It was an old photo; she had her own blonde hair in it, and Jorah’s beard was not as thick as it was now. She remembered when it had been taken – just a few days before Drogo died. If it wasn’t for the fact that she had her own hair and Jorah’s was longer, it might as well have been mistaken for a new one.

They were standing so close to each other in that picture; they had locked gazes and had been unaware of paparazzi (she decided that she sucked at spotting them, after all).

“Why are you showing me these?”

“Because Baelish would. He might. He will, given the chance. He would remind you of the rumours with the last picture, he would tell you, and that is the truth that there are more pictures like these, and he would lie and tell you that they can’t buy all of them. He would tell you that in the best interest of the movie, it would be better if you concealed your relationship with Mr. Mormont until the end of next year’s award season.”

The current award season had begun when they had started working on the movie. And she knew that Baelish loved to milk each award season until Oscar night. It was madness!

She rested her back against the armchair she was sitting on. That was not a worst-case scenario. What Martell might tell them was. That was just how Baelish would play it if he had the chance. He had done it before. It was old style; it wasn’t even particularly legal, but there were morality clauses in their contracts that they would only be happy to exploit.

“What do we do?” She asked.

“Act before Sansa Stark has her conversation with Baelish. She is safe. It will give you time. You will have one day, two at most. Use the time you have wisely. You have friends, and you share the same enemy.”

Right. The Starks.

She never had a father, so she didn’t know what it was like. Sansa’s father was out for the Lannisters' blood, and he had forgotten his pride and started to mend his broken relationship with Jorah. Because Sansa had asked him. Would her father have done it? All she knew about the man came from Viserys, so she didn’t have a clue. She liked to think that he would have.  

“Meanwhile, I am working on getting the truth about your brother out in a way that will make you beloved by the general public.”

She didn’t want that. She wanted to forget about Viserys completely. She wanted to spend time with Jorah outside sets and hotel rooms. She wanted to stay in her garden with her son in her lap and Jorah at her side.

Not yet. She thought. There was a reason why she had sided with Sansa. Besides being the right thing to do. She wanted to break the wheel and live her life. And even if she quit her job, even if Jorah did (and he could not. He was too good at his craft, he loved his job!), they would never be safe from people like Cersei, Baelish or Varys.

“Once there are no secrets, Cersei and Baelish will hold no power over you. You will be untouchable.”

“Will we?” She asked with genuine curiosity in her voice. Would they ever be safe?

“You will because I will make it so. It is my job, after all. It took me thirty words underneath an innocent picture to destroy Mr Mormont’s reputation, as you might remember.”

 Oh, she remembered. She was aware. She didn’t forget, and she didn’t forgive what had happened when Drogo died.

“I do. That’s why I hired you.” She said. She had never hidden it from the man. It would be an exercise in futility.

Varys nodded, and once again, there was genuine curiosity in his voice when he said, “You never asked me why I accepted your generous offer.”

That was true. It had not been an oversight. She had never got the chance to ask him.

“Why did you?”

Varys smiled, “Believe it or not, Daenerys. I value friendship. I owed Tyrion. Have a good night!”

 

She had talked to Jorah. He had exchanged texts and some terse phone calls with Ned Stark. The gears were moving. It looked like Sansa was ready, and Jon looked like a lovesick puppy while looking at his leading lady.

She smiled, deciding that it was the moment to get into Anne’s mind, as dark and fucked up as it was. They were almost ready to shoot, and she would not let Sansa down.

After all, they were going to break the wheel together.

 


 

He knew there might be hell to pay later. Jorah thought. It had been written all over Baelish’s face as he was informed that Jon had requested a closed set for that scene. The man’s world was supposed to be perfect: the little movie he had produced, for once not under Cersei’s thumb, was doing great. Critics were hailing it as one of the best movies of the year. Joffrey Baratheon was getting raves, but, most importantly, people were going to the cinema, were watching it and not even the little shit’s reputation could harm the word of mouth.

Baelish had his Oscar vehicle for the year and was already salivating about Good Queen Alysanne.

  There might be hell to pay down the line.

He had been in the business for most of his life, but he had never been “Internet” famous. Lo and behold, he was now. Tyrion had come up with the hashtag that had trended for days; Jon Snow had taken most of the pictures, and each one of them, with the exception of Daario Naris, had uploaded them and shared them on their social media.

According to Oberyn Martell, someone was not happy with their latest shenanigans.  

“You don’t want to get overexposed before we even drop the first teaser trailer!”

He might have a point. They might have got carried away the night Daenerys, and he came back from London. And judging by Baelish’s demeanour, someone must be seething with anger because Joffrey might be getting the best reviews of his career, but his tweet against Sansa and his comments in the immediate aftermath were impossible to forget now. And it wasn’t exactly their fault if the git had an abysmal poker face on live television! It wasn’t exactly their fault that Theon Greyjoy might have edited his terrible interview on a live talk show, making it a viral meme.

Oberyn had also discreetly warned him to get his ducks in a row before Baelish called in a meeting.

Not surprisingly, Varys had told Daenerys something very similar. She had told him the whole speech had also had pictures and a Baelish roleplay. He hated that she had had to face it alone.  

That was not the day to have a meeting, however – and there was nothing Cersei Lannister could bloody do about it!

Therefore, the videos, the pictures, the hilarious comments on social media (who would have thought that Jon Snow and Arya Stark would have killer comedic timing on Instagram while replying to each other’s posts?), how Joffrey had been made into a reaction gif meme, did not matter.

They were shooting what Baelish had callously called “Sansa’s Oscar Clip” – and he had meant business.

Then again, Baelish always did.

In his opinion, Sansa Stark already had plenty of potential Oscar clips if one were inclined to think that way. The scene she was currently shooting, however, was the one. It was the scene she had been preparing for since day one of their table read.  

There had been no problems so far: no extra had forgotten their place, everyone knew where their marks and lights were, no one had missed a line, and the set was eerily quiet.

He wasn’t in the scene, but Daenerys was, and she had been pretty anxious about it that morning on their way to set.

“I can’t screw it up for Sansa!” She had said.

“You won’t.” He had told her not just because she was a good actress but also because her chemistry with Sansa was simply mesmerizing.

He wasn’t jealous that he hadn’t been given such material – and neither was Daenerys. They were proud of Sansa and proud of the movie they were making.

Sansa was a sight to behold. It was a tour de force performance she was giving, still in the torn clothes from the scene in the throne room. The scars were there, along with fake bruises, and he suspected she was using them as props to give depth to the scene.

Queen Alysanne went through the whole spectrum of feelings: the heartbreaking silent communication with her husband, laced with fear and love, her continued humiliation in front of their enemies, her words and body language that showed that she was the Queen, that she would not be bent or broken, and they would not give up.

Each movement, pause and look were perfect. Sansa was young, and she wasn’t very experienced, but no one would ever know by looking at that scene. Jon wasn’t saying a word. He was observing the woman (and his love for her was, at that point, the worst kept secret in the hemisphere, he believed!), ready to step in, if necessary, but trusting his leading lady’s instinct and craft to do the job.

Tyrion was watching and taking notes.

He watched as Daenerys started her part of the scene, her character entwined to Alysanne, adding to the gravitas of the scene. He noticed that people were holding their breaths, not wanting to disturb the scene. They were all watching the beautiful redhead with the torn clothes and the blue eyes commanding the scene, being icy and regal, only to drop the façade the moment she was allowed to be reunited with her husband.

That was the moment – Alysanne and Jhaeris had a lot of important scenes together, they had sex scenes, they fought, they danced, they loved each other beyond reason - that would make or break the movie for the audience. They were all aware of that. Daenerys and he had a similar scene down the line, one at the beginning of the movie, but they didn’t require as much work as the one Sansa was shooting.

Not a word was uttered, and he was impressed that neither Sansa nor Daario chose to ham it up. He could almost hear Jon prompting them to do less, to show less, to let their bodies and eyes speak as they were finally reunited.

When they said the words, with broken voices and tears in them, he got chills. Sansa subtly flinched when Daario held her and then the choreography of the embrace started, and it was seamless: love, devotion, relief, anger, residual fear, it was all there as they slowly slid to the floor, still embracing, and then cradling each other’s faces in their hands.

In the history books, that moment was often glossed over. The personal tragedy and relief after the failed coup; there had been speeches after and songs written, but those brief moments after Alysanne sent the men who had tried to overrun her kingdom away reeling by the sheer force of her words and inner strength had never been told. Not like that.

Jon yelled cut. The silence was deafening for a moment before Daenerys started clapping her hands, followed by Jon and Daario, and then the crew and he joined in and erupted in applause for Sansa. 

The lady of the hour, however, looked genuinely confused by their reaction. She seemed oblivious to her talent and the importance of what Daenerys had started by initiating the applause.

Daenerys genuinely liked Sansa, she had since the beginning; there was, however, a symbolic and political aspect to what she had done. It wasn’t just taking pictures in their hotel room to stick it to the Baratheons and Lannisters in their free time. That was Daenerys siding with Sansa, knowing that Cersei Lannister Baratheon was out for blood, and she was the weakest link in the chain. That was Daenerys remarking, again, that they were a team and things weren’t going to change any time soon.

Oberyn Martell would not be happy if what had just happened ended up on Twitter or Reddit. He wouldn’t be surprised, either. He would have to do what Tyrion had hired him for. He would have to spin it in their favour, regardless of what Cersei or Baelish did or said.

He looked around, seeing that a few crew members were furtively wiping away tears as they applauded Sansa.

He still had goosebumps on his arms.

Yes. There would be hell to pay down the road, but not that day.

Not when he saw the way Jon and Sansa looked at each other, and it felt like they were in a movie because he knew that kind of look. There wasn’t anyone on the set for them, as far as they were concerned and after a moment of absolute stillness from both of them, they moved as one, crashing into each other, with much less finesse and choreography than what Sansa and Daario had just done.

First of all, it was real. It was messy – and considering he could see the tension leave their bodies, it had probably been needed and a long time coming. They were pressed chest to chest, his arms around her waist, hers around his neck, and he noticed that the crew made itself scarce as the hug went on, weeks of whatever had happened off-set between them melting away with each passing second spent in each other’s arms.

He intercepted a look from Daenerys. They had been told to get all their ducks in a row, to get ready because Cersei Lannister was not happy, and she would want to seek revenge against them.

Daenerys nodded. They had talked about what to do. She had her own plans, and there was only one thing he could do.

 

Stark.  He wrote on his mobile phone.

 

He didn’t have to wait long; his mobile phone vibrated, and a smile tugged at his lips when he read the curt reply.

 

Mormont.

 

He chose to ignore Sansa and Jon and typed another message:

 

Your daughter has just made seasoned crewmembers and actors cry with her scene.

 

Ned replied after a second:

 

What about her smitten director?

 

He didn’t need to see whether Jon and Sansa were still hugging. He spent all his waking hours with them. Therefore, he replied:

 

Too bloody stoic to cry in public for her. Volunteered to take the fall with Cersei for our dinner and pictures of the other night.

 

He could imagine Ned scoffing at those words. He needed to know, however.

 

Look after her for me, will you?

 

Aye, he replied.

 

Tickets are booked. We’ll be waiting. Looking forward to it, old friend.

 

That was their move. In an ideal world, he and Daenerys would not have needed statements or red-carpet appearances to confirm their relationship. That changed when Drogo’s father became involved, and they were appointed as possible collateral damage. They were done playing.

 


Texts Exchanged between Sansa Stark and Jon Snow

 

Sansa: can we talk?

 

Jon: Sure. Do you want me to ring you up?

 

Sansa: it’s not about work.

 

Jon: ok.

 

Sansa: I know it’s late. My director makes us keep insane hours.

 

Jon: the bastard. Should I kick his arse?

 

Sansa: nah, he’s the best. Even if I upset him.

 

Jon: wait…what? Shouldn’t we have this conversation in person?

 

Sansa: should we?

 

 I mean, yes, we should.

 

We definitely should. Hit the send button too fast. That was why I texted you this late.

 

Jon: where are you?

 

Sansa: home. Theon and Maergey are somewhere (I honestly don’t want to know doing what).

 

Jon: I’ll be there in 15.

 

If you want me to.

 

Sansa: ok.

 

Jon: Or we could talk tomorrow.

 

Sansa: no, it’s fine now. Did you have dinner? 

 

Jon: not really. My actors wiped my arse today.

 

Sansa: did they, now?

 

Jon: yes. My leading lady made Daario Naris cry unprompted.

 

Sansa: it was in the script.

 

Jon: it became so after she made him cry. She also made Davos Seaworth cry. Impressive.

 

Sansa: pasta or fish and chips from the pub across the street? That’s the contents of my fridge, by the way.

 

Jon: you don’t have to.

 

Sansa: you are indulging me. It’s the least I can do.

 

Jon: sansa....

 


 

What the hell had she been thinking?

She had been riding the high of the scene they had shot in the morning all day – and the hug with Jon. She didn’t even remember what had prompted it. Maybe it was the bloody pictures they had taken in Dany and Jorah’s suite, where she had touched him and not cared about what anyone would think. Maybe it was because Jon had offered to take the fall for their impromptu photoshoot and had stuck by it even after Martell had told them that she was the one who would have to take one for the team and talk to Baelish.

Or maybe, just maybe, she had had a terrible idea when she told Jon that they should focus on the movie and forget whatever was happening between them.

In her own defence, she had been panicking at the time.

All she knew was that she had locked gazes with Jon, and even if no actual meaningful messages were silently exchanged, the natural progression, the only logical thing to do, after had been crashing into his arms.

And it had felt good. She had felt home. She had felt safe. She had felt deliriously happy and in love with her director.

Hence, her message. And the weird, flirty text exchange with the man.

He hadn’t written anything except her name. And she had hurried into her bedroom and grabbed something to wear that wasn’t her ratty pyjamas. She had brushed her teeth, combed her hair and couldn’t stop smiling.

It was a mistake. It was the best decision she had ever made. She needed to talk to him (she needed much more than that, but she would take what he would give, whatever it was!).

 Jon knocked on her door exactly fifteen minutes after the message, announcing his presence with, “Sansa, it’s me”. The hotel where he was still staying wasn’t far from her flat.

She took a deep breath before opening the door. And there he was: dressed in a black hoodie, wearing glasses and looking so handsome that it took her breath away for a moment.

“Hi.” She said and couldn’t help smiling.

She took a step back, gesturing him inside and closed the door behind him.

“Hi.” He said. He looked nervous and worried. And exhausted.

“So –“she trailed, “pasta or  fish and chips?”

“Are you having something?” He asked, in his best mother-hen voice.

“Nope – too wired.” She replied truthfully.

He smiled, “I’ll have what you’re having.”

I want you. As my director, as my friend, as whatever you want us to be. I don’t want you in the crossfire with the Lannisters, but – I want you.

“Pasta it is, then.” She replied.

They were still in the hall. The flat was small and perpetually messy thanks to Theon’s presence, but it felt like home. She liked it. She moved, and Jon did the same. They almost bumped into each other.

“Follow me.” She said, trying not to sound too awkward but not exactly holding her breath over succeeding.

“You know I do.” He said in a low voice.

She heard him, and her heart almost skipped a beat.

They had flirted with their texts, and Jon was flooring her with his words. And she wanted more.

The kitchen was modern and thankfully clean (not thanks to Theon). She turned and said, “Make yourself comfortable; it won’t be a minute.”

Jon didn’t move. He leaned against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest and looked at her as she heated the pasta.

“There should be some wine in the cupboard on your right. Can you check?” She asked. Because Jon’s looks could be intense, and she didn’t want to cock things up before even having the chance to talk to him.

He nodded and got to his task, managing to find the corkscrew and uncork the bottle.

“Glasses?” He asked.

“I – I’ll bring them. Please make yourself at home,” she said.

It was weird – they hadn’t talked for weeks. They had all but avoided each other for all things non-work related, and yet here he was, in her kitchen, because she had asked him if they could talk. And it was a conversation he had said they should have in person.

He helped her set the table, and it felt so domestic and surreal. They moved well around each other; she was used to listening to him, and he always listened to her notes, so it wasn’t vastly different from what they did every day.

Except – that a weight had been lifted from both their shoulders, and the silence was comfortable when they finally both sat down.

“It’s my mom’s recipe, but Theon is a surprisingly good cook.” She explained.

“Theon is good at many things,” Jon replied.

She nodded, “Didn’t expect him to break the internet with that video.”

Theon had turned Joffrey into a meme, and his skills as editor had made it so that it had become viral. She had heard that it had been used outside the internet to comment on news. It was free publicity, true – but it was also one of the reasons why some executive was not happy with them after their shenanigans.
They both drank some wine after that comment. Then Jon said, “The whole thing with Baelish is ridiculous.”

“It’s Cersei. Baelish is too busy thinking about how many Oscars is going to win in the next twelve months. It will be fine.” Sansa replied. She agreed with him, but she also knew that Joffrey’s mother was vindicative. Her son had started the war, and she was surprised when she found out she wasn’t a little dove any longer. That she wasn’t alone that time.

“It was my idea – I should –“Jon trailed, and Sansa couldn’t resist. She reached over, took his hand, and said, “It’s fine. I promise, Jon!”

“You never upset me.” He said.

She shook her head. She had. She had hurt him – hurt them both because she had been panicking because of Joffrey. Her heart might have been in the right place, but her words had not.

“I was scared,” She said and then hastened to add, “not of you. Not of what happened in the car. I was scared of –“

“Joffrey?” Jon gently prodded.

How much did Jon know? She was sure she knew something. It had become crystal clear the day of the little accident on set where the scars had been revealed. He had not looked surprised. He had looked distraught.

“Paparazzi were everywhere, and my family decided to declare war on the Lannisters. I was scared and – overwhelmed.”

“And I didn’t help matters that night,” Jon said.

No. She hated the self-loathing she could hear in his voice.

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t mine either. It’s – complicated.” She said.

“Why did you say you upset me?” Jon asked.

They were drinking wine; they were barely eating, and she couldn’t believe they were actually talking.

“Because – because I asked you to focus on the movie, but it looked like you could barely look at me. You fired an extra for being an asshole. You made people sign NDAs, but you never talked to me!”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

She didn’t. Truth be told. He was right, but it had hurt, nevertheless.

And it had apparently, at least judging by the earnest look in Jon’s eyes, hurt them both. She noticed that she was still holding Jon’s hand, and neither of them had tried to change that.

“Sansa…” He breathed.

It felt like being in his arms again. She felt safe, home. How did it happen? How did he become the most important person in her life? The one she wanted to protect more than anyone, the one she couldn’t imagine her life without?

“I didn’t know what I wanted.” She eventually said, replying to what he had said.

Lie. She knew. She had known since they had kissed in that car, probably even before that. She wanted him – she was in love with him.

She adored Daenerys and Jorah, but sometimes, she couldn’t help but envy them a little.

But what did Jon want?

“And you do, now?” Jon asked.

She didn’t want to appear needy or too much of damaged goods to him. She wanted to be able to talk to him, and she wanted him to talk to her.

She wanted more, so much more, and she had no idea whether Jon wanted it as well.

She looked down at their joined hands and untouched pasta.

They fit, and she had missed the casual or not-so-casual touches between them.

“I have made a right mess both of the pasta and our –“ friendship? Relationship? She didn’t even have a name for it – for them.

“You didn’t. And I have been a pain in the arse, you weren’t the only one confused.”

Were they actually talking like normal people?

“You know about Joffrey.” She said.

He nodded.

“Shall we move this sure-to-be pleasant conversation to the sofa? As I mentioned, it was a tough day at work: my director runs a tight ship.”

“We can – talk about this in another moment. It’s late.”

She shook her head and said, “Won’t give you gory details. Besides, you saw the scars.”

She let go of Jon’s hand and didn’t wait for him to follow her into the living room. Either Jon knew everything, or he didn’t. Either he wanted to listen, or he didn’t. That was what she could give him. The dark past that had made her freeze while she kissed him and flinch when stand-ins touched her.

Jon followed her into the living room. The sofa was small and cosy. He was still holding his glass of wine. He hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to her.

“I know he hurt you. That’s – enough.” Jon said.

She nodded. She didn’t particularly want to share. She didn’t want Jon to associate her with her words about her relationship with Joffrey.

They deserved more.

“That night – it wasn’t your fault.” She said. And Jon needed to believe it because it was the truth.

Jon didn’t talk. That was a battle he had decided not to pick.

“I was there, I –“She flushed red with embarrassment, “I wanted it – my mind, however, went to places.”

“I remember.”

“I am sorry.” She said.

“Whatever for?” He asked. He sounded genuinely confused. He sighed and then smiled a little when he added, “Shall we just stop apologising to each other?”

She smiled as well.

They sipped their wine in silence after that. There were so many things she wanted to tell him. She wanted him to get out of that war, to remain untouched and innocent at the game. She wanted him to meet Arya because she was sure they would love each other. She wanted him to smile at her. She wanted to know what he wanted. She wanted to ask him at that moment while they were sitting on her sofa after a long day of shooting.

It was Jon, however, who broke the silence when he said, “You didn’t tell me what you think about Tormund coming to set. Tyrion and Baelish want everything to be on the DVD extras.”

Ah. He wanted to talk shop.

She could do that.

She shrugged her shoulders, “I suppose it’s a good idea. Freefolk is an important blog.”

“Tormund is a good friend of mine,” Jon said.

“Is he?” she asked. She moved, turning toward him and – well, he was so close to her, now.

“Yes. We go way back. We met in college. He was smiling fondly as he said that.

“I had no idea.” She replied, not exactly trusting her voice at that moment. They were possibly too close, so much that she could feel the heat of Jon’s skin through his jeans against her leg. When and how had they moved so close? She didn’t notice! Did Jon?

“He lent me loads of money when I made my first movie. He trusted me.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t surprised. Jon inspired trust and loyalty in the people around him. For all their complaining about the hours and the fact that he was a pain in the arse, they all trusted him that he was doing the best for the movie.

“I’m looking forward to meeting him. Even if he wasn’t happy when I was cast.” She said. And damn – were they scooting even closer, or was she imagining it? Why couldn’t she control her own body?

Jon chuckled. “He wasn’t a big fan of Daario’s casting either. He changed his mind.”

She grinned. She loved Daario, and she looked forward to the whole world seeing that he wasn’t just his abs and biceps. He was a good actor, and her Alysanne would not exist without his Jhaerys.

She moved to put the glass on the coffee table, and Jon did the same. Their hands brushed, and she stopped, looking at him. It was not her imagination. They had somehow scooted closer on the couch, pressed against each other. Jon’s eyes were dark. She could see the signs of a long day on the set and the past few weeks of brutal shooting in the crinkles around his eyes. He was smiling, however.

Gently, slowly, he moved his right hand as if to warn her and she did not flinch when his hand cupped her cheek. She didn’t tremble when he softly brushed his thumb on her jaw.

His hair. She wanted to touch his hair. She wanted him closer.

The whole thing with Joffrey and his mother, their shenanigans on the internet, seemed so far away, so unimportant.

Joffrey had hurt her – but she had survived. He had not broken her. She could not allow him to have any power over her anymore. And Jon was Jon: he was kind, he was a good man, he was her Jon. She trusted him.

He was not moving; he was giving her a choice. Even now. Especially now.

She leant into his caress, closing her eyes for a moment. She didn’t jump in surprise or fear when she felt his breath against her lips.

Yes.

That was not why she had texted him. That was not why he had come over to her flat. But it was meant to happen. She believed that.

His lips caressed hers. Once, twice. He hesitated, his hand still on her cheek; hers had finally found the courage to trail up, touching his arm and neck, and finally his hair.

She rested her forehead against his for a moment.

Yes.

They drew a breath at the same time. His skin was against hers, and she was carding her fingers through his soft hair. She didn’t dare move. What if Jon thought that it was like the last time? What if she cocked things up?

He kissed her lips once more, and she opened her eyes. His dark eyes were asking for her approval. It floored her that Jon would never hurt her. She had already known that. Her trust in that man was implicit, which was something new for her. It was exhilarating and terrifying.

She wanted.

Yes. Gods, yes!

The words they had said, those they hadn’t spoken. The hurt of the past weeks, the silences, and the stolen glances. None of it mattered. Not now.

 He was still gentle when she kissed him, and he kissed her back. Not tentative, not hesitating. Just gentle, and she parted her lips open because the craving for Jon she had felt the first time they had kissed was nothing compared to what she was feeling now.

They weren’t drunk. They weren’t in a car. He only touched her face even though their bodies were pressing tighter and tighter together as the kiss didn’t stop being gentle but became deeper, more – like he was craving her too and was trying hard not to scare her off.

Her heart soared and broke a little at that thought. But Jon was right. Even if fear was the last thing in her mind and body.

She wanted. Yes. She needed him. She needed to feel his lips on her skin, to taste him, to know that she hadn’t broken them, to feel safe and burning with desire.

He tasted like wine and coffee and mint. His hands were cradling her face, gently tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

Liquid fire: it was flowing in her veins, making her core pulse and swell. She was breathing him in, and she desperately wanted to move, to feel him.

Jon would let her. He had set a pace, however, and part of her loved it: slow, languid, like embers in a fireplace at the end of the night, burning bright but slowly.

Yes. She could do that. She trusted the man who was kissing her so reverently, with passion restrained, just a little, not to set her off.

They would need to talk sooner or later. Part of her thought, the one that wasn’t on fire with desire, who wasn’t focused on the texture of Jon’s hair, on how soft the skin on the back of his neck was, how strong his body felt, even through the layers of clothes they were both wearing.

He nibbled at her lower lip, and she couldn’t help the little moan she made. She felt him smile against her lips, and then he broke the kiss for a moment.

“Alright?” He asked.

No flashbacks. No fear, no past. Just the present and the wonderful, incredible man she had met and fallen in love with.

She grinned. “Never better.” She said. She sounded breathless. She was breathless.

Jon grinned back at her.

Yes.

She trailed her hand to his face, and he leant into it.

Her eyes stung. She would not cry. Not now. Even if she felt, deep down, that Jon would understand this time.

She leant forward instead and kissed him again.

And Jon kissed her back. Again.

 


 

From Melisandre Gossip: celebrity gossip, News, Photos, Rumours.

 

 Breaking News:

 

Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn attend the wrap party of Robb Stark’s play.

 

After months of a successful run in the West End, Robb Stark finished his run among family and friends.

Stark received glowing reviews for his turn in The Crucible, and the audiences loved his John Proctor. The play’s run was extended due to extremely successful results, which gave Stark’s parents the chance to show their support to their son by attending the last show and its wrap party.

The family was seen sitting together and having a good time, as you can see in our exclusive pictures. Talisa Stark and her mother-in-law seem to love watching their respective husbands chatting with Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn.

The co-stars of the hit West End and Broadway success, “The Ghost and Mrs Muir” have been reunited earlier this year to co-star in Jon Snow’s “The Good Queen Alysanne” starring Sansa Stark as the epitome character.

In the pictures, Robb Stark and Daenerys Stormborn, who have worked together at the beginning of Stark’s career in the horror movie “Jenny”, are seen hugging while Ned Stark and Jorah Mormont look deep in conversation.

Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont both dressed in black, arrived together at the Theatre and, in our exclusive pictures, are seen walking hand in hand outside the club where the wrap party was held.

Ned Stark and Jorah Mormont are longtime friends. It’s been vastly speculated in the past that there was a falling out between them, but looking at pictures of the two men posing together, we might think that they have mended things recently: here they are laughing and posing with Cathelyn Tully and Daenerys Stormborn for pictures.
   There has been a lot of speculations for the past few months about the nature of the relationship between Mormont and Stormborn, especially given how candid Daenerys has been on her social media about Mormont.

This is, however, their first appearance on an unrelated event, in their own free time. While representatives for the actors declined to comment when reached out, a source close to the actors tells me: “They are happy together. He loves her, and she loves him.”

Guess Belfast has become love central, after all.

On an unrelated note, is that a bump I’m spotting under Talisa Stark’s gown?

 


 

From Twitter:

 

 

@MelisandreGossip: just spotted @YgritteWildingsVerified at Belfast international. Girl is looking great. Isn’t a talented, hot director in town? Mmmm

 

From Twitter: Groupchat #jonsa

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: WTF guys? GUYS?! What is Ygritte doing in Belfast? This is not a drill. Two independent sources of mine confirmed that Melisandre is right (when the hell did they make a Twitter account by the way?) #isconfused

 

fireandice456: so, it’s real? I mean, last I heard, she was headed to Frankfurt for a documentary. #mysourcessuck

 

snowismyfire: didn’t she say something like Jon is still one of her best friends? Maybe it’s just that. (or she didn’t like Jon and Sansa picture on Instagram. I mean it is a pretty lovely picture of the two of them!)

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: maybe you’re right. Why am I freaking out, tho? Why is shipping Jon and Sansa so stressful? Lol. Look at Daenerys and Jorah all dolled up with the Starks (I mean, that is weird! They’re shooting tomorrow #shutupImnotastalker)

 

sansastarkGQA: my girl is a miracle worker, guys. Seeing Jorah and Ned Stark together again brought back so many memories of my childhood! But, about Ygritte. Haven’t they moved on? Wasn’t she dating the DP of her last documentary or something?

 

snowismyfire: and Jon has all but a, “property of Sansa Stark” tattoo on his forehead these days. I mean, maybe she’s in Belfast for work.

 

jornaerysownsme: I’m still shook by Melisandre’s pics. Is Ygritte in Belfast? What? How? Why?  GQA’s thread on Reddit is half Baratheon freaks insulting everyone on principle and half commenting on what happened on set today. And now this? And those pictures? WTF #isshook @sansastarkGQA: I hear you. I got teary-eyed, thinking back to all the movies and period dramas they used to do together back in the day. What if Jon doesn’t know? What if she’s surprising him? Didn’t the ITK say that Tormund is headed to Belfast soon? Maybe it’s a buddy reunion? @snowismyfire: lol, so true. So true.

 

snowismyfire: ugh, Barafreaks are the bane of my existence online. They’re fucking everywhere. All 20 of them and their multiple socks accounts.  @jornaerysownsme what happened on set today? Also, maybe you’re right.

 

fireandice456: @snowismyfire yes, she did. Like, the most parboiled answer we’ve ever got from her. Jon was a right mess after they broke up. He looked like a fucking hostage at gunpoint during the press junket that came right after they broke up. That was when we (those of us who were already there) suspected that something was going on. Months later, she was the one who confirmed it. Jon never talks about his private life. That’s why my world has been spun on its axis when this whole thing began. Jon Snow? Stoic Jon Snow on social media taking pictures with his female cast members and looking at Sansa as if she hung the moon and the stars so openly on my Instagram?!? Also, congratulations to the Dany/Jorah shippers. So happy for you and for them.

jornaerysownsme: apparently, Sansa got a round of applause from the cast and crew after they shot a scene. The leaker (still no idea whether his leaks are legit) said that it was Daenerys who started it. Happy about Dany and Jorah, but it's weird that their representatives declined to comment. I mean, why? They went to an event together, hand in hand, and they posed with the Starks. You don’t get more official than that, right?

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I'm not completely computer illiterate, but I have no clue whether an email system like the one I described actually exists. Mostly I took inspiration from You's third season. Also: it is the slowest burn that I ever wrote, but I think we're moving a bit faster from now on.
On an unrelated note: this fiction will become a series, because I can't keep it all in one story and we need to find out if there's some oscar winners in our cast, don't we?

Chapter 14: of green eyed monsters (Not Cersei), bromances and stressed out writers/producers

Summary:

Ygritte is on the set. Jon is confused. Sansa is not amused for various reasons. Tyrion thinks he’s missing vital pieces of information. Dany and Jorah make plans. Texts are exchanged. Lots of texts. Sansa has her conversation with Baelish. Jon and Sansa get closer.

Notes:

First of all, thank you so much for the kudos and the comments (I will answer; work is crazy right now). So, here is the new chapter. On paper, it was supposed to be short. I don't even know, guys. It just happened.
Dany and Jorah fluff. All the fluff. (the other thing I'm writing is so angsty instead.).
Personally, I love how awkward Jon is in this chapter, and Ygritte has got plans. Which will be revealed, in time.
Sansa is trying.
Tyrion is stressed, and I had so much fun writing his parts.
Only one scene was added at the last minute. I’m still sticking to the mapped-out story I jotted down forever ago.

I stole a few lines from other shows. Can you recognise them? ;)

Chapter Text

 

 

The drive back to his hotel had gone in a haze. In fact, he wondered whether his feet had even touched the ground on the walk back to his room. He didn't remember. He was  lauded  for his keen attention to detail. He couldn't say he cared. 

He remembered each and every detail about Sansa that night, however. Wasn't it all that mattered?

They had kissed on her sofa like teenagers, and the world hadn't ended. The other shoe had yet to drop. 

Sansa had been fine when he had left. She had been smiling. His hoodie smelled like her shampoo. He hadn't stopped grinning like a bloody loon since he left her flat. 

He knew Sansa still had issues. Hell,  he  had issues. They had never talked about Joffrey, and nothing had been truly solved. However, he couldn't help it: he was happy.  

He had not driven to Sansa's flat with a master plan. In fact, it had been a pretty instinctive reaction, with not a single thought behind it. He couldn't believe how his evening had turned out. He couldn't believe the day he had had.

First, it had been the hug on set. He hadn't cared about anyone knowing how much Sansa meant to him. He hadn't cared that everyone had witnessed the scene between them. Everyone knew anyway; Jon was aware he had not exactly been subtle lately. What mattered was that he had held Sansa. 

They had held each other, and he hadn't known how much he had needed it until it happened. The feeling of rawness and the knot firmly lodged in his stomach had disappeared as Sansa returned his embrace. He had felt at peace for the first time in a very long time. 

When she had texted him that night, writing that she had upset him, he had just – acted. Because he could still feel Sansa in his arms while everyone on set was looking at them, and he thought that she might clam up and put once more distance between them. And so, he had driven like a madman to her flat because it could not happen. Not again.  

It didn't happen. Jon still wasn't sure how he had not cocked things up completely, but he hadn't. Sansa had kissed him back. 

They would need to talk about Joffrey when she was ready. When they both were. While he had his shower, he thought that she had not frozen in fear or terror. She had not stormed out or panicked. She had smiled against his lips, kissed him back, and  pouted  when he had been the voice of reason after they had parted their lips. 

She had been magnificent in his arms for the brief moments they had held each other on that ridiculously tiny but comfortable sofa after they had kissed. 

Perhaps cold water would be a good idea right now.

Her pout and the glint in her eyes were almost too much. Jon was not a saint. Not by any stretch of the imagination. 

 Yep. Cold water was definitely a good idea, he decided.

He needed to focus on the bloody movie! Yet, he couldn't stop grinning even as the cold water felt like a shock to his admittedly overstimulated system.

Sansa would be everywhere anyway. She was in all the sketches, the art concepts, the storyboard in his binders, and every note in his script. She  was  the leading lady of his movie, after all. 

He felt panic bubbling underneath his stupid grin and stomped it right away. Sansa deserved more. He deserved more. They deserved a chance. As crazy as their timing was, it didn't matter how much Cersei and her spawn were frothing at the mouth. They deserved the opportunity to try and make things work between them.  

He stepped out of the shower, the grin forgotten, but his mind still stuck on what had happened with Sansa. They talked like actual adults. They had both been able to shoot past their individual stubbornness and issues. He still couldn't believe it had indeed happened!

He cared too much, loved her too much to cock things up again. And she cared for him, too. He knew she did. He wasn't that clueless! 

So, what if he was her director and she was his leading lady? They would make it work. They wouldn't shoot that movie forever. 

Panic was still simmering – his mind providing him with images of all the things that could go wrong, all the ways he could fuck things up. He gritted his teeth, fighting those thoughts because working himself into a panic attack or a fit of anger would not help anyone, Sansa, himself, and most certainly not their relationship! 

He blinked. They had a relationship. No actual words had been exchanged, but he didn't do short-time commitment. He didn't do casual relationships. He never had. 

Sansa and he had a  relationship , and he would need to tread carefully because he had no idea about what she truly thought. Did she want a relationship? Was she ready at all? Was he? 

He took a deep breath and got out of the bathroom, a towel draped around his hips and his hair wet. He wasn't cold. He was anything but, truth be told.  

  He checked his mobile phone. Sansa had texted him to find out whether he was already deep in his script notes or was stuck in traffic. She texted him a picture of her script and the caption, "My director will have my head if I don't do my homework!"

He smiled; droplets of water were tickling down on his nape, and he scratched the spot as he replied to her. He took a picture of his script and notes and wrote: "Doing my homework as well."

He wrote and cancelled, "I'm think of you," twice, before deciding against it because he wasn't actually twelve years old, it didn't matter how many times Tormund accused him of being one. 

When he heard knocking at the door, he was waiting for Sansa's reply. It never occurred to him that no one except for room service ever knocked on his door, that it was late at night and that he had not put a robe on. 

Genius director with his keen attention to details. Truly. He would think later. 

He opened the door, and his past, in the form of another redhead, crashed into him. Ygritte grinned and said, "Surprise! What the hell are you doing? It's cold as fuck! Let me in and put on a robe!"

What?

"You are not a vampire; you don't need to be invited in!" He heard himself say. 

What? The? Hell?

She smacked his cheek with a loud, over-exaggerated kiss – which she always did when Ygritte knew she was doing something he didn't understand, but she would do it anyway- and entered his room.

What. The. Bloody. Hell?

 


 

 

It had happened by chance, really. Sansa had always been a runner. Running had more than once been her tether to sanity during the clusterfuck her relationship with Joffrey had become pretty soon after they had got together. Ironic that. 

While she had been in the hotel in Belfast, she had used the hotel gym's treadmill. Nothing, however, beat the feeling of running at dawn, with music or (more often than not) her recorded lines blaring in her ears through her earbuds and her feet hitting the ground. 

She had found out that Daario loved running pretty early on, during one of the first days of the table reading, and since they lived close by, Theon had taken his protector's role pretty seriously and Margaery was training for her new show, her brother had invited him along for their daily runs. Theon could be like that. And he really, genuinely liked Daario. 

It hadn't been a long time since they started to do that. And she would not blame what had happened that morning on what had happened with Jon the night before. How could she? Jon had been in her dreams, which, for once, had not been a complete dumpster fire. Jon had been her first thought when she had woken up. It was still dark outside, and she had felt like  singing.  She had felt so excited, alive and herself that even Theon and Margaery had noticed. 

Even Daario had noticed her good mood. He had smiled at her, but he had not commented. He never did, unlike her brother and her best friend, who looked like they had slept even less than she had, and she truly did not want to know why. Seriously, there were things best left unspoken. 

Daario was – a good man. She didn't make friends easily. The camaraderie with her castmates and the "Good Queen Alysanne" crew had surprised her. She thought, however, that Daario was becoming a friend to her. 

Daenerys was family at that point – and since her dad was talking to Jorah again and the two of them used to be as close as brothers when she was a child, she truly was. Tyrion had been family at one point and was proving himself to be a friend. 

Daario, however, was the kind of man that would have scared her for the past few years: too handsome, too confident, too muscular, too outwardly macho. 

He was sweet, whip-smart, funny, and far more talented than casting directors had been giving him credit for. 

She wouldn't believe it if she didn't see it with her eyes every day, just how good her on-screen partner was. Tyrion was a casting genius.

Daario was also very private – and discreet. He had been purposefully kept out of the loop about their little conspiracy. But he had been in the video they had made to mock Joffrey's tweets; he had shown his support both online and on set, which mattered the most to her, on more than one occasion. Therefore, he must know that something was happening. He was too bright not to have connected some dots. 

Yet, he never asked questions, seldom commented on the weirdness that happened on set (because, honestly, they could be a weird bunch of people, she knew that), and he had not commented on her good mood when they greeted each other that morning.  

And she would not blame what happened because her mind, heart and soul had been still on the sofa with Jon. 

 She was a Stark. Theon was a Stark. Daario was a movie star. Margaery was, well, MargaeryShe was a bloody genius!

There was no excuse, really. It took them forever to spot the paparazzi happily snapping pictures of the four of them away. How did it happen? They varied their circuit almost every day to avoid paparazzi. They had taken precautions. She always checked that no one was outside her flat. Theon did as well. Margaery drove like she was an international spy to avoid being followed to her house!

Sweat was cooling off on her skin as the four of them were in a circle and looking around. She refused to panic. She would  not  panic. They had been doing nothing wrong! She had been running with her brother, her best friend and a friend from work before going to set!

Her  male  friend from work, who played her romantic interest in the movie she was shooting – and, oh, crap!

Crap ! She still needed to meet Baelish! They were supposed to meet later in the evening after she finished her scenes for the day. 

Daario was just a friend from work. A friend who happened to play her love interest in the movie that was constantly talked about on social media and had huge hype surrounding it. That could not end well!

“Sansa, honey, what’s wrong?” Margaery asked. 

"It's probably nothing." She replied. 

She could not panic. Tormund would be on set soon, and Joffrey's movie must remain relevant. Surely, Cersei wouldn't be that  daft  to do anything. Surely, Cersei would be on her best behaviour until Ampas was done with its nomination period. Her mother had told her that. J'Haquen had told her the same. 

"Except that Baelish is your boss, and Cersei doesn't even need to know –"She whispered aloud. 

Did she really say that aloud? In front of Daario and her brother? Did she completely lose her mind?

The two men looked confused by her words. And she couldn't honestly blame them. She couldn't. They would never understand what it was like to be hunted down. They could not understand what it was like when people like Cersei Lannister or Joffrey Baratheon hated them and actively wanted to hurt them. 

"We were just stretching. It's just pictures of four mates in a park. We weren't even standing side by side!" Daario said. His voice was gentle. He was trying to placate her. Because she was about to have a panic attack. 

Or she was already in the middle of a meltdown and had been too focused on the bloody paparazzi to notice. 

Daario was right, however. They had just been running: her brother, a childhood friend, and her mate from work. She never ran by Daario's side, just in case. There was nothing wrong with what they had done. 

And the picture taken on their first day in Belfast had also been an innocent one. And that had turned out so  well.  It was not like it had sent Joffrey spiralling or anything. 

Daario had not touched her, but he was hovering close, and she noticed that Theon was whispering something to Margaery, who nodded and said, "We can't do anything right now. We can just wait. But I will make some calls!"

Oh. Yes. Margaery would call Varys because, apparently, they were still in contact. That – was good, she supposed. She needed to breathe and not give into panic. She was better than that. She had to remember that. She needed to keep it together!

"And I will make some calls as well," Daario added, "it was a bit too specific, a bit too good and stealthy. I'll call my people as soon as we head back!" 

Margaery shot Daario a look that she deciphered all too well; she had seen it directed at her siblings far too often growing up. It meant, "Really? You needed to say  this  right now?" She appreciated her friend's protectiveness and loved how oblivious and impervious to it Daario was. It reminded her a little of Robb and Arya; it made her feel normal. It made her think back to how simple her life used to be. 

She was mainly grateful and happy that her friends and brother had not said she had overreacted. She was glad that no one had told her she was paranoid. 

Was one paranoid if there were real people outside ready to get them?


 

Ygritte Wildings was –  something . She was also the only public girlfriend Jon Snow had ever had. And since the man was a hopeless romantic, as far as he had seen, and a serial monogamist, as far as he had heard, he had the sneaking suspicion that until Sansa had appeared, Ygritte had been the only one for Jon.  

His director had a spring on his step that morning and a giant look of confusion in his eyes whenever he happened to spot Ygritte hanging around on set. 

Sansa was still not on set; she was due any minute now. Baelish, however, was. And they were supposed to have their chat later that day. Since they had put their collective feet down the day before not to have him on set, the man was now prancing about, showing everyone with his attitude that he was their boss. 

Baelish was angry. He had known him long enough to tell just by looking at him. Not that the man had any outward tells. It was just that he had just known him for a very long time. He was angry that he had to be there rather than overseeing the Award Campaign and the continued success of Joffrey's movie, which was indeed good. 

He had seen a screener of his nephew's movie. He could not be  paid  to write such drivel. Still, Joffrey had given an unusual soulful performance, and the movie was such blatant award bait that he had rolled his eyes at most of the soundtrack and the cinematography in it. However, it was really the little shit's best performance to date. How it happened would forever remain a mystery to him. But there, the movie's success was confirmed. Just like Sansa had predicted, which didn't cease to puzzle him. How did she know? Why did she tell him? 

Baelish was proud of the movie. Why couldn't he piss off and promote it, then, and leave them alone?

No, Baelish had to look disappointed that Daenerys and Jorah were not on set. He was sure he must be angry at the two of them because they had pulled the rug from under his feet and had gone public with their relationship without technically breaching their contracts, regardless of the man's wishes. He would have appreciated a heads-up from his friends. He had been blindsided by the pictures!

 The whole operation was a typical Varys' move, which he was sure would make his sister  happy

Baelish was angry that he was Cersei's bitch and that Tyrion had made sure that his own contract would not turn the movie into a shit show and had made sure that Jon's was exactly what the man had wanted. Final cut rights, creative control. It was truly the dream contract for a director.

 He had played the long game with "Good Queen Alysanne", he had doctored shitty scripts for years, uncredited and unappreciated by his sister, even after he had made it big,  despite  his awards and accolades, and he had made friends who had had to deliver when he had asked for favours. And he had. He had cashed in favours from all over the studio, and there had been nothing Cersei could do about that until it was too late. 

His father might be proud of him. Most probably, he wouldn't, but he was long dead. So, who cared?

Baelish didn't like not to have power. And he didn't have that much on their set. 

He looked at his brother and wondered, not for the first time, why he was still in Belfast with him. Not that he didn't love his company, even if it had made for an awkward dinner with Jorah Mormont a couple of nights before. 

But – didn't Jaime have an actual job? How long was his holiday going to last? Should he expect Cersei on set ready to drag their brother in London? He was confused. 

His brother looked relaxed, however. He wasn't even checking his mobile phone like he had compulsively done during his first days in Belfast. He looked younger and  lighter,  somehow. Who knew? Maybe being away from his twin was doing him some good.   

And then Sansa came to set, already in costume: it was a dark, black, deep red gown, and her hair was picked in an elaborate braid. She was stunning. But then again, she always was. 

And she looked happy. Or, at least, she had looked happy until she had spotted Ygritte, who had chosen that moment to walk close to Jon and sit next to him on Davos' chair. Sansa was usually good at hiding her emotions; he had seen her becoming good at it while she had been engaged to his nephew. She was typically good even with Jaime, even if she put zero effort into hiding her contempt for his brother. 

He saw the moment the surprise crossed her features, and then, in a matter of a blink, he saw disappointment, fear, hurt and, the least surprising of the feelings, jealousy cross her features. Why the look of disappointment? What did he miss? 

It didn't last longer than a blink of an eye. Still, since he was spending most of his waking hours either watching her on monitors or having her in mind for the rewrites or looking at the dailies in the editing room with Samwell and Jon, he honestly thought he had gotten good at spotting Sansa's micro-expressions before she walled up. Only Jon might beat him at reading Sansa Stark.

But, of course, Jon Snow had chosen that moment to look completely oblivious to Sansa's turmoil! 

Interestingly enough, Ygritte did not. She looked like she was aware of what had just happened. Right, wasn't she a director, too? He had seen some of her documentaries, and her eye for detail was scarily good. He needed to find out whether it was a good thing or not. He did not like not knowing. 

All was good with the world again when Jon lit up like a kid in a candy store when he looked at Sansa and took in her dress for the day. 

Jon always looked stunned for a moment when he saw Sansa in costume. It happened every day, and it never failed to amuse him. It wasn't like he had checked all the costumes' sketches beforehand! Or he had extensive chats with the costume department at least once a week. 

The thing was that Jon looked stunned for a second every day, even when he saw Sansa wearing jeans and jumpers. He was stupid in love with the girl.

Jaime leaned over him and commented, "Oh, the plot thickens!"

He wanted to sigh in his hands. Of course, Jaime had noticed. Jaime was a romantic at heart. And like everyone with eyes who spent more than five minutes with Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, he knew what was happening. 

"Don't." He warned.  I thought you were too ashamed to even talk about Sansa.  He wanted to tell him. He did, for a moment. But he loved his brother too much to remind him of something he wasn't even supposed to know in the first place. 

"Well, someone needs to kick some reason into them!" Jaime said, shrugging. 

He didn't comment. Jaime, of all people, should know why it mustn't be easy for Sansa; he was aware of her past. He probably knew more details than him. He had seen the scars; it was enough for him.  

"Besides," Jaime added, "she has an engagement ring on her finger."

He looked, and yes, a silver ring was on Ygritte's finger. Did Jon notice? Did he care? Why was that woman there anyway?

Jaime didn't comment further. He took his Kindle from the pocket in the chair, and the conversation was over to him. 

Meanwhile, Sansa had come and greeted Ygritte; she looked friendly and like the perfect host to her. And looking at both women, Tyrion realised that Jon Snow definitely had a type. 

He was curious to see how their director would get out of that. He was also waiting for the drama of the moment to be over so they could start shooting the scenes. 

Daario arrived on set as the stand-ins were leaving. Lights were set, the actors would soon hit their marks, and perhaps they would even get something done before any new drama sprouted up before Sansa had her 'conversation' with Baelish. 

Not that he was perturbed about the conversation they would have. It was a preposterous thing; the sooner it happened, the sooner they could forget about it. 

Sansa waved goodbye to Ygritte. She ignored Jon and went to take her place next to Daario. The two talked for a moment in whispered tones, and Sansa looked relieved. Again, what did he miss?

Only then did she glance at Jon, who was in director mode now. He was entirely focused on the scene. Yet, he returned her glance for a moment and saw his lips quirking up in a soft smile. 

Another day on set had officially begun. 


 

From Tumblr:

 

mrandmrsMuir: 

 

Anon asked:

 

I did notice the necklace. Let's have a meltdown together! It's the one she wore during the play. Do you think it is the same one? My shippy heart likes to think that Jorah gave it to her. My shippy heart isn't sure it can take it. So. Many. Feels. 

 

Hey, nonnie. I like your headcanon, and I hereby accept it as my own. What blows my mind is that Dany was wearing that necklace last night! Of all nights, she chose last night to wear it. Way to make a statement, Ms. Stormborn!

Allow me to piggyback on this reply to explain what happened yesterday. 

Are you guys surprised by my silence until now? I was and still am in shock. I – I can't explain what those pictures meant to me. 

It runs deeper than my shipping Jorah and Daenerys, which is, all things considered, a recent development in my long life as a Jorah Mormont fan (stan? Maybe.) 

You see? Growing up, I loved Ned Stark and Jorah Mormont. I never shipped them romantically, but they were so adorable together! Their friendship and the movies and period pieces they did together were awesome. They had crazy chemistry together; they made red carpets fun, with Ned's wife being either one of the guys or playing the straight man in their comedic and bromantic shenanigans. 

Long before Downey Jr. and Jude Law, long before the Marvel boys, those two idiots were synonymous with bromance to me.

I have spent a very long time (and a lot of money) trying to get pictures and videos of them on red carpets and talk shows because the Internet had not yet become a thing at the time, and for some reason, YouTube hates my guts.

And I also own all the movies and T.V. programs they made together. I have no idea what caused their falling out; it happened around the time when Jorah got married to his now (thank all deities) ex-wife. It broke my heart. 

But to go back to the present, I had to pinch myself when I saw those pictures.

First, the obvious thing: did my OTP just become canon? 

It looks like it did. Well, fuck me!

People have been writing to me for weeks asking me why I thought they hadn't gone public with their relationship. They have, now. Are you happy?

I know I am happy. The pictures are gorgeous, and the one where they walk so close together and hold hands is adorable. The pictures looked exactly what they were saying on the tin: three  couples  sitting at a table, having fun. Also, Robb and Talisa are gorgeous together. The Starks are fantastic!

I loved Dany's dress; even if I miss her blonde hair, her brunette hairdo has grown on me. She looks so proud in that picture when both Cat Stark and her are looking at their men laughing. Cat looks  relieved.  Dany looks happy, happier than I ever remember seeing her. 

And yes, she is wearing that necklace. I've seen it often, especially since she stopped wearing her wedding and engagement rings. The necklace that is the perfect replica (or is it the original? Or is it a custom-made copy? Enquiring minds want to know) of the one she wore during the run of her play with Jorah. 

I have been looking at the pictures for hours, and this whole thing still feels unreal. 

Jorah and Ned posing for pictures together like the ones they used to pose for. All the smiles and the heart eyes. All my feels. Jesus, I'm still reeling, hence my silence until now. 

And that quote from the inside source. It broke me. Like, this is my ghost, writing this post from the Great Beyond, level of brokenness. 

And yet – I don't understand something. Something is not adding up. And no, don't @ me. Of course, I think they're legit. Hell, I've been sure of it for weeks! I've been fighting here in the dark pits of Tumblr for  years  about them; I shipped them when they were both married to other people, so of course, I think they are together!

 But why didn't their representative say something? Why didn't they release a joint statement to go with the pictures? I don't get it. 

Dany was on set yesterday, from what I've gathered from the leaks on Reddit and Twitter, and then they went to see Robb's last show. They dressed up nicely, posed for pictures, and walked hand in hand, but there were no PDAs (and I am not complaining, mind you!), and there was that quote from an "inside source", but nothing official. 

Something doesn't add up. I'm sorry, it just doesn't. 

Yet, I am happy. I'm still shocked, hence my lack of flailing around and making bullet-point lists of the things I loved (they're coming; I just need to get over my shock and analyse the pictures). I'm still processing what happened. And I wonder why now. I suspected that they would never become public. There, I said it. That was why I never replied to anons or followers asking me why, despite the writing on the wall, they weren't "official". I didn't think it would happen. 

Or, in the worst-case scenario, I feared they would parade them around as a couple right before the publicity for GQA started. This was unexpected. It was beautiful and heartwarming, and my kid self is overjoyed watching Ned and Jorah laughing together and posing with their partners. 

Yet, something doesn't make sense. Any ideas? Or am I reading too much into things?

 

#Daenerys Stormborn #Jorah Mormont #Ned Stark #the jorned bromance is baaaaack #otp: can I keep him though #otp: he loves her and she loves him #Dear Jorah and Dany you killed me. I reread the quote as I typed it and it killed me again #I know I am probably reading too much into things. It wouldn't be the first time but it's just a feeling I can't shake #is this what happens to your brain when your OTP becomes canon? Wow. # I’m not that old #It’s just that years pass 

 

45.000 notes


 

Luckily, she had no emotionally heavy lifting-scene that day. It was just a dialogue between Alysanne and Jhaeris about politics and what their next move should be. Learning pages of dialogue was never fun, but at least it distracted her from other things.

At least she was forced not to think about Ygritte. She was on set, and Jon didn't tiptoe around her, didn't need to think twice about touching her. They were joking – rather, Ygritte was trying to make Jon laugh using what she imagined were their inside jokes. 

And had it happened the day before, she would probably be thinking that Jon deserved to have just that: a woman he could be comfortable with, someone who made him laugh and who didn't have so much baggage. 

But she still remembered what had happened in her flat. And yes, she knew it was just kissing and that no promises or words were exchanged, but what happened had been important to her. 

So, yes, she was jealous – and she was woman enough to admit it. Ygritte was a striking woman, yes. But she was Jon's ex. And it didn't bother her that she was on set. Or that Jon still seemed to care about her.

Jon had been with her the previous evening. They had kissed. And that had to count for something, hadn't it?

"Sansa! Just the woman I was looking for!" Baelish said, breaking her train of thought.  

She was tempted to snap at the man and tell him it had been pretty hard to miss her since she was shooting the movie! Instead, she plastered a soft smile on her lips and said, "To what do I owe the pleasure, Baelish? Shouldn't we meet tonight?"

"I'm spending the day on set. What they say about it is true, you know? You can smell the camaraderie here!" He looked at Jon and Ygritte, who were bickering about something, and with a smile, he added, "And the chemistry. I think those two have it in spades! Didn't they date for a while?"

Jon didn't  date.  Jon's ideas on relationships were old-fashioned. That was what Daenerys had told her and what she might have found out by googling him. She was only human, after all. 

 Baelish smiled and said, "They still have that spark, don't you think, dear?"

She definitely didn't think that! But she gave a non-committal shrug of her shoulders, and Baelish used her silence to say, "I'm looking forward to finally talking to you  alone! "

The man smiled and left her alone, and Sansa was suddenly sure of three things: Baelish knew about Jon and her. He might not know the specifics; he might have just heard the rumour mill on set, or the internet and might have connected some dots. 

The other thing she was sure of was that she needed to protect Jon, even if it meant stepping back from his life if he and Ygritte had suddenly decided, literally overnight, to give another shot at their relationship. 

Third, her conversation with Baelish might be less perfunctory than Martell had anticipated. But she didn't care about that, not at the moment, and she was aware that her priorities were all wrong, especially after the meltdown she had had in the middle of the road with Daario, her brother and Maergery. 

But what could she do, truly? The pictures had been taken; either they would be published, and someone would spin some bullshit story, or they would not. Either her meeting with Baelish would be the light tap on the wrist Martell (and Varys from what Daenerys had told her the day before) predicted, or he would be, well, Cersei's minion and would make her evening a nightmare. There was nothing she could do about it at the moment. 

She cast another glance at Ygritte, who was watching the monitors and listening to what Jon was saying about the scene. 

Yes, she would step back if it was what Jon wanted. It would be better, in the long run, for him. He would be safe that way. He would be happy. And it would be okay for her, too.  

And if she repeated it enough, she might also pretend to believe her lie. 


 

They didn't have many free mornings. They didn't have many lazy mornings in their hotel suite doing nothing. 

It was day one of them being officially a couple, which was preposterous considering that the people they cared about in their lives already knew.

 It was the day after they had flown to London and made their move for themselves and against Baelish and Cersei. Would it stop Cersei Baratheon-Lannister and Petyr Baelish from being colossal pricks? She didn't know. They could only hope for the best and prepare for the worst. 

She knew Varys had coordinated with Jorah's people and the Starks to ensure everything went smoothly. And it did. 

The Starks were notoriously filthy rich – yet it surprised her that Ned had loaned them the family's private jet to fly to London and back for the evening. She was surprised because she hadn't known they had a private plane; she was surprised because Ned and Jorah hadn't met face to face for  years,  yet the man had not hesitated to help his old friend. 

Jorah hadn't looked impressed with the jet; he had told her he had known his friend was wealthy since they were kids attending RADA and had already flown on the family's plane. He had looked impressed by the gesture and what it meant: the Starks were all in. 

She looked at Jorah, who was reading a book, and she felt her heart swell with happiness for him. Jorah was a good man; he deserved the world. She wasn't even biased; not really, it was an objective fact! 

He had told her what had happened with Ned Stark, the reason for their fallout, and she had seen the two men greeting each other the previous night and mending whatever gap the years and the distance had created between them within minutes because, at heart, they truly cared about each other. 

She had met Jorah's ex-wife exactly once. She had never told Jorah that she had hated her on sight, which had caused one of the most awkward dinners of her life: Drogo, Lynesse, Jorah and her sitting in an expensive French restaurant (because, of course, Lynesse would choose that) while the men had a stilted conversation about horses, and she tried not to show how unsufferable the woman was. 

And the thing was that, back then, she didn't have feelings for Jorah, hidden or otherwise. He had been just a colleague! One who had been kind enough to invite her out to dinner with their respective spouses because it was how it was done when one was about to spend weeks (hopefully months) of their lives pretending to be in love with someone else for a living. 

She still hated the woman for all the hurt she had caused Jorah and even Ned because if the men's genuine happiness at being together the previous night was of any indication, they truly had missed each other. 

Jorah didn't like talking about Lynesse, and that woman didn't deserve more space in her thoughts and in their bed that morning!

They had talked to the Starks because Varys was right; they needed powerful allies and more clout, and no one could get more powerful than them in the business. 

But to be completely honest, at that moment, on that lazy morning they were spending in bed, she didn't honestly care about the Lannisters and their schemes. She cared that Jorah looked more relaxed than he had for days, even if she knew that he would have never chosen to be on a tabloid to confirm their relationship. She wouldn't either, but it was either biting the bullet or having to withstand Baelish's idea of publicity or lack thereof. 

Before Jorah had contacted Ned, they had discussed their options, and that was the lesser of the two evils. Also, she had hoped that Jorah chatting with Ned about Sansa would help the two men reconcile. Even if she knew that Ned had contacted Jorah first when they were in London.  

Jorah looked happy; he had smiled a lot the previous night, and no, he had not liked the not-staged-but-almost paparazzi pic that had been taken outside the club. She wasn't a big fan of it, either. Varys knew what he was doing, however. She had to believe that. She didn't trust the man, but she had to respect that he was the best at what he did. However, Jorah's smiles with the Starks had been genuine, and that had been one of the best things she had ever seen. Second only to her son's smiles in the morning. 

Seeing Jorah happy – was all that she wanted. Well – not all. 

She also wanted to make love to the man sharing her bed because they had been busy and worried, and sex had not been front and centre in their minds for the past few days. 

Jorah, however, surprised her: he must have felt her staring at him for Gods knew how long; he closed the book he had been reading (some tome on historians who had written and researched about Queen Alysanne and had gone down some sort of rabbit hole with the hundreds of scrolls that they still had about the Queen) and said, "thank you."

Huh? She was the one who needed to thank him. 

Her confusion must be apparent because Jorah scooted closer and said, "Yesterday." He trailed. 

"Was nice. We make a lovely couple in those pictures, don't we?" She replied, still feeling that she should be thanking him instead. 

The picture outside the club had been almost staged, but the ones with Stark had been heartfelt. They were the ones that counted for her, the ones where they had been themselves. 

"I can never offer you a private jet," Jorah said. 

She rolled her eyes, "I don't care." 

"I was thinking – that we should start discussing our plans once we wrap the movie?"

She didn't expect that. They were in bed in their home away from home, wearing their ratty pyjamas, about to discuss their future. To think she had meant to flirt with Jorah and then have her way with him!

He was right, however: they wouldn't live in that bubble forever. They had talked about taking a holiday together after they wrapped the movie, and then they had stuff lined up and publicity for Good Queen Alysanne. They still had not discussed anything. There had been no time.

She smiled and said, "I've never even seen your flat in London,"

It was true – but Rhaego had liked Jorah right away, and she kept seeing the three of them in her garden,  their  home, having a life together. 

"That can be arranged," Jorah said. 

She snuggled against his chest. Were they going too fast? It didn't feel like it. It felt like every day was a blessing with Jorah. It felt like they had been kept away from each other for far too long. It felt like talking about their future was something they needed to do.

"Drogo's father will always be a pain in the arse, sorry." She said. She had to warn him. 

"People will say terrible things about us, you know that." Jorah said after he placed a kiss on the crown of her head, "Nothing we'll ever say will convince them."

She sighed, "I didn't want any of this to turn into – what happened outside the club yesterday. I'm so sorry. I know you didn't want any of this."

He felt Jorah's hand on her back, running soothing circles. He didn't deny her words but said, "I know that, love."

"I am happy you met Ned." She said, smiling. She kissed his chest and added, "You guys were the hottest men in the room. You, Mormont, were the hottest man in that room last night."

Her hand wandered on his chest, her lips did the same, up to his neck, and Jorah chuckled quietly before he let his own hand wander on her side and up. 

He sobered up when he said, "We need to start to think about our future."

"You mean we won't shoot this movie  forever ? Because Jon clearly thinks so!" She kissed him between words. Or she said words between kisses. She had no idea. 

"We are living together when the movie wraps." She finally said after Jorah took her breath away with another kiss. "If you don't like my house, we'll look for a new one. We will sit down and coordinate our schedules because there is no way I'm spending more time than necessary away from you!" 

She grinned at Jorah's stunned face. Did he truly expect her not to say it? He was her present and future.

"Next time we are in London, we can go house hunting if you want." She said. She loved her house; it was the only home her son had ever known, but it was just a building. Jorah was her home. The place didn't matter. 

She kissed him again and said, "Never,  ever  doubt how much I believe in us, Jorah."

After everything, she didn't think she had ever felt more sure of anything than she was of her love for the man who was holding her in his arms and their future together.

"Never, love." He said, "Know that you are all I believe in."

Damn. She thought. Jorah Mormont had just made her heart burst in her chest. She loved him so much. She wanted him so much. And she would protect him. She would always protect him.

Yes, we whored ourselves out a little last night with that picture outside the club. Yes, we might flirt on social media and have people notice us.  It wouldn't be forever. It was just until they broke the wheel, and they were safe.


 

Texts exchanged among Daenerys Stormborn, Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister in the private group chat "Ghost and Mrs Muir". 

 

Tyrion : So, Ygritte Wildings is on set. As one is and does. 

 

She came as Jon's guest 🤯 – she has a pass and everything. This morning has been a joy so far. 

 

Sansa is not amused. She's scheduled to talk to Baelish later today. As you might remember. 

 

Daenerys : 🤨the bloody hell? Is Baelish on set already?

 

Tyrion : Yep. Been here all morning. Delightful, as always. He was looking for you. He was disappointed that he couldn't find you. A true Shakespearean tragedy in the making. 

 

Daenerys:  I bet. 

 

Tyrion : Oh, yes and Sansa, I repeat, is not amused. 

 

Jorah:  and you are telling us about Sansa because…?

 

Tyrion:  Because I care. And because your faces are fucking everywhere today! Thanks for forgetting to MENTION THIS TO ME! It's not like we always bloody talk or anything!

 

Did I mention that Baelish was looking for you, and he was disappointed that he couldn't find you? Yes, I did, because I'm  not  a rubbish friend!  

 

Daenerys : We mentioned it! Last week! Read the chat above! How did you miss it? (🤦‍♀️, 👀 🧐, Dany sends a screenshot of the previous chat that reads:

 

[Daenerys:  We will attend Robb Stark's last show next week. Ned invited us I bloody hate your sister, Tyrion.   

 

Tyrion:  and then, Mormont, would you believe it?   Cersei had the audacity of calling me in the middle of the night because of the fucking gifs of her son on Twitter? Facebook? I don't even know! What was I supposed to do about that?!?

And my brother disappears for hours, and I have no clue about what's happening! Just how many times can he visit town?

 

Duly noted, Dany. ] )

 

Jorah:  thanks for the heads up. We are on our way. 

 

Daenerys:  besides, Varys also knew. Don't you tell each other every little thing?!?

 

Tyrion:  assholes. I keep missing things today. I don't like it. I need a drink! 


 

Texts between Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell 

 

Sansa : Daario has spoken with his people. He told me they're on the case. Any news?

 

Maeg:  Not yet, hon. Couldn't get in touch with the big man. Don't worry, we'll find out. But Sansa, you were standing right next to me! At worst, they'll say we have a thing. 😉

 

Sansa:  I know. I know. Look, it's a weird day. 

 

Maeg:  do tell. What's going on?

 

Sansa:  people I didn't expect on set. Not just Baelish. 

 

Maeg : people as in…?

 

Sansa?

 

Sansa? Are you there?

 

Sansa : Ygritte Wildings. Jon's ex. Sorry, I got called back on set. It's fine. Everything is fine. 

 

Maeg : clearly. So, how are we feeling about this? 

 

Sansa : fine. Just fine. 

 

Maeg : well, there must be a reason if she is Jon's ex. Remember that. Also, can I be frank? 

 

Sansa:  of course you can. 

 

Maeg:  ARE YOU BLIND? 

 

Sansa, honey, don't do this! You were freaking out this morning. 

 

You still are!

 

Stop right there!

 

She's his ex. His former girlfriend. Jon is a nice bloke. Don't overthink things. Don't let Baelish's presence on set make you go all Stark on your own arse! 

 

Sansa : Stark on my own arse?

 

Maeg : you know what I mean. 

 

Sansa : I guess. So, in short, I need to calm down? But why is she here? 

 

Maeg:  maybe she's here for work. She is a director, too, right? Maybe she has meetings. Maybe she has a project here. Just because Variety doesn't announce them, it doesn't mean they're not happening. 

 

Sansa:  you're right. I – just don't know what to do. 

 

Maeg:  talk to him like a normal person. Try. 


It had been a long day. Having Baelish on set was bound to make the days longer. He had finally called in the meeting with Sansa. 

He still couldn't wrap his mind around Ygritte being on set for most of the day. She  hated  being on his sets. She hated being idle. 

Ygritte had booked a room in the same hotel he was staying. For a moment, the previous night, he had genuinely believed she would crash in his room, but she hadn't even stayed long after the initial shock of dropping by unannouncedly. 

She had spent most of the morning following Davos and Baeric around, showing interest in some of the shots he had planned, refraining from commenting – which had been a first – and he was still genuinely confused by the whole thing. She didn't tell him why she was in Belfast. Was she there for work? Was it something else? Was she waiting for Tormund to show up so that they could gang up on him like they always did when the three of them were together? And she wouldn't answer his questions! 

And, of course, things with Sansa had been awkward in the morning. He was confused by Sansa, too. 

Clearly, Ygritte's being anywhere near Belfast or their set had not been his idea. 

It was also  obvious  that he didn't have romantic feelings for Ygritte any longer. He loved her; he would always love her, but he wasn't in love with her anymore. Really, would Sansa even contemplate that?  

And – and he wasn't a casual hook-up sort of man or the kind of man who hooked up with his exes just for the hell of it. 

Why had Sansa walled up again after the previous evening?

Was she jealous? Jealousy was an irrational feeling – he knew only too well, case in point, his reactions to Daario Naris. And he suppressed a shudder, thinking about the sex scenes Sansa and Daario would shoot soon. Even if he  knew  how unsexual and frankly tedious sex scenes were for actors. That only went to prove how irrational jealousy was. 

He was worried about some of the looks Sansa had given him during the day – but still, seriously? Ygritte? And him? 

And he was worried about her – because it didn't look like the best headspace for Sansa to be in while meeting Baelish. 

 Their producer was, on the best days, a challenge to one's patience. Once again, he believed he should be there with her because he took the photos and shot the videos (and directed those he couldn't shoot) that night in Jorah and Dany's suite. He should be there because he didn't care about Baelish. He loved his work – but not if the price to pay for doing it was his soul. 

Sansa was still wearing her costume when he found her in one of the make-up trailers; only the microphone had been taken away; she was ready to go back to her trailer to get changed when he approached her. They were thankfully alone. 

He had no idea about Ygritte's whereabouts and didn't care. She was a big girl, and she could take care of herself.   

Sansa was a bit  frosty  with him, but that awkwardness between them that had lasted most of the day had gone away – and he wasn't willing to pretend that the previous evening had not happened. 

He would respect Sansa's wishes if she decided she wasn't ready to go further than they had the previous evening. But he wasn't willing to back away without a fight if she had somehow convinced herself that Ygritte was there for him, to rekindle their flame. Because – that was ridiculous! 

Sansa, however, seemed calmer now. She said, "Don't worry, Baelish will bore me to death with his speeches."

She sighed and said in a low voice, "Jorah and Tyrion have known Baelish for many years; Dany has worked for him before – but I was engaged to his golden boy. I know that man, Jon."

She looked at him, and she was showing her feelings now – and he was relieved because she was  his  Sansa, the one he had talked to the previous evening. 

"I trust you." Jon said, adding, "We need to trust each other."

"And I do." She replied. And she was telling the truth, he could tell. She trusted him, which humbled Jon and made his heart flutter in his chest. 

It was hard to keep a distance from her, but he did and asked, "Can I drive you home later? I mean – if you don't have plans already with Bronn or Theon."

She smiled, "I would love to, but you still have work to do for today, don't you?"

He did. But he needed them to be together because he did not like the awkwardness that had been there between them in the morning, not after what they had been through, "Would you wait for me?" He asked. And he didn't care about how he sounded or looked. He only cared about her.  

She nodded and then said with a sly smile, "I might chat with Ygritte while I'm waiting for you, fair warning."

What?  He thought, but Sansa laughed and said, "Nah, I'll rehearse with Jorah or Dany. Daario has had enough of me for the day!"

He was jealous, and maybe it was only fair for him to feel some of what Sansa must have felt during the day. He needed to let Sansa understand that he was as surprised as she was that Ygritte had shown up in Belfast and invited herself on the set.  

How could he tell her all that on set where Baelish and Cersei had eyes and ears everywhere?

He took it as an omen when a P.A. knocked on the door and got inside the trailer to tell Sansa that the wardrobe people were waiting for her to assist in her changing her clothes and that Mr Baelish was waiting for her in the production office. 

Jon saw that Sansa, on her way out, moved her hand close to his arm as if to touch him, but she let it drop without doing it.

Not on set. Not with Baelish around. Even Jorah and Dany, who were very sweet together, never engaged in any PDA on set, and when Baelish was about, they refrained from touching or looking at each other if they could help it. 

"I'll be with Dany here – I'll be waiting."

Sansa walked away, and he was left alone for a moment. There was still something off about Sansa, and he sighed. He also left the trailer and decided to move in the opposite direction that Sansa had taken before anyone came to remind him that he was the director of the movie and was supposed to do just that.


 

 

Texts sent to Tormund Giantsbane by Jon Snow:

 

Jon:  why is Ygritte in Belfast?

 

Tormund:   How the fuck am I supposed to know that? 😉

 

Jon:  She came into my hotel room last night! 

 

Tormund:  And since you're a twelve years old it shocked you into silence?

 

Jon:  Why is she here?

 

Tormund:  novel idea: why don't you ask her?

 

Jon:  I'm asking you!

 

Tormund:  not everything is about you, Snow. Also, she's asking me to tell you that, like always, you know nothing!

 

I invited her…or she might have invited herself along. I dunno, Snow. We were drunk. 

 

Jon:  but why?

 

Tormund : fuck you! That's why! See you in three days!

 


She had many feelings for Baelish, all negative at that moment, but fear was not one of them for some reason. The man couldn't hurt her. 

Upon meeting with him, she decided to play the scared little dove he was familiar with. It was what the man expected from her, at least at first. It was more complicated than she had expected.

 She was tired and cranky, and she wanted Jon to drive her home. She wanted to ask him about Ygritte because Maergery was right – she had been freaking out a little in the morning and she had reeled after. Her head was clear now. 

She didn't like that the man was using Tyrion's office just to remark that he was their boss. She didn't like that she had finished a long day on set and despite the wardrobe people waiting for her, she was still trapped in that dress, which was as beautiful as it was uncomfortable because she still had to have that sure-to-be preposterous conversation with her producer.

Seriously, she was having that conversation in a very expensive costume. How did her life turn into that?

Tyrion had told her that he thought Baelish was angry – if it was true, he sure knew how to hide it.   

"How are you, Sansa?" Baelish asked. 

"Fine. Tired, but happy with the work we are doing." She replied truthfully. No sense in lying about that. 

"I would certainly hope so. You are doing an amazing job; I've been catching up with dailies today. Your work is truly astounding!"

She thanked him, hoping he would get to the bloody point soon. 

"You know? I wouldn't be surprised if you became the newest Stark to win an Academy Award."

She frowned, "My parents never won an Academy." 

… they were decent people who were loved and respected in the business. Her aunt had won an Oscar and she had been a basket case all of her life. 

"True," Baelish said, "but your mother is in the conversation for 'Lady Stoneheart' or so I hear…"

She thanked him. She didn't tell the man that her parents had never partaken in the Awards season madness, whether it was Baftas, Oscars or other awards.

 They had nothing to prove. And Sansa agreed with them. 

"Sansa –" He said with a smile, "may I ask you what you all were thinking last week?"

"We weren't. We – got carried away. It won't happen again." She said. That was the official version: castmates shooting the shit together and getting carried away after a few glasses of wine (except Tyrion, no one had really touched a drop of booze on the night in question).

Baelish wasn't buying it, clearly. He sighed and said, "May we talk off the record for a moment?"

She tilted an eyebrow up. She doubted that they would ever be off the record with that man. Yet, she said, "By all means."

"I think – and perhaps I am wrong in my speculation, that you wanted to overshadow Joffrey's premiere."

How about that? He was right. 

"He was an insufferable twat to you with those tweets and what they caused. You see? As you may imagine, I am in a peculiar position; I'm the producer of both your movies, and his mother is my boss."

"Truly – we were just having fun." She said. That was the official policy, and she would stick with it. 

"Sansa, dear, stupidity does not become you. I am speaking off the record rather than telling what Cersei wanted me to tell you because you are the leading lady of my movie."

That was  not  Baelish's movie. It was their movie – the one they were making; Baelish's grabby hands would not have it. 

"You are the star of the movie," Baelish was saying, and she had missed some of the words he had said.

"You should focus on this. Forget about Joffrey. He's your past – you have such a bright future. But –"

She had to suppress a smirk. Baelish noticed because he said, "What is it, dear?"

"Nothing – just something my father used to say, to my brothers mostly, but I overheard –"

"What?"

"Everything that comes before the word  but  is horseshit. I am sure, however, that this must not be the case. Please, do go on, Baelish –"

She was not playing the scared dove any longer. 

" But –  Cersei is not a forgiving person. And you know, better than me, how protective she is of Joffrey and his career."

Did she ever. 

"You are harbouring the idea that I am somewhat loyal to Cersei or Joffrey. Well, I am not."

Of course, he wasn't. They all knew that. Baelish was only loyal to power and money, which meant that he valued her movie  or  was laying down a trap for her castmates and her. 

"May I be as candid as you were?" She asked after a moment.

Baelish indulgently smiled at her. God, there had been a time when she was with Joffrey when she thought that he was sympathetic toward her. She had thought he might be her only ally in that big house. 

He hadn't been. He had protected his investment: Joffrey. 

"We were having fun together. It got out of our hands, and we didn't realise it. There was nothing more to it. We will tone it down. We already have."

Baelish seemed disappointed by her answer, almost like a teacher disappointed in his best pupil. He leaned over the desk, joined his hands, and said, "I see. Well, I'm sorry to hear that because we cannot risk having a movie fatigue before it is even released. I am sure you understand this."

Well, it was fair, she supposed. It was the only reasonable thing Baelish had said so far. 

"Therefore, I am afraid I will have to enforce some rules about your interaction and the content you may or may not release on social media for a little while just to protect the movie."

And fair had left the building! He wanted to put a muzzle on them. Great!

"I'd appreciate a quiet period from all of you regarding the movie and your interactions with each other. People need to want to watch the movie. Let them wait, want, and come back for more. You know how it goes. A memo will be drafted and sent to your castmates, your director and some crew members."

A muzzle. He wanted to silence them all. And, of course, if he did, Daenerys would be the one who would suffer the most. She was the one who had started it all after Joffrey's tweets, after all.

"I said it won't happen again!" She replied icily, "There is no reason to enforce anything. Daario has millions of followers on his social media. Don't we need his fans?"

Baelish shrugged his shoulders and said, "It won't be forever. You can resume your activities when we move production to Scotland next month."

After Bafta and the Globes nominations, right during AMPAS voting for the Academy Awards nominations. How fucking convenient for Joffrey.

"I am trying to protect you," Baelish said. He didn't add: "from Cersei", he didn't need to. He had made sure she had been part of the conversation.

"And I appreciate that, I truly do. However, I cannot answer for my castmates and accept your proposal on their behalf or even my own. You would have to ask them. And I am sure they would not accept."

It had not been a proposal – it had been a statement – a declaration of intent. And it would not happen. Not if she could help it. She couldn't give in, or Joffrey might think he was again on top of the world. Cersei would feel like she had won that match. 

But besides that, she couldn't give in because it wasn't fair. She knew how childish it sounded, but it was also true.

Daenerys had been scared to death of losing her son. She had sounded terrified before going to London, and when she returned, Jorah and she looked exhausted. And perfect strangers had seen the scars Joffrey had left on her body – so she would be  damned  before she gave in. 

She didn't talk, and neither did Baelish. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and she knew they were at a stalemate. The men must know that she wouldn't budge. He eventually sighed and said, "As you wish."

He didn't talk for a moment, then said, "I am afraid this was a mistake, Sansa. Cersei won't be pleased."

She let out a little snort, "Oh, because she is usually such a ray of sunshine!"

She was surprised by her own words. The thing was that she had felt  every  possible feeling for that woman: she had been starstruck when they had first met, she had idolised her, loved her, wanted to be like her, she had been scared of her, she had hated and feared her. She had despised her. She had even pitied her. 

She was not afraid of her, however. Considering her meltdown in the morning, it might possibly be a sign of her having gone batshit crazy, but she truly wasn't.  

Baelish smiled but didn't comment on her words. 

And she let out a breath. She was aware that in the end, her meeting with Baelish had turned out to be far less perfunctory than what Martell had anticipated (or had he really thought that she would accept her friends being silenced?) and had turned into yet another gauntlet thrown at Cersei. 

She wondered whether the others would agree with her choice. She didn't have a Varys on her side; she didn't have Tyrion's mind. She just had her own mind and her parents' suggestions.

She thought of her parents. Like hell, they would have allowed to be silenced. 

Dany had risked so much for her; even the day before, she had led the applause among the cast and crew. She could not let her down. 

Jon had nothing to gain and everything to lose from that stupid war, yet here he was, by their side. 

She had made the right choice. 

She knew that Cersei and Baelish would retaliate but also that she wasn't alone. It wasn't like before. Cersei and her son had ensured that when things went to hell, she was alone, isolated from her friends and family. 

Well, she wasn't alone, not that time. 

 


 

He eventually found Sansa and Dany in one of the make-up trailers, just not the one who had talked to Sansa earlier. When he got into the trailer, the two women were chatting. Sansa was in plain clothes (she looked absolutely stunning in her dark trousers and white jumper), while Dany was still wearing her costume but putting off her make-up.

"Hey, Jon." Dany said, "Guess what? Baelish wanted to put a muzzle on us. Sansa did not budge. Can you imagine? That was the last thing we'd need!"

He agreed. Their only power was being visible and vocal on social media. 

Cersei and Baelish had realised that too late. Too bad for them, truly. 

He was so proud of Sansa. He didn't have a good relationship with social media, but he had a worse one with bullies and people who wanted to put a muzzle on him. Not to mention what he thought of little psychopathic shitstains like Joffrey Baratheon. 

"Ready to go?" He asked Sansa. If Daenerys was surprised to hear those words, she didn't show it, and Jon was aware that within ten minutes, their little group of conspirators would know that he was driving Sansa home, but the boundaries among them were weird anyway, so he couldn't bring himself to care. 

Sansa hadn't said a word; she was still pensive and let Dany tell him about her conversation with Baelish. Maybe it wasn't just the jealousy thing with Ygritte. He honestly didn't know what to hope. 

They left, and he saw Dany giving him The Stare, but he ignored her. 

On the way to his car, they met Brienne and Jaime. He wondered why Tyrion's brother was still on set so late in the evening and, in general, what he was still doing in Belfast. He was also surprised to see him with Brienne; they usually bicker when they were around each other. 

He noticed that Sansa's face had turned blank as they crossed the man. Right. He supposed they would need to talk about what Jaime had done to Sansa one day. They had barely talked about Joffrey. Looking at Sansa, it was clear, however, that it would not happen in the soundstage's car park at night after a long day of shooting. 

They got in his car, and Jon kept sneaking glances at Sansa. The last time they had been in that car – no. He could not and would not think back of that night. 

He started the car, and the silence between them was not awkward. It was nice, almost. He loved being with her. 

He was surprised when she spoke and said, "I'm surprised Ygritte is not with us."

He turned and looked at her for a second. The tone of her voice had been even, but he was her director – Ygritte's presence was definitely something they needed to discuss. But really? After what happened the previous day? 

He didn't reply at first. Yes, they needed to talk about Ygritte clearly. He didn't tell her he had been shocked when he saw her. He didn't even tell her that she was a friend, that they had known each other for too long, and yet he had no clue about her current whereabouts. 

He wanted Sansa to know – but he also wanted them to move forward. He didn't want them to make the same mistakes all over again. If only he could communicate like a functional adult!

"Anyway, I wanted to thank you," Sansa said, not allowing him even to try and explain.

Why did it feel like déjà vu? Right. The car. She was thanking him, and no. No, they needed to move forward. 

"Don't. We agreed last night!"

He had mentioned the previous night. Aloud. 

Sansa raised an eyebrow, "We agreed that we should stop apologising to each other." 

"Let's extend it to the thank yous as well. What were you thanking me for?" He shot back. He was smiling but also felt on the verge of a panic attack. Again. 

"Everything you are doing. You didn't have to." Sansa said in a low voice. 

"Yes, I did – I do." He replied.

She didn't ask him why – and he didn't tell her, and why couldn't he tell her? She deserved to know. 

After a moment, she sighed and said, "I'm a right mess, Jon."

"So am I." He replied. And it was true. He was a right mess. And Sansa should stop looking at him and acting like he was fucking prince charming. He wasn't. 

As if on cue, as if the universe truly wanted to laugh in his face, she said, "You are the most solid, grounded and decent person I have ever met."

He wasn't. Not really – he was such a mess, but the words just didn't want to come out for some reason. Not about the previous night, not about Ygritte, not about the fucking mess he was inside. 

"I'm not. Not really." He finally said. And he would grit his teeth in frustration if he was alone. 

Sansa seemed to sense his uneasiness because she told him about her incident with the paparazzi in the morning. She told him that both her friend Maergery Tyrell and Daario were trying to find out who was behind the move. 

He couldn't help it. He clenched his jaw. It had become almost a Pavlovian response at that point. "And do you often go jogging with Naaris?" He asked. 

"Yes, ever since paparazzi left. Theon and Margaery come too. It was Theon's idea, actually." 

It didn't exactly make things better. And the thing was that Jon  knew  that Daario and Sansa were not interested in each other in the least. He just – was a mess. He hadn't lied to the woman. He never did. 

They were almost outside Sansa's flat. 

"Oh." He said, and honestly – what the hell was wrong with him?

She smiled. "Are you jealous?" she asked. 

Yes. It was complicated. He settled for smiling and asking, "Are you?"

It was a fair question, one he had wanted to ask all day. 

He looked at her for a moment as he slowed down the car, and he saw her tilting her head down, and she might be blushing a little. He didn't move. He looked around as he parked his car, praying and hoping no paparazzi was around. 

Talk to her, you git!  He thought. 

"Jon –"She trailed. In the end, she was the one who sought his hand on the steering wheel.

It turned out that they were both jealous. 

It turned out that Sansa Stark was far braver than he was because she shortened the distance between them, and she kissed him. 

It turned out that, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he was happy.  

 

 

Chapter 15: dvds extras part 1

Summary:

Tormund is coming on set. Margaery has a problem. Jon is absolutely rational about Sansa and Daario shooting a sex scene, Tormund interviews the actors.

Notes:

Another update! Yay! Thanks to those who left kudos, bookmarked the fic and commented. This chapter is split into two. I will upload the second part tomorrow or on Tuesday at the latest.
Hope you guys like it!
Yes, I know, another long chapter. I can't seem to update with shorter ones, sorry!
Others notes at the end.

ETA: I realised that I had uploaded the chapter not edited. Sorry. Happy holidays, the new chapter will be up in a couple of hours!:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

From Twitter

 

@FreeFolkTG:  On my way to Belfast, to Good Queen Alysanne’s set. Please read the site to know what happened, how it happened and what I think of @jonsnowVA movie. To the movie’s cast: Did you convince Snow to join Twitter? I’m impressed!

 #GoodQueenAlysanne #jonsnow #Sansa Stark @TLannisterforreal @DanyStormborn4real @officialDaarioNaaris @officialGoodQueenAlysanne

 

@TLannisterforreal: that was Daenerys. Mostly.

 

@DanyStormborn4real: @TLannisterforreal @FreefolkTG excuse you? I did not. Mostly. @jonsnowVA tell them! Looking forward to having you on set! #GoodQueenAlysanne

 

@jonsnowVA: she absolutely did. 😉 glad to have you on set, mate #GoodQueenAlysanne

 


From: Tormund’s blog: Freefolk.

 

I first read the “Good Queen Alysanne” script when it was leaked. I loved it. It was typical Tyrion Lannister: brilliant, witty, dark in places and visceral in others. When Jon Snow, a director I like and whose work I closely follow, was attached to direct, I imagined the possibilities—Tyrion’s gift with words and storytelling and Jon’s vision and talent.

I’m still sceptical about Sansa Stark’s casting as the epitome character. I have nothing against Stark, and the backlash surrounding the woman was borderline bullying. That said, her resume alone doesn’t exactly scream: “iconic queen,” now does it? However, I’m willing to eat my hat on that, and with an open mind, I’m headed to Belfast on set.

How: I was contacted when shooting started. I have met and interviewed Lannister on various occasions. The last time I interviewed him was in Venice last year. We chatted when the shooting of the movie began, and I was invited on set. I told them I don’t pay lip service. That’s not who I am. That’s not what this place is about. I speak my mind. I tell the truth. They said they are game. I like it when they are. So, off I go. Belfast, here I come!

 Unless you live under a rock or you don’t have any social media, you are probably aware that Good Queen Alysanne’s shooting is underway. If you have social media, you are either #SansaDefenseSquad or hate her guts. And you must have seen the infamous pictures. The ones posted on all the actors’ social media accounts that trended forever with the hashtag #dinneramongfriends? I’m curious about watching the cast interact with each other: They have loads of chemistry in pictures. Will it translate to film? Was it a fluke? We’ll see, folks. We’ll see.

Early buzz: If you are online, you know there is already some award buzz for the movie. It’s been there since the first week of shooting began.

 Early buzz always confuses me. I partake on occasion because when names are significant, and there is a narrative, or the role or movie is baity enough, it is hard not to. Still, sometimes early buzz fizzles out when people, both critics and general audience, see the movie. Sometimes, it carries on until Oscar nights, but it doesn’t always translate into awards (I’m looking at you, Michael Keaton. Sorry, mate. It had to be you!).

Is the early award buzz for Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, and Daenerys Targaryen warranted, or is Petyr Baelish doing his thing?

Only time will tell!

And me, next week!

So, watch this space: I’ll be back soon with news from one of the most hyped sets of the year!

 


 

He usually got on with Tyrion. They had hit it off since the man drank him under the table at a Vanity Fair Oscar after-party. They seldom didn’t see eye to eye, and when it happened, it was civil. They were adults, and they both cared about the movie.

Except for the scene they were about to shoot. And it was just a coincidence that it was a sex scene between Alysanne and Jhaerys. It truly was. The scene had already been partially rewritten to accommodate Sansa’s contract and her strict clauses about nudity. After that, they had discussed the scene extensively – because, in his honest opinion, Jon didn’t think the movie needed it. Tyrion believed otherwise. And on and on they went, talking and discussing options, neither of them changing their minds about the scene until it had become almost a row. It was wild because he didn’t have rows with his screenwriters because of scenes he didn’t particularly like.

It had nothing to do with Sansa or his feelings for her, and everything to do with Alysanne and the movie’s tone. Ultimately, they had been both adults (with Brienne and Baeric looking like they had grown second heads) and agreed to disagree. Tyrion had conceded, “We’ll see it during editing. If it doesn’t fit the tone, we’ll scrap it.” And he had acknowledged a, “I trust your judgement”.

The set was closed. All non-essential personnel were offset. That time, he had been very strict about it. Davos, his camera guy, a make-up girl, and he were there. That time, he had been literal because it wasn’t to keep Baelish away (which he would be, as he had informed them because he had Joffrey’s movie promotion to oversee in the United States for at least a week) but to make Sansa and Daario more comfortable.

They both wore fluffy robes and would wear them until they were ready. Jon was jealous and possessive but wasn’t stupid. The reason for his doubts about the scene was honestly and genuinely connected with the movie’s tone; Tyrion had made some adjustments, and on paper, it was a lovely and emotional scene. It wasn’t unnecessary. Sansa and Daario were chatting and were holding hands. It had been his idea.

Sansa needed to be comfortable with Daario’s touch. The man was as gentle as they came (he wished hating Daario was easier. It would make him feel less of a tool for being so irrational), and Jon, the director, was pleased with the chemistry between his two leads; the choreography for the scene was simple. He would make it look perfect and very not exploitative of his actors.

Still – Jon, the man who had spent the previous night watching a movie with Sansa in her flat and had held her hand for most of it, was a bit of a caveman. He was working on it. He truly was. And he knew it was irrational. His jaw would stop clenching any time, now.

They had an intimacy coordinator, which had been Tyrion’s idea. They might have disagreed on the scene, but there was no doubt in his mind that Tyrion didn’t want the scene to be exploitative or titillating. It was part of the main characters' story. And Tyrion wanted it to be told in the right way. The intimacy coordinator was a woman who had been there during rehearsal and now, as they were about to shoot the scene. Daario and Sansa trusted her, and he trusted them.

It was a coincidence that the scene was one of the last shots before Tormund’s arrival on set. It indeed was because the shooting schedule had to be rearranged a little when Daenerys and Jorah missed a day of shooting, and they had pushed forward a couple of scenes that they would need to shoot later, and Sansa and Daario had a couple of scenes that had been pushed back.

It was a coincidence.

Good thing he wasn’t an actor.

Ros told him that Daario and Sansa were ready. He nodded.

He watched as they removed their robes, then checked on Davos, who gave him a thumbs up. It was not going to be a glossy sex scene. He hated those, and so did his director of photography. They had talked extensively about what kind of light there should be, how it would highlight Jhaerys and Alysanne’s love and how it would fit with the movie’s general tone. Davos was a bloody genius, and he loved his ideas.

Daario and Sansa were in position; Sansa was wearing her nightgown, and Daario’s chest was naked.

Lights had been set with the stand-ins, so Daario spooned Sansa, and Jon noticed that he softly touched her shoulder before he did it as if to warn her. Sansa relaxed in the man’s arms as he gave the final instructions.

A brief dialogue. Their past and future. Alysanne’s wisdom and Jhaerys' intelligence. Gentle, sweet, and tender after so much violence and fear. Sansa would gently roll to face Daario. A kiss, another. Some snuggling, another kiss, more passionate this time,  and then the choreography would start.

After checking again that everything was okay, he called action.

 Sansa and Daario had found their footing in their dialogues very early on; there was an intimacy to their scenes together, a remarkable level of trust and empathy they shared, and they had built it from scratch. But Sansa had done the same with all the actors. He was so proud of her.

Daario was comfortable and believable; he was working very hard and bringing a genuine fierce protectiveness toward his leading lady to his role (he could relate to that).

The brief dialogue went without a hitch, but he wasn’t worried. A beat, and then they kissed, and Jon watched, feeling his jaw twitch. He was an idiot; it was time to move on and focus! Sansa had snuggled against him the previous night as they watched Interstellar (long movie, best snuggle of his life); that was real life. What he was seeing was pretending. And pretend they did: Sansa rolled gently over to face Daario. The scene went on as planned and rehearsed. Ros was watching with him and seemed satisfied. Davos was calm. Everything was okay. 

He would have to call cut in a minute because they would need to reset the cameras and the lights for the second part, but he let Daario and Sansa hold each other and ad-lib a little with their foreheads and hands. It was sweet, and their light was still good.

When he called cut, Daario and Sansa didn’t move too much; they were still hitting their marks and standing in their light; the make-up artist went and worked on them both because Sansa looked like she had been kissed - she looked more like the night before, her lips had been swollen too, and he had to focus on the bloody movie!

He looked at Sansa; she must have felt it because she looked back at him, and her smile was genuine. It was one he had seen the night before and wanted to see again, soon: against his skin, when they were alone and every day, if they could help it.

He smiled back. Jon, the director and the man are the same.

 


Fourth Week of Shooting

 

The last time he had seen Tormund Giantsbane, they had drunk together in Venice after an interview that had turned into a friendly chat about movies and the festival. He liked him; he was talented. He had made a name for himself thanks to his intelligence, brutal honesty, and insight. His interviews were always exciting. His articles were mostly enjoyable, and he was absolutely not a wreck about having cameras and a journalist on set. Since Baelish had thankfully left to promote Joffrey’s movie, he was the only tie Giantsbane had with the studios and the cast.

His stress was having stress!

He wasn’t friends with Tormund, but he knew, from experience, that the man loved to chat with him, and his live commentaries were usually lively and sometimes ferocious. That said, he was still following him and paying attention to the fact that the movie wasn’t spoiled. Some leaks on Reddit and Twitter were okay; they had allowed them to generate hype, but he was steadfast about not giving actual spoilers away. That had been one of the conditions when the gig had been finalized.

Tormund’s version on the blog of how the gig had come to be was not how it had gone. It had been about Jon and Sansa at first. Tormund wanted to help his friend Jon Snow (it wasn’t a secret, but it was not information Tormund disclosed that they had known each other for a long time) and his Sansa. So, they had chatted, and those chats had turned into a phone call and then a conference call with the two of them, Baelish and someone from the studios, and it had been a done deal.

Meanwhile, they had broken the internet, and that whole little war with Cersei was getting nastier and nastier even if his sister couldn’t do a thing, not until her precious son was nominated for an Academy Award, but she would retaliate; they all knew she would.

Daenerys and Jorah had made their first public appearance as a couple, and the press just loved that; Drogo’s fans not so much, and some tabloids were less than happy, but both Dany and Jorah were soldiering on.

Tormund had watched things for a long while. He had watched the people on set, had not used his camera yet and had been smiling a lot.

The bell rang, signalling the end of the scene, and a moment later, Jon approached them. Jon was smiling. True, he had been smiling a lot for the past couple of days, and his mood had definitely brightened, but the man who hugged Tormund had little in common with the director he had gotten used to. Jon had been a little like that in Dany and Jorah’s suite: naughty, funny, and without a stick in his arse.

 They were friends. Tormund’s articles on Jon’s movies had always been very fair, but it became clear to Tyrion that the red-headed man almost saw Jon as a little brother he could tease and look after.

“Impressive set, Snow!” Tormund grinned, “Looking forward to the complete tour. Sansa Stark should see to that, right?”

What Tormund didn't know was the weird phenomenon that took place whenever Sansa was mentioned, and Jon didn’t like the tone of voice used. Dolores Edd had started it, and it had spread. Jon Snow, who was usually soft-spoken and quiet, was known as “the beast” as far as the Stark girl was concerned.

“You’re making the noise –“Tormund said.

“What noise?” Jon asked.

Tormund patted him on the shoulder and said, “So before she arrives, why don’t you go and check on your next scene? Where the fuck is Ygritte by the way?”

Jon shrugged, “How would I know?” He grinned, waved his friend goodbye, and returned to the monitors.

When Jon was not within earshot, Tormund looked around and said, “Nice set you’ve got here. It doesn’t feel like a loony bin.”

Tyrion snorted a laugh. Oh, they were batshit insane. They had just gotten very good at compartmentalizing!

“Glad to have your approval!” he said.

“Haven’t said that.” He looked at Dany and Jorah, sitting on their chairs, looking at something on the man’s tablet, and said, “Eh – I hope they’re not online checking themselves.”

He shook his head. Daenerys and Jorah had done what they had to do, but that was something he couldn’t tell Tormund. It would cause questions he simply couldn’t answer without involving a world-famous blogger in their war.

“She might be thinking about how to go viral again,” Tormund said.

“It wasn’t on purpose.” He replied.

“Which time? The one where you took the piss out of Baratheon or –”

“All right - they’re probably checking their scripts.” He said. He had no idea what they were doing. They would tell him, eventually, if it was about the movie or Cersei. And hopefully, he wouldn’t forget – God, he was tired.

Daario was rehearsing his lines and looked very focused on what he was doing; Tormund said, “He despised the last three movies he made. Lots of money, sure – but.”

“He loves his role,” Tyrion said.

Those people were – friends. He cared about them. His first instinct was to protect them, and he wasn’t a nurturing person, for fuck’s sake!

“He does. Has he got the chops to pull it off? Maybe. He has shown potential in some of his movies.” Tormund said.

“He is a good actor,” Tyrion said, “we’re lucky to have him.”

“Are you giving me the ‘we’re lucky to have this or that’ off the record? Really, Tyrion? How Lannister of you!”

Tormund was not a fan of his family – and never had been so aware of how many people didn’t like it than in the past few weeks. Tormund had a point, however. He had given him a parboiled answer when he had told him they were game.

“It’s true, though. You will see his chemistry with Sansa and understand. Also, great fight scenes. Our stunt coordinator was thrilled!”

“He went to drama school. He got typecast and has been stuck ever since. I bet he feels lucky.” Tormund replied.

Tyrion sighed. So, Tormund was on a roll. The redhead said, “By the way, is your brother flirting with Brienne Tarth? The Brienne?”

What?

He blinked and said, “I beg your pardon?”

Tormund grinned, “They’ve been bickering ever since I came here. Don’t you have eyes?”

No, Jaime was not flirting with a woman who wasn’t –

They bickered, true. All the bloody time, and sometimes it looked like they were having fun doing it, but they did not flirt.

Jaime usually told him variations of, “What the hell are you doing? Why are you spending your time with your cast? You never do! Why are you pissing off Cersei? That never ends well! Do you want her to bury your movie with delays in distribution?”

The last part was making him lose sleep at night. She might bury Good Queen Alysanne, but Joffrey deserved a lesson.

And Jaime and Brienne didn’t even like each other! He didn’t think he would miss that if it was true! Therefore, it couldn’t!

“The buzz for the movie is real – heard lots of people talking about it on and off the internet.”

Tormund said, breaking his train of thought. For which he was thankful.  

He didn’t answer. The truth was that he had been living inside the bubble on set. Baelish had told him something similar, but he never trusted the man. He had won awards before, had written award-winning movies, and was familiar with that feeling that came with having buzz for your work. He had also learned it was better to ignore the buzz until shooting had wrapped and post-production was in full swing.  

Sansa had shot her scene and was walking toward them, still in costume, wearing a polite smile and looking stunning in her blue gown.

 “Something is brewing,” Tormund said.

“What?” He asked.

“The Starks are angry. Your people are worried and making contingency plans.” Tormund said. How the hell did he even know that?

The Starks, however, were right. They were decent people who tried to stay the hell away from the politics of the business and the ugly side of it. Ned and Catherine had raised good children, and Joffrey had made a mistake the day he laid a finger on Sansa for the first time. And he sincerely doubted the Starks were inclined to let it slide.

“And how would you know that?” He asked instead.

Tormund grinned, “I have my ear on the ground and people who tell me things. I also interviewed Mrs. Stark when her last movie came out. It was the second time it happened; let me tell you, it was a very different experience from the first. Mama Stark wants to be in the conversation for this award season.”

Huh. Luncheons, dinners, parties, but more than that, people who campaigned during award season learned a lot about their fellow nominees, including their schedules and tactics. It might get ugly since Joffrey was also starting to be in conversation.

The Starks were loved, but, above all, they were respected in the business. Those who couldn’t stand them would think twice before going against them.

Ned Stark was too honourable; he only took Jorah and Dany under his family’s banner and made them untouchable without starting a public feud.

Sansa was glowing that morning, and when she introduced herself to Tormund, she heard the pride when she said her name.

“Ready for the tour?” She asked, effectively closing the discussion with Tormund.

What did she know? What was her family plotting?

 


 

They didn’t have much time. Rehearsing and training were already taking chunks of her day away, and she would start shooting in a few days. Theon and she had been working in her hotel room since early morning. They had stopped when things had gotten a bit heated between them (shouldn’t they have stopped doing that? She thought they had agreed, and yet it kept happening!), and then they had talked – and things had just happened.

She had to focus on what mattered, however. Her ducks were almost neatly in a row. She had been working on that for too long now. When she didn’t get Alysanne’s part, and Sansa did, she had to change things, and the only way to have the Starks' help was to steer slightly away from her original idea.

She knew it wouldn’t be long until she would have to rely on her family. She had never done that. She had chosen her path and tried not to be her mother’s daughter. She knew, however, that soon her name would mean safety; her family would provide resources and clout.

Not that her family name had truly helped when it mattered once. She hoped things would be different that time.

Her grandmother wished she had done something else; she didn’t fully agree with her plan mostly because it put her at risk. Margaery knew, however, that it was her only shot. Joffrey was the perfect compromise. Joffrey was the weakest link in the chain, and tearing him down would only take a tug.

There was one problem, however. She had just told Theon the truth. He had repeatedly asked her why she was doing what she was doing, why she was helping Sansa, why she put herself at risk, and she had told him. Everything she had sworn up and down would never leave the family. All the things she had kept inside for so long.

And that conversation had put the fuckbuddies status entirely off. Fuckbuddies didn’t pour their hearts out after having extraordinary sex on a chair. Fuckbuddies didn’t snuggle on sofas after sex and reveal their innermost secrets.

The problem was that things with Theon had gotten complicated. She didn’t know when or how it even happened, but feelings had gotten in the way. It wasn’t supposed to happen! She was supposed to carry out her idea, have sex with a friend, shoot her TV movie and prepare for the fallout.

Except that it had stopped being about sex for a while. Possibly ever since Theon had told her he felt guilty about Sansa and Joffrey. Her heart had cracked open for the man – and he had sneaked in it.

And she was worried now. She had just told Theon the truth about her family secret; he might be angry now. He might say to her that she had used him (which wasn’t even a lie, truth be told) and that she was a rubbish friend to Sansa.

Theon wasn’t talking, however. He was digesting what she had told him. The things that her grandmother didn’t want the world to know, the USB drive she had found in her jewellery box in her bedroom and the things in it.

The grief and the anger she masked so well most of the time. Except when she had talked to Theon, and the tears had welled her eyes, and her throat had ached with sobs she had been barely able to stifle.

“He is going down,” Theon said.

Four words, and she felt her heart drumming in her chest.

“You can back out of this; I would understand. I do understand!” She said.

Theon shook his head. “I’m not craven.”

No. He wasn’t. And that was the problem. Perhaps she should tell him she didn’t see her career lasting long when she was done and didn’t care. However, Theon loved his job and was so good at it.

She told him. Theon’s arms were around her shoulders, and she wasn’t even looking at him but could hear how fast his heart was beating.

“Some things are more important.” He said.

 

Gods. What are we? What the fuck have I done? She thought, but she buried her face in Theon’s neck and breathed him in. They were all in. There was no going back.

 


Transcripts of snippets of interviews made on set by Tormund Giantsbane  [part one]

 

Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister on how they met and Good Queen Alysanne script:

 

[ They’re sitting on director chairs, a dark blue screen behind them. Jon wears jeans and a black jumper; his hair is pulled in a man-bun, and he wears glasses. Tyrion is wearing a dark green jumper and trousers. They look relaxed and friendly]

  

Tyrion: I was obsessed with Queen Alysanne and King Jhaerys growing up. I have worked on this movie for the longest time. I kept filling notebook after notebook with my ideas, notes, and research. About three years ago, I finally sat down on a rainy day with my massive pile of notebooks, and I started writing the script. Then I researched the Crown archives for two years, exchanged emails with Historians worldwide, went to Oxford and Cambridge to talk to some of them, visited the sites and rewrote the script entirely. It’s a lifelong dream come true.

Jon:  I fell in love with the script when Tyrion sent it. It took me five pages, and I was sucked right into it.

Tyrion:  We met and chatted about movies, and we found out we were fans of each other.

Jon:  [chuckles] Actually, when you first pitched me the movie, I said, “I don’t do period dramas”.

Tyrion: [ laughs]
Right, I remember that. And I said, “It’s not, and don’t be a fucking snob!”

Jon:  Turns out he was right.

Tyrion : it’s been known to happen occasionally, Snow.

Jon : Good Queen Alysanne is as far as a period drama as possible, and I texted you an apology while I was reading the script.

Tyrion:  T rue. [pats him on the arm] To be fair, it wasn’t an outlandish assumption that it might be a period drama. Nothing against them, by the way.

Jon:  oh, no – it’s just that, yeah – I was a snob! [laughs]

 

Sansa Stark and Daario Naaris

 

[ the camera follows Sansa as she walks down to the sound stage; she is in costume, and she is showing the sets: Alysanne and Jaheris’ throne room, Professor Reid’s office and the library where some of Anne’s scene takes place]

Sansa: I was blown away the first time I saw the sets. There are so many details in each set. The thrones are exact replicas of the original ones, for example.

[Other images of the set show Sansa greeting various crew members as she passes by and keeps showing the audience the sets, talking in a low voice because they’re shooting a scene. The camera zooms on Daario, saying lines to Dolores Edd and other actors in front of a green screen. His dark blue costume is similar to Sansa’s. Fade to black, and then Daario and Sansa are sitting, still in costume, in the directors chairs]

 

On Alysanne and Jhaerys Targaryen.

 

Sansa: We all studied them in school: the golden age, the rulers who saved the kingdom with their love for each other. I’m playing her, and I still have to pinch myself occasionally.

Daario:  T he script and Jon’s vision for the movie let us do our job. We trust the words, and we trust our director, and we can focus on telling our part of the story.

Sansa : [nods at Daario’s words] it’s true. Tyrion put so much into this script; every word our characters say is there for a reason.

Tormund is off-screen:  So, is there no place for improvising? Is Tyrion receptive to your ideas?

Sansa : of course he is. Thanks to our suggestions, and the time we spent time rehearsing the script  has changed. He wants us to be as truthful as possible while we play these characters.

Daario: they go through a lot in the movie, and although their story has been told before, it’s never been like this. They feel like real people facing actual events.

Sansa: Absolutely. And everyone here is giving their all to this project.  [she points at her clothes and Dario’s] you see the details of these clothes?  

 

 [other images of the set: Sansa is guiding Tormund behind the scenes and outside. They get inside the costume department, and Sansa grins, points at the clothes, and says: “The work done on these costumes is crazy. The costume department works 24/7, and every day is a complete delight for me and the other actors!]

 

Jorah Mormont, Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn: from script to film.

 

Jorah:  knowing Tyrion, I know I shouldn’t be astonished by how brilliantly he crafted a script that is part historical drama and agothic tale. Having done both, I think he took the best elements from both genres and wrote a brilliant script.

Daenerys:  some moments are genuinely scary – an intimate, personal fear. Don’t you think so, guys?

Sansa:   definitely. It’s scary because, at its heart, it is so incredibly human – and it’s also about people who go through such complicated emotions and events.

Daenerys:  understatement. [Points at Jorah, sitting in the middle seat between Sansa and her] He puts Anne through hell.

Jorah:  he does. She has a gift, however, and it gets out of hand.

Daenerys: it does. And it’s so fun to play!

Tormund:  what is it like for the three of you working so closely together?

Jorah:  the thing is, Sansa and I share some screen time, but we –

[Sansa and Dany cover his mouth for a moment and  then giggle and say simultaneously, with the same inflexion and tone: “No spoilers!”]

Daenerys: Sansa and I met at the table read, and we had known each other for five minutes when Tyrion and Jon came to us and said, “Hope you like each other because you’re sharing  your screen time.”

Sansa: Many scenes…

Dany: All the scenes. And then Tyrion and Jon were also like, “learn each other –“

Sansa: and we did.

Jorah : [nods] It can get intense. They don’t even notice any more. They mimic and mirror each other all the time. And we all  [give thumbs up*] 

[Dany and Sansa laugh at Jorah’s words, and they mirror each other in such a detail that Tormund says, “What the –“

Jorah grins and says: see? I told you.]

 

On working with Jon Snow:

 

Daenerys:  it's a dream come true. Truly. I was a fan before. "Fire and Ice" is one of my favourite movies of the past five years.

Sansa: it’s the same for me. He is so involved in every aspect of the movie. He trusts his actors and always trusts our instincts, but he also has a clear vision for the movie. We know we are part of a whole, and Jon is behind all that, making it look effortless.

Jorah: It is truly a luxury to work with a director like him: he is smart, has a real vision for the movie, and pursues it.

 

On Tyrion’s script:

 

Daenerys: [ to Jorah] Remember when he told us about the script he wanted to write about Queen Alysanne? What was it – four years ago?

Jorah:  yes, we were doing “The Ghost and Mrs Muir”, and he talked about this script he wanted to write...

Dany:  the amount of research that went into this script is like I’ve never seen before. We all got lists of books to read before we started to shoot the movie, and all of them combined are a fraction of what he had read before he started writing the movie!

Sansa:  our production designer took everything to heart; the details are incredible. It’s mind-boggling.

[ Jorah and Dany nod vigorously at Sansa’s words]

 

On Professor Reid’s obsession with Queen Alysanne

 

Tormund: It reads to me like Professor Reid is...how to put it kindly? An arsehole?

Sansa: hey, now!  

Daenerys:  it’s his life! You get the sense that he fell down a rabbit hole so deep that he wouldn’t know how to get out even if he could. And then Anne happens. And they have history, and things are complicated.

Jorah : oh, I agree with you, Tormund. He is an arsehole.

[Daenerys and Sansa laugh at his words]

He is obsessed, and Daenerys is right. He’s so far down in his rabbit hole that he can’t escape. I don’t think he is a bad person. I don’t believe he sees himself as a bad guy and is not actively trying to harm anyone. He can’t see how far into his obsession he has fallen.

Daenerys: very far. But so has Anne, so it’s a bit the blind leading the blind situation here. It’s an interesting dynamic, for sure, and it’s so far from anything I have ever done before.

 


 

She was tired. She hadn’t done press for years; she had forgotten how exhausting it could be. And she liked Tormund. They had met in passing through the years and had a decent working relationship. That said, her agenda for the next couple of days was quite full as it was, and she needed a cup of tea.

Jorah was in the make-up trailer, Sansa was still doing press, Jon was nowhere to be seen, Tyrion was Gods knew where, and she was enjoying her cup of tea at a table near the craft service.

And that was when Jaime Lannister decided to stop looking at her like he had done ever since she sat down and approached her.

He had been on set for a while, and she didn’t think they had exchanged more than ten words. Part of it was that she had acted in solidarity with Sansa, and the other was that she didn’t trust the man. How could she trust Cersei’s twin? How could Tyrion not see that having him on set was dangerous?

Given her relationship with her brother, she genuinely couldn’t relate to Tyrion about the trust he had for his sibling. The thing was that Jaime was looking at her wordlessly, asking if he could sit down with her.

She shrugged her shoulders. Making small talk with Jaime Lannister was not something on her bucket list, but they had press on the set, and she could not alert Tormund about their offset activities.

Jaime didn’t usually mingle with them. Except for a dinner when Jorah had been there, he kept to himself mostly. Well, he bickered with Brienne a lot, and she was not interested in the gossip mill on set – which was close to zero about the woman because she was feared and respected – and Daenerys was also the last person who could cast judgements on romances born on set. Still, having Jaime looking at her like he was ready to cross-examine her at the stand was not why she was there. She just wanted to enjoy a cup of tea!

“Have you talked to Tyrion?”

What sort of question was that? She talked to Tyrion all the bloody time! What did he want to know, honestly? Had Cersei sent him?

“About an hour ago, why?”

“You seem fond of him,” Jaime replied, and it was clear he didn’t want to have that conversation. He was uncomfortable, and he looked worried.

She smiled, pretty sure that it must look terrible, but Jaime didn’t care. He sighed before saying, “He’s always on set. He put everything into this movie.”

She knew. Not from Tyrion directly, but Varys, Bronn and even Jon had told her at different points just how much the man had invested in that movie. It wasn’t money – but everything else he had: his name, reputation and career, favours people owed him, the goodwill in the business. He had all channelled into the movie they were shooting.

“I’m aware of that.” She replied because she was Tyrion’s friend. She cared about the man.

“He is trying to be there for everyone here – and I mean everyone! He is drinking too much, and he is not sleeping!”

“He never does.” She said.

It was true – Tyrion had slept very little while they were doing their play.

“Not like this.” He sighed and then said, “I am worried about him.”

She looked at him. He was telling her the truth, and if there was one thing she knew about the Lannisters, it was how proud they were. Jaime Lannister would have never willingly shared his worry for his brother if it hadn’t come from a place of genuine concern.

And Tyrion was stressed. They all were. Tyrion was tired. He had been working relentlessly on the movie and trying to deal with his sister and the studio. And maybe Lannister was right. Tyrion was drinking more than she had ever seen him drink while they were doing the play in London and New York.

She couldn’t tell Jaime that part of Tyrion’s stress was their fault because they had decided to fight back against Cersei. Tyrion was trying to protect the movie they were shooting while still fighting by their side. Even if Good Queen Alysanne was the movie he had always wanted to make. He didn’t back out from Team GQA even if they knew Cersei had the power and the pettiness to bury the movie. And maybe she would have done so if “Future Perfect” hadn’t been such a flop and she was the producer of Joffrey’s latest movie. Perhaps she would have done so if the polls they had made for Good Queen Alysanne had given different results.

Cersei might sink their movie, but it would cost her a lot more money than when they had green-lit Good Queen Alysanne. Her studio needed a hit and needed a film with good hype. Tyrion, however, was the one who was risking it all.

And he deserved more.

And since his birthday was coming, she might have an idea to try to cheer him up.

“I have an idea, but we don’t have much time. I’ll need your help!”


The Boltons had taken the pictures of her jogging with her brother and friends. In the end, Margaery had gotten in touch with Varys. She had yet to learn when they would be published. Still, given her last meeting with Baelish, she suspected the proposal of a fauxmance to parade around substituting Dany and Jorah, who had made clear that they would not be puppets for the studio.

She had hated being on tabloids once a week for over a year – and more recently after Joffrey’s tweets. She had no control over what was written or the images that were used, and it had made her feel violated and dirty somehow.

But – she would play along with Baelish if it came down to it because a fauxmance implied with a paparazzi picture was better than an actual relationship dragged through the mud by tabloids.

She didn’t want that for Jon and her.

They were hidden in plain sight on set. They had been stealing kisses in the few free minutes they had in common.

The kisses were still gentle, but there was some urgency in them. They left her breathless – in a good way. She wanted more, and she loved being in Jon’s arms.

“I have never felt like that,” She said after a long spell of silence that had fallen between them, spent in his arms.

“Like what?” Jon asked.

“Happy – and terrified.”

They still didn’t talk enough – about their feelings, the future, her past, and Jon’s. They spoke, however. And she was telling him the truth. She didn’t remember ever feeling so happy and so scared at the same time.

She told him that she didn’t want a public relationship, and he said he was okay with keeping a low profile.

“Not for long,” she told him, “but we haven’t even really talked yet.”

“Whatever makes you happy, Sansa.” Jon had said.

“You.” She had replied. And it was the truth. Jon made her happy. Loving Jon made her more comfortable than she had ever been.

She didn’t think it was irrational to want to keep things a secret, at least for now. She wanted to protect Jon, after all.

Jon kissed her hair and said, “You are amazing – and I don’t truly care about what people will say.”

Had he been thinking the same thing she had been thinking? Or was it because the secrecy of their meeting had made him think of the previous night?

Sansa was moved by Jon’s words and the emotion she could hear. She had made up her mind, however. She would protect Jon and defend their relationship with everything she was.

Later, she would think back to that moment and realize just how utterly scared and filled with panic she had been. But then, things would be different.


Transcripts of snippets of interviews made on set by Tormund Giantsbane [part two]

 

Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont [ are not in costume; she’s wearing a white jumper and jeans, and he is wearing a light blue shirt and jeans. They are sitting on the director chairs, cross-legged, mirroring each other ]

 

On working together again:

 

Jorah: we’d always say we wanted to work together on something else…

Daenerys :… and we both wanted to work with Tyrion again.

Jorah: it was in the cards, but I did not expect this role to happen.

Daenerys:  Same. I had taken some time off – and it came out of the blue.

Jorah:  and it’s definitely different from our last project together. Both in terms of the medium and the characters.

Daenerys:  and the relationship between them – Tyrion really went and said, “You did your romantic thing with Ghost and Mrs. Muir; now do the opposite!"

Jorah:  it’s not that our characters don’t have feelings for each other.

Daenerys : they do, it’s just –

Jorah:  complicated.

Daenerys:  there’s history between them, and Anne has these visions and is very confused about them.

Jorah: my character genuinely doesn’t know how to help her once he understands that it’s not a play. What she is seeing leads them to real things.

Daenerys:  which scares Anne out of her mind.

Tormund:  speaking of mind – there are moments where one isn’t sure whose mind they are in. Can you tell us more about it?

Daenerys:  I love this. Are they in Anne’s mind? Are they in Alysanne’s? Tyrion built some incredible tension there. Sansa and I have talked a lot about this aspect of the movie and we're having so much fun with it!

Jorah:  they are. And I have to play along, which is extremely fun because I get to play a character within the character.

Daenerys:  are we spoiling this?

Jorah:  I think so, a little.

Daenerys:  we’re not telling the final scene or that scene where you and I –

Jorah: [looking into the camera with a half smile] Have a musical number?

Daenerys : oh, yeah [starts singing Come What May from Moulin Rouge]

Jorah: [smiles and looks at her] Yes. We do that.

Dany: [grins] next time. Next time.


 

Texts between Tormund Giantsbane and Ygritte Wildings

 

Tormund: Where are you? Where have you been all day?

 

Ygritte: are you my dad? I was busy!

 

Tormund:  …with that top-secret project you won’t tell me about?

 

Ygritte: with things.

 

Tormund: please, for the love of all that’s holy, tell me this is not about Jon Snow.

 

Ygritte: ??? What the hell? Are you drunk?

 

Tormund: I wish. No. I’m on set. I was hoping to get sloshed tonight. You in?

 

Ygritte: yep. Just the two of us, cause Jon will surely be m.i.a. like last night.

 

Tormund: he’s a busy director who does director-y things.

 

Ygritte: who pines? Fuck, I’m seeing lots of pining but not enough shagging.

Tormund: he would NEVER.

 

Ygritte: don’t I know it. Anyway – your room? I’ll bring Vodka.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Margaery is a woman with a plan, which will be revealed more clearly in later chapters. Her plan was one of the first things I wrote down when I mapped out the story. Also, I follow very closely the Oscar race and, for the past ten years or so I have done it since the beginning of the season which is either at Venice Film Festival or Telluride. It depends on the year. So, there is going to be some of that in this fic. The second part will feature the whole Oscar race.
Jaime and Brienne -- is Tormund seeing things? Wait and see:)

Chapter 16: dvds extras part 2

Summary:

Daenerys and Margaery go to lunch together.
It's Tyrion's birthday.

Notes:

Happy holidays everyone! A shorter update. Margaery's plan will be revealed.
Thank you so much to all the people who left kudos and comments.
New update next week, after the holidays, expect updates on Sundays!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 The lunch with Margaery Tyrell had been Varys’ idea. They were as far from the sound stage as they could get; they would pay in cash, and the reservation had been made by one of Varys’ many assistants under an alias. They were in a corner of the restaurant, far from the windows, protected from prying eyes and ears. Varys had insisted on erring on the safe side. She had obliged, and she was now glad that she had.  

She would have loved Jorah to be there as well, but he was still on set, doing press. The day before had been pretty hectic, and she was using time she didn’t really have to have lunch with a woman she had only exchanged texts with because, according to Varys she was too impulsive.

 According to Varys Margaery was not impulsive, and she also had a bone to pick with the Lannisters.

It was the first time they met in person, after weeks of texts and coordinated posts on social media. She knew Margaery had been in Belfast for a while, but that was the first time their schedules had allowed them to meet. Varys had insisted on not involving Sansa in that lunch. 

Sansa had told her that Margaery had a plan she didn’t know anything about. She herself hadn’t known anything about it until ten minutes before.

She wasn’t sure how to feel or think about what the very attractive woman in front of her had told her.

Her idea was more than professional suicide, which Margaery didn’t seem to care about in the least. Her idea was – insane. Not to say that she hated it. She didn’t, but the best-case scenario she could see for Margaery Tyrell was that she would never work again as an actress when the dust settled. She didn’t even want to contemplate the worst-case scenarios. What Margaery had in mind might also be dangerous in her personal life. She didn’t trust the Lannisters ever to play fair, Tyrion excluded.

She didn’t hate the woman’s idea, but she had a son she needed to think about, and she had Jorah. She would never, ever again put him in danger. She wanted to break the wheel, but she wanted to keep the people closest to her safe more. And she didn’t have anything to fall back on if things truly went pear-shaped. Margaery didn’t have that problem; her family was one of the most powerful ones in the Western hemisphere.

Drogo’s father had spoken about swapping masters and shaking the boat when they had talked. Margaery wasn’t interested in swapping masters or pissing Cersei off.

 Margaery Tyrell wasn’t interested in breaking the wheel- Apparently, she wasn't interested in trying to change the system. She was willing to let the whole thing go to pieces.

The woman wasn’t famous enough to be on Cersei’s radar. She didn’t need powerful allies because she was already powerful on her own. Margaery Tyrell, above all, didn’t seem to fear the fallout of her plan. And Daenerys was honestly surprised that Varys agreed with the woman’s ideas.

“Cersei will bury you,” Daenerys said after a long spell of silence. She pointed out the obvious, but she needed to tell the woman.  

“Not if I bury them first.”

Margaery said those words matter-of-factly, but underneath them, there was a coldness and such hatred that it surprised her. Helping Sansa, a childhood friend, dealing with her arsehole ex-fiancé was not the only reason why she had come up with the plan she had told her. There had to be more to that.

She did not ask her why she was doing that, and Margaery didn’t volunteer any information except for the things she had already told her in her texts in the past weeks. She had to know more before she could even think about talking to Jorah about her batshit insane plan.

Also, she was far from liking Cersei Lannister, but she never forgot, she couldn’t, that her studio was producing the movie she was shooting, a movie that was important for so many people she loved and for many reasons. She mentioned it to Margaery, who shrugged her shoulders and said, “That is why Joffrey Baratheon is going down first!”

“First?” She asked.  

With a sly smile, Margaery said, “His tweets were the nudge I needed, but everything was already in motion.”

She wanted to ask her how long she had been planning. She wanted to know more. She was also wondering about Varys. There was no way he didn’t know because he always knew everything. Varys, however, had accepted her offer and signed a multi-year contract with her. When he did, he had already known about Margaery. He had told Sansa so during their only phone call and she had told her, after.

Did the fact that Varys had signed a contract with her and had then told her to have lunch with Maragery mean that he didn’t see their careers crashing and burning when all was said and done?

Varys was not a fan of sinking ships, that much she was aware of. Varys also knew more about Joffrey Baratheon than either of them, having worked for the Lannisters for years. Varys had left the Lannisters the minute she had made her offer, and as much as she loved Tyrion, she didn’t really believe that it had been his friendship with the younger Lannister to make him accept.  

Varys, perhaps, had already been feeling that Joffrey’s reckoning was coming, one way or another.

“Do the Starks know about this?” She asked. Part of her truly didn’t want to know more, but she needed to know how in the Starks truly were.

“They do, and they are playing their own game. Tell me: how is it that Joffrey’s latest movie is on every critic’s ‘to-watch list’? And just in time for Awards season. Baelish has been burning so many bridges for the past few years, yet it’s happening. Joffrey will win or be runner-up in a trifecta, possibly in the London Film Festival’s top five, right behind last year’s Oscar winner and Catherine Stark.”

She furrowed her brow. To be completely honest, the success and the award traction of Joffrey’s last movie weren’t exactly high on the list of her priorities. Sansa, however, knew – even the night she returned from London, she knew exactly what was taking place in Joffrey’s camp. How? Why?

“I’m not asking you to be involved. Gods know enough people are risking everything as it is.” Margaery said.

Like – who, exactly? Who would be that crazy to do what Margaery had in mind and had shared with her?

“What would you need from me?” She heard herself asking.

She couldn’t be directly involved; there was breaking the wheel, and there was tearing everything asunder. She couldn’t risk the fallout. However, she could not let Joffrey Baratheon and his mother keep thinking they were untouchable.

“Verifiable sources who are willing to talk.” Margaery replied, “We need more.”

“Didn’t Varys give you them already?” Daenerys asked, genuinely curious. Whose side was Varys on, truly?

“Can't. Bloody NDAs,” Margaery replied, “he points me toward people in the periphery of those who know them.”

Silence fell between them, and Daenerys sipped her wine. Eventually, she sighed and said, “You should tell Sansa. Sod what Varys says!”

Margaery tilted an eyebrow but didn’t comment, and Daenerys said, “You should tell her, especially if – someone else she cares about is involved.”

She didn’t say Theon’s name – but she had heard time and again Sansa’s brother’s name associated with Margaery for the past month, and she was sure it would break Sansa’s heart if anything happened to her brother.

For the first time since Margaery Tyrell had started talking and shared her plan, she caught a glimpse of uncertainty and embarrassment in her features.

“Seriously,” Daenerys said, “she needs to know. She needs to be ready when it happens.”

  Margaery nodded and said, “We just got our director on site – and nothing will happen until you guys wrap the movie.”

That makes me feel so much better! She thought, with some anger. “And what if Cersei Lannister gets wind of this earlier?” She asked.

Margaery’s smile was bright at her words, and then she said, “Plans B, C and D are secured. One way or another, we are taking down Joffrey Baratheon. Then, we’ll deal with bitch mother!”

 


 

Transcripts of snippets of interviews made on set by Tormund Giantsbane [part three]

 

Tyrion Lannister on Sansa as Alysanne:

 

[ He is wearing dark trousers and a dark jumper; he is sitting on the director's chair, behind him a dark blue screen]

 

Tyrion: Sansa is a true revelation; she is good beyond my wildest dreams. She brought warmth, vulnerability and dignity to the role.

 

On casting Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont:

 

Tyrion : We were in New York doing theatre, and I was already working on this script. I saw them day in and day out, and it unlocked most of the second act, actually! Their chemistry is so sweet, genuine and absolutely not dysfunctional. Anne and Professor Reide are their opposites, and they are as far as the real people who play them as you can get. I’m very lucky that they liked the script and said yes. This movie wouldn’t be the same without them.

 

Daario Naaris on playing against type:

[ Daario is wearing jeans, a dark blue jumper and glasses; he is sitting cross-legged on the director's chair]

 

Daario: I did not expect it. I got a phone call from Tyrion Lannister asking me to read for Jhaerys, and I was like, “What?” but I did, and I loved the pages I got for the audition. Sansa was already there on the day I auditioned, and she made the screen test a lot less nerve-wracking for me. That said, I was sure they would not even bother calling me to tell me that I didn’t get the part. [laughs]

Then Jon called me to offer me the role – and I was speechless. The movie and the character are different from the projects I’m known for. Jhaeris is a warrior, yes, but he is also a husband, a wise king, a man who loves his country and wants to protect his family.

Tormund: no car chases and explosions, then.

Daario: Nope. But I got to swordfight, which I hadn’t done for a long time, and I wear an armour. Jhaeris, however, does more than fighting. He lives – and he cares about his people and his wife.

Tormund: and no dead wife to avenge, for once.

Daario [laughs] No. She is very much alive, and revenge is not what motivates Jhaeris. It’s love. Which is – isn’t it what motivates most of us, anyway?

 

Jorah Mormont, Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn: on love triangles.

 

Sansa Stark: I wouldn’t say they’re triangles.

Daenerys: well, it is a bit crowded sometimes. And confusing. For Anne, mostly.

Jorah: Alysanne is part of the dynamic between Anne and the Professor.

Sansa: True, but only because Professor Reid wants her there.

Daenerys: Anne does too. It gets a bit crowded on your side, too. [she raises a hand]

Sansa: oh, yes. Is it quasi-triangles? Converging points?

Jorah: quasi-triangles? [she chuckles] It’s true. However, there is always a presence both in the past and in the present.

Daenerys: which makes for interesting times on set.

Sansa and Jorah at the same time, groaning: the ball.

Daenerys: [smirks] Right, the ball! I still dream about that scene, by the way.

 


 

Having Tormund on set had been slightly jarring. It had been a few long days, and he was glad that particular day was over. All he wanted, now, was to drink himself stupid and sleep. Possibly, he didn’t exactly hold his breath over the idea of a full night of sleep. It had become a rare occurrence lately.

It had been a nice day on set, though, despite Tormund’s presence. Daenerys and Jorah had wished him a happy birthday, Sansa had brought cakes for everyone, and everything had run smoothly. They had even wrapped at a decent hour, which had been greeted with smiles by everyone.

He was really tired, however, so – who knew, maybe he would fall asleep while watching a movie instead of fretting over every single fucking thing like he was getting used to doing. Meanwhile, the man on the phone kept droning, completely uninterested that he hadn’t said a word for five minutes about location scouts, extras and how things in Scotland were going.

He made a sound to let him know he was still there, doubting the man cared and craned his neck a little to try and take a look at what Jaime was writing on his phone. Nothing. Damn.

Jaime was speaking on the phone. He was talking about work – apparently, he hadn’t been fired, he had just used all his unused vacation days but would soon go back to London – and he was texting on his personal phone. He seemed bored by his conversation and bloody hell, he could relate to that!

The man was still talking about things that could have waited until the following day, or it could have been a long email he would skim while watching telly (they would have meetings about it anyway). He smirked when he thought it might have been worse: it might have been a conference call with his sister, who never failed to mention that his birthday was also their mother’s death anniversary.

So, he counted his blessings, and asked a couple of questions and cut through the chase because he wanted that conversation to be over.

Thankfully, the man got the hint right when Bronn stopped the car.

Huh? He hadn’t even noticed they were already home.

Home, these days, was a flat he had had for years, the one he had used for the party at the end of rehearsals of the movie.

They got out of the car, and he shivered a little at the cold. Jaime ended his phone call with a curt, “We’ll talk about this on Monday.”

Bronn got out of the car, too, which was not surprising since they often spent the evenings together. He was his PA but also a friend, someone he genuinely trusted.

 Bronn had wished him a happy birthday that morning and had then disappeared for most of the afternoon to, as he had put it, “run your bloody errands!”  

“Do you want to grab something to eat with us?” He asked.

Bronn shrugged, “Yeah,” he said.

He wasn’t that hungry. He mostly wanted to drink as he watched TV, not think about work for a night and try and get some bloody sleep. As they got inside, Jaime asked, quite loudly, “Have you got any plans for the weekend?”

They opened the door, and when they turned on the lights, he couldn’t help doing a doubletake when he saw the scene in front of him: Jon, Sansa, Daario, Daenerys, Jorah, Brienne, Davos, Baeric, Podric, were all there shouting: “Happy birthday!”

There was also a banner hanging from the ceiling, food on the table, his favourite wine chilling in some baskets on the table and when Davos and Brienne parted – he saw her.

“Shae!” He croaked.

The woman walked toward him, and he blinked.

How?

Their relationship was not a secret, but they were very discreet about it. There were various reasons: Shae was a psychologist and a therapist, but she also worked for a tabloid. It was good money, and they had met at an event she covered.

At the time, his father had been still alive, and the less he knew about his private life, the better. Things had carried on that way after his father died because he trusted Cersei even less than he had trusted his father.

Jaime knew. And Bronn, as well. And that was about it.

“I missed you,” Shae said, taking his hands in hers.

PDA in public was out of the question for the moment, so he smiled at the woman, turned toward his brother, who mouthed, “Daenerys and I,” looked back at the woman and said, “You have no idea how much it is mutual,”

How had he missed it?

Well, he thought, looking around, he worked with professional actors, his brother was good at keeping secrets, and Shae had not given him even a hint that she was coming to Belfast when he had heard her in the morning.

He heard his favourite song on the speakers and smiled. Daenerys stepped toward him and said, “No shop talk. No family business, just us tonight.” She pointed at a box on a counter and said, “All our mobiles are there. We are having fun tonight. We are celebrating! Happy birthday, Tyrion!”

It didn’t often happen that he was speechless, but he was right now. Jaime nudged him and said, “Your mobile, you heard the lady!”

Daenerys and Jaime still didn’t like each other. And his brother would probably still think he was being stark raving mad for pissing off Cersei like he was doing lately, but he was on his best behaviour in that moment, and so was Daenerys. Even Sansa was smiling.

He obliged and went to place his mobile phone in the box. Jaime did the same a moment later.

“No talk of movies. Let me embarrass you in front of your friends!” Jaime said with a smile.

“Good luck with that. You don’t know my friends!” He said, grinning.

They were his friends. Not just because they were shooting a movie together or because of his name or his family's money. They cared about him.

“Let’s get ourselves sloshed!” Bronn said, and he, too, was smiling.

He didn’t feel so tired, suddenly. Shae had sat on one of the sofas, and he joined her, thinking that he might let his PDA rules go sod itself for one night. He had missed her! He hadn’t been in London since shooting started, and she hadn’t been able to visit.

“You look tired, love,” Shae said.

Funny. He didn’t feel that tired any more.

“Long day in the office, sweetheart!” He sighed.

She grinned, “It’s been over a month. Don’t sweetheart me, Lannister!”

He chuckled, “It’s been a long day in the office, love of my life.” He said.

He could feel his friends observing him.

He craned his head to look at them and said, “What?”

He saw the way Daenerys and Sansa were grinning at the same time. Even Jon was smiling, and Jaime looked the closest to happy he could manage while carrying his secret.

“I didn’t know –“ Jon said.

He wanted to be an arsehole and tell them that, unlike them, he could keep his private life, well, private. He didn’t.

“Come here, Snow. Let me show Shae how I drink my director under the table!” He said instead.

No movie talk, no Joffrey, no social media, no strategies. Just friends, having drinks and celebrating.

He suspected he wouldn’t get much sleep that night, either. But he didn’t complain. He was happy.

 


 

Email sent to Jon Snow from Tormund Giantsbane

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

 

Subject: The Article. Next time, you need to get drunk with me, mate!

 

Jon,

I told you I would be gentle with Sansa if she sucked. Well, the good news is I won’t need to. She doesn’t suck. She’s good, and she’s a true lead for your movie. You have something there. You have also made friends, which is good.

 Here’s a draft of the post I’ll make on Freefolk. Because you’re my friend and because you love this movie, I’m breaking my cardinal rule not to let artists read my articles before they’re online.

I will not change a word, though, so deal with it, mate. It’s good for the movie, however. Don’t worry.

Not everything I have filmed will go on the DVD. Some of the stuff will go on the blog when the movie comes out. I told them during the interview, and I’ll repeat here: let your cast do a commentary of the movie when the DVD comes out. It’d be funny.

Don’t be a stranger,

Tormund.

 

Attachement: Eating hats.docx

 

Draft of Tormund Giantsbane’s post for his blog Freefolk:

 

Having an open mind is a nice thing. As you might know, I wasn’t a fan of the main casting of Good Queen Alysanne. Neither Daario Naaris nor Sansa Stark would have been my first choice to play the queen and her king. I went to Belfast, holding some doubts about them. Yes, I have seen the behind-the-scenes pictures the actors share on their social media, and I have also gone back and watched some of Naaris’ less-known movies. I still had very little to go on about Sansa Stark, however.

Let’s start from the beginning, then: the script. The leaked version that topped the Black List last year is not exactly the same as the one they are shooting. Fear not, I talked extensively to Tyrion Lannister, who explained that most of the rewrites were done after that and some, after production began. Without spoiling the movie, I can tell you that I have read the shooting script (in red pages, with no access to my mobile and cameras) and I must say that as long as it stays like that, we might have a movie about Queen Alysanne which is not hagiographic and has a strong gothic connotation. It’s Lannister at his best.

Jon Snow is an interesting director: he is known for his vision and for his technical prowess, but it turns out that he is also a good actor’s director, from what I have seen on set. It’s early to say, but let’s just say that I believe in the buzz for the movie, having watched some dailies and some scenes as they were shot.

Daario Naaris is a revelation. Now, his fans will probably troll me for this, as they have when I expressed my doubts about his casting. He is good. Hollywood might finally have a leading man who can do romance, drama, and action, and you can’t stop watching. Move along, Chalamet!

I must confess that despite having heard and read about it I knew next to nothing about the so-called Stormborn+Mormont effect. I knew Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont had starred in a successful play together. I had read they had chemistry together, but I had never watched them perform together. I had seen, like everybody else, their interaction on social media (you bloody well know that Daenerys is the queen, and boy, is she back!), but let me tell you: you were right. I saw the effect in full force, and it was powerful. Their scenes are raw and fraught with tension. Daenerys’ character is unlike anything she has ever done, and Mormont finally has one hell of a supporting role!

 Ms Stormborn and Mr Mormont were a joy to interview and chat with: funny and completely devoted to the movie.

Sansa Stark is talented. I can tell you that. I went to Belfast with an open mind, and here I am, eating my hat. She has the chops, she has the role, she has the charisma. She also has a believable and strong chemistry with Daario Naaris. And with Daenerys Stormborn.

You will understand what I mean when you watch the movie.

Speaking of chemistry, no, it was not a fluke, it's not just in the pictures. The actors have chemistry in spades. Shoot out to Dolores Edd, a character actor I have loved for ages who is a brilliant addition to the cast. The man is a true legend!

Do I believe in the buzz for the movie and the actors now? Yes. In a perfect world, everyone in that movie, in front of and behind the scenes, should get accolades and awards for their work. Alas, it’s early to tell, and the awards race is still far away. Will the buzz carry them to the gold? We’ll see.

Speaking of awards race, I’m disappointed but not surprised by the attention Joffrey Baratheon is getting for “My Beautiful Boy”. I’m in the minority who liked the earliest cuts of “Future Perfect” before Baelish decided that they needed to reshoot half the movie in twenty days and bollocked things up. It would have never been an award juggernaut, but it wouldn’t be the blatant award bait for which Baratheon is in conversation.  

I’m also happy about hearing Cathelyn Stark’s name more and more in the awards race. Mrs. Stark gave a powerhouse performance in “Lady Stoneheart”.

Will her daughter be in conversation next year? Possibly, but only time will tell.

 

 

 

Notes:

So...Shae. Thoughts?

Chapter 17: Inside and Outside the Bubble

Summary:

Baelish has a proposal. Paparazzi are a thing. The fans lose their heads. Daario Naharis is not happy.

Notes:

First of all: thank you so much to those who read and commented on the story. If my calculations are correct, we are six chapters from the end. Of course, since my chapters are usually very long, it might mean a few more here on ao3.
I'm taking notes while I'm writing this because I'm having so much fun. I had all these things in my head, and I was stuck, not being able to write a single word to save my life. I can't stress it enough: take care of yourselves.
Hope you've had a wonderful End of 2023, and here's hoping for a good 2024!!
More, spoilerish notes at the end:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

From the blog Freefolk – Comment section underneath Tormund's latest blog post .

 

Posted by Joffrey _ BaratheonIsMyKing : What the hell?

 

Et tu, Tormund? Disappointed but not surprised? What is wrong with you? 

 

Posted by joffDefenceSquad: Re: 

Hard pass on Sansa Stark's awards buzz. Tormund, did you drink the Kool-Aid too? 

                                                                                                                                 

30 replies

Posted by Mad_for_Joff : Double standards?

Awards bait? The movie made with no money that Joffrey carries entirely on his shoulders is awards bait, while the boooooring biopic on a queen, made a trillion times already, has the award's buzz sight unseen? The hell are you on, Tormund? I thought you were one of the good ones!

                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                             42 replies

 

Posted by   NaarisManiac : In other news, the water is wet.

All due respect, Tormund, but we've been knew about Daario. He can act. He's always been a good actor. Glad to see you have changed your mind, at long last! Also, unlike the Golden Boy, he doesn't badmouth his exes on social media. So, that's a plus. 

Posted by:   joffDefenceSquad: RE: 

He made a joke and apologised. Let it go already. Naaris is cute, but he’s no Joffrey!

Posted by FireandIce245 : RE: RE: 

And thank Gods for that. Daario Naaris doesn't look like he ate a lemon whenever he needs to act like a decent human. Good to read about your experience in Belfast, mate. Can you tell us more about Sansa and Daenerys? 

                                                                                                                                 

20 replies

Posted by JoffDefenceSQuad RE: RE: RE

You don't even know what you are talking about, but please, by all means, ask about Sansa. Show your colours!

Posted by FireandIce245 : RE: RE: RE:

My what? Mate, let it go. Go out and touch grass. 

Posted by FireandIce245 : RE: RE: 

[ POST DELETED BY THE MODERATORS. Personal attacks are not allowed here at Freefolk. Learn your manners, or get the fuck out! ]

Posted by JoffreyBaratheonFanSock : Future Perfect was better before Baelish's hack job

I agree about Future Perfect. I was at one of the first screenings, and while it was a bit slow in places, it was way better than the final cut. Awards bait or not, Joffrey has given the best performance of his career with My Beautiful Boy. So, why disappointed? If the movie is award bait, it's doing its job. If you don't like Joffrey for reasons, fess up. You're honest, usually. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Posted by Mad_for_Joff : RE:

I'm afraid he likes Sansa more. She is a redhead, after all.   

Posted by Sansa Stark_GQA25 : RE: RE: 

or maybe he just doesn't like My Beautiful Boy. Could you take a day off from being arseholes to Sansa?

Posted by FireandIce245 : RE: RE: RE 

I'm afraid it's asking too much of them. 😉

70 replies

Posted by: NaarisTastic : Move along Chalamet

I've been waiting for the right movie for Daario for years. I'm not a big fan of Jon Snow, but if the script is as good as the one leaked last year, Daario will shine! Also, how would you describe his character in three words?

                                                                                                                                 

45 replies

 

Posted by JorahMormont88:  on a scale from obscure Italian movie  to Silent Evil, how would Professor Reid fare?

Loved reading your article. I have a question about Jorah Mormont and his role: does he play the flawed guy who makes tons of mistakes, or does he play an arsehole? Spill. Also, it's good of you to finally notice Daenerys and Jorah together. They have mad chemistry. Tell us more?

                                                                                                                                 

10 replies

 

Posted by JB69:   boring

The film isn't even out yet, and I'm already bored to tears by the whole thing. Ned Stark's wife will win an Oscar this year, so Sansa will be nominated next year. Duh! 

 

Posted by AwardsWatcher430  RE:

  Ned Stark's wife will win an Oscar this year, so Sansa will be nominated  next year.

 

It doesn't work like that. I have no clue about Sansa Stark's movie, but it would be a crime if Cathelyn Stark wasn't even nominated for "Lady Stoneheart". Best performance of the year, hands down. 

 

Posted by BlueRougeetBlanche:  RE: RE:

Who let Baratheon's stans here? At least Naaris' stans have more than one brain cell!

 We discuss movies; we don't stan actors here. 

                                                                                                                                 

30 replies

[THREAD CLOSED BY ADMIN. YES, WE'RE FREEFOLKS, BUT ARSEHOLES ARE NOT ALLOWED. MY HOUSE, MY RULES]

 


 

Sixth Week of Shooting

Daenerys was cold. Her hands were icy. Part of it was because of her costume and the soaking  fake  rain. He had not been part of the scenes of the castle raid, and Daenerys had been protected under a screen, but for that particular scene, they were both under the rain as Anne unravelled in the middle of the road. 

They had shot the scenes in the car the night before; a tense confrontation between Anne and Reid revealed more of their past and made Anne unravel once she exited the vehicle. 

It was a long scene. They had shot his coverage first and were about to shoot Daenerys now. He was aware that people were watching them behind the barriers that had been put up in the road. It was a cold night, and while most of Alysanne and Jhaerys' scenes were shot in the studio, some of his scenes with Daenerys took place outside. 

They were setting up the lights, and he looked at Daenerys, who, despite having her hair matted against her face because of the rain and her lips a lighter shade of pink because of the cold, was smiling as she read her sides, trying to be comfortable despite her wet clothes and face. 

He did not like getting into Reid's head until the last minute before Jon called action. He loved the character; it was the best he had had the chance to play for years, but Jorah did not like the darkness of his mind, and he didn't like the way he hurt Anne.

Tyrion had not lied to them; he indeed had taken what he liked about Daenerys and made a dark version of it to write the characters. 

Reid was  not  a villain – and he should know, having played his fair share of them, especially in the last few years – he was a deeply flawed human being who didn't realise how much he was hurting someone he deeply cared about. Loved, even. 

That was when Reid would finally start to get into his thick skull and realise that Anne was not just a tool, an end to a means for him. Daenerys had been magnificent during rehearsals, and he was looking forward to being her scene partner in that take. And all the ones after that. 

She squeezed his hand – did she feel him staring at her? If she did, she didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, she took his hand; yes, it was still icy cold. 

The make-up and hair people came to them, and Daenerys let go of his hand. The rain machine was ready, and, in a minute, Baeric would call everybody to be quiet, and he could see that someone was close to the people who were watching the scene, possibly to tell them not to talk. 

 Brienne coordinated with the second A.D. to check that everything with the extras was okay. 

The days on set were long, but the morale was high, and he was starting to feel – what he had heard from colleagues who had worked on successful projects. There was a sense almost of magic in the air, they were all aware that they were doing something special. 

"Ready?" Jon asked. 

He saw Daenerys nodding her head, and he did the same. 

They took their positions, and he exchanged a glance with Daenerys: she smiled, and he loved that in all the time he had known her, she had never complained about anything – she was highly professional, even if he could see that she was uncomfortable in her costume. She hated the cold. 

"And – action!" Jon yelled. 

Anne pushed him away – and Jorah caught the look in Daenerys' eyes: Anne was lost, and she was lashing out physically. Anne feared that she was going insane, that her  gift  was going to kill her or Reid. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her forearms. 

"I won't let this –"

Anne laughed at his words, resting her head against his chest momentarily while he still held her.

She looked up – and he didn't recognise the woman before him. She looked scared, frail, hopeless and about to shatter into a million pieces.

"You would let me die for her. To know. To get to the truth!" She said.

While rehearsing, they had played the scene differently; they had yelled and screamed, but with Jon's help, they had decided to take away things and strip the scene, leaving only the rawest emotions in it. Jon was right. It was better that way. 

He reacted to Daenerys' cue and placed a chaste kiss on her head. 

"No. That is not true. You must know that, Anne!"

She pushed him away gently. He resisted, and their bodies clashed for a moment. Anne could barely stand on her legs; her world had spun out of control, and she needed a lifeline. 

"Go away," Anne said, fighting herself and him. Her fingers were digging in her hair as she refused to look at him.

He could see real tears sliding down Daenerys' cheeks despite the rain, and Reid wanted to help the woman, but he was also so fucked up about Queen Alysanne, and his priorities were clearly wrong. 

"Go away-"She repeated. 

She was lost in her visions, now – that no one would ever see because they were exclusively in Anne's head. Visions of a dead queen on her labour bed, visions of pain and hope and loss. 

"I didn't ask –"Reid trailed.

Anne kept her eyes closed, and with some effort and a broken voice, she said, "I'm okay – go away. I will talk to you tomorrow. Fuck off!"

She crumpled on her knees, and he followed her down, their backs to the car's headlight, and he said (and he hated those lines with a passion), "What are you seeing?"

It was the cue for Anne's complete unravelling – she would fight it and get better, and then things would escalate again toward the end of the movie, but in that moment, Anne was trying to fight the visions and him – and she had to lose. 

She reacted, body and voice, and they moved together, the familiarity between them making things easier on some level. 

He chose to be in Reid's head and followed Anne further down her rabbit hole, and he almost couldn't feel the pouring rain and how cold Daenerys' skin was.

Reid was an arsehole who had feelings for Anne but was too obsessed with his work to let go. 

"I'm not going to leave you." He said – and it sounded half a plea and half a threat, as Anne still struggled in his arms.

They went on like this, and he lost the sense of time and space: they knew the lines and the moves and had already played that scene twice during his coverage. Jon knew when to ask many takes from his actors and when not to. He usually trusted Daenerys and him to give him what he wanted from the first take. 

He hoped that nothing had gone wrong because Daenerys had never been better. Baelish had informed them that he was sure that scene might be an excellent Oscar clip for Daenerys. He hated agreeing with Baelish, but he might be right. 

He could hear the noise the rain was making and feel how fast Daenerys' heart was beating as they reached the end of the scene. 

"And cut!" Jon said, after a moment of absolute silence when they finished. 

There were grins, and he was beyond grateful when p.as came to them with towels. 

They both were wearing wetsuits under their costumes, but, despite that, he was freezing, and he wanted Daenerys out of that cold and in warm clothes as soon as possible. 

Jon was satisfied with the scene. Nothing had gone wrong – no extras had fucked up, no weird sound had interrupted their scene – so he gave them thumbs up and told them that they would shoot the following scene in Anne's flat first thing in the morning. They were done for the day. 

Daenerys looked relieved to hear that. 

He looked at her as their microphones were removed and they were ushered inside the dressing room where they would finally get rid of those wet clothes and the wetsuits and could dry their hair. 

Both Daenerys and him declined help – they were adults, they could very well change into street clothes on their own! But Daenerys didn't object when he asked her if she needed help. 

Ever since their relationship had become public, they had decided to be professionals on set and leave their personal lives at home, especially when they were on location. Yet, he supposed that exceptions could be made. 

"Your hands are still cold," He said as he zipped her dress for her. 

"Yours too – I see mulled wine in our future!" She replied with a smile and a quick kiss on the lips. 

The last couple of weeks had been intense. They had spent one weekend in London in Daenerys' house after Tyrion's surprise party – and he had fallen in love with Rhaego. He was a bright child with Daenerys' eyes, and when the child laughed, he looked exactly like her. 

He had shown Daenerys his flat. They had packed a few bags, filled one or two large boxes with his stuff, filled her car with them, and returned to Daenerys' house. He now had space in Daenerys' wardrobe and in her bathroom. A guest room had been turned into his study, and he still couldn't believe that she had done that for him; it had been a surprise, and she had looked almost earnest as she showed him the room the previous weekend.  

They had spent part of the previous weekend house hunting, among other things.  

He loved Daenerys' house, and it was clear that Rhaego loved that place, but they were looking for something that could be theirs after they wrapped the movie. 

It has been interesting – and Daenerys didn't seem to mind that his finances were still not what they used to be before his divorce. 

"I love your house." He had said at the end of the first day of house hunting. 

"I love you in my house, but when we find the one we want, we'll take it."

They had dinner with Robb and Talisa on the second weekend (professional photographers had not witnessed this one) at Robb's house. They were planning to meet his young cousin, his only living relative when they went on location in Scotland in a few weeks. 

"Mulled wine? I'd like that." He replied.

"The glamourous life of actors: chicken with salad, mulled wine and Law & Order reruns on the telly."

"We can skip the reruns if you want."

"I'll fall asleep on the sofa, fair warning." She replied. She had dried her hair and pulled it up in a bun, and he was looking at her and still couldn't believe it was real. 

"Oh, by the way, could you check my phone? Varys sent me something." She said. 

 Daenerys' phone was in her coat, which was on a chair. He took it and silently asked her for permission. 

She rolled her eyes a little but smiled. Jorah liked that Daenerys' screen on her mobile was a picture of the three of them taken by Missandei. He was holding Rhaego in the image, and Daenerys was looking at both of them, but her head was against his shoulder.  

He searched for Varys's contact information and then clicked on the link he had sent her.

"Oh." He said after a moment.

"What – what's wrong?" She asked. 

 He turned the phone so she could see the images on the screen. There were a few pictures of them taken in London last weekend as they left a restaurant. How did they  not  notice?

"Oh." She said. He handed her the phone – because he would never understand the appeal of social media and having cameras bloody everywhere. The pictures, however, were lovely – and they were pretty innocent, all things considered.  

"Paparazzi took them, but not the Boltons. They were first published online by a new gossip blog yesterday. People like them, believe it or not, are not being shared on social media, and no other media outlet has picked up on them. Also, according to Varys, Drogo's fans are shutting up for now. We're not even going viral, so yay us!" Daenerys said. She looked tired, but she was smiling. 

The bad news was that neither of them had noticed being photographed, even though mobile phones could  be  deceiving and everyone had them now. The good news was that the Boltons hadn't taken the pictures; therefore, no sordid story had been attached to them. 

They had chosen to go public with their relationship, they had chosen to go to a restaurant like ordinary people and – having pictures taken without consent was something that, sadly, they had had to learn how to live with. It didn't mean he particularly liked it, and Jorah doubted Daenerys did, but there was not much they could do about it. 

"Baelish is going to love this," Daenerys sighed. 

"I'm sure he will." He said, stepping closer and circling her waist with his arms. 

"We do look cute." She said, running a hand through his hair. She was smiling. She was clearly trying not to let those pictures ruin their mood. 

"No second thoughts?" He asked. 

"About falling asleep on the sofa? Yep. I'm going to have my way with my handsome and very public partner."

He kissed her lips. He never asked her if she was having second thoughts – because he knew the woman in his arms, but sometimes he still felt she deserved so much more than him. 

"No reruns of Law & Order then?" He asked, instead, because she was the love of his life, and he loved that her skin was warm again. 

"Shame – "She said with half a smile. 

"I'm sure –"

"Will you kiss me already?" She asked. 

He was only happy to oblige. 

 


 

She was studying her script in the living room when the mobile phone rang; Theon was in the room with her, working at his station (two laptops and a large screen to check his editing), the telly provided background noise, and she muted it when she noticed that Robb was face timing her. 

"Hey!" She said. She moved on the sofa so that Robb could see Theon and her.

"Robb, hey – you don't look half dead!" Theon said with a grin. 

"And you're still wearing pyjamas!" Robb said. 

"To be fair, he's been out all day. He's changed into them when we got home." She said. Theon ducked his head behind the screen at her words. Soon, she would need to open the can of worms and ask Theon about Margaery. And that would be a very awkward conversation, she suspected. 

"Oh, really?" Robb asked. 

"How's Talisa?" She asked because an embarrassed Theon could lead to rows between Robb and him. She was tired and missed Jon, but he would finish late because he was busy with Samwell Tarly. 

Besides, Robb had called  her !

        "She is fine. She's got afternoon sickness. Is this normal?"

She shrugged her shoulders. How would she know?

"She is a doctor; did you ask her?" She asked instead. 

Robb smiled and looked like an idiot when he had that dreamy smile on. An adorable idiot, but one nonetheless. 

"She says she is fine. But I worry." He said. 

Sansa noticed that he was in his study, and she spotted the pictures behind him on the bookshelves.

"Of course you do. You wouldn't be  you  if you didn't worry!" Theon mumbled.

Robb must have heard Theon because he rolled his eyes but asked her, "How are things on set?"

"Fine!"

"You look happy, sis," Robb said. 

She  was  happy. She hadn't had a nightmare in over ten days, and things on set were going swimmingly; Jon and she planned to go to London next weekend because Jon wanted to see his dog and bring him back to Belfast since he had finally got around to rent a flat. Life was good, for once for the first time in a very long time. 

Baelish would be on set from the next day, but she wasn't too worried about him. Nominations were close, and with Joffrey being a runner-up Trifecta in San Francisco, Cersei would have to be absolutely stark raving mad to do anything to them. 

 "I am fine. Tell Theon that he can get back home!" She said. 

Theon looked up from his screens and said, "Still in the room, and I told you: I can edit my shit here just as well as in London!"

"Actually, that was why I called," Robb said, and he wasn't smiling now.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?" She asked. She knew Arya and her parents were okay; she had been texting with them all evening, but still – she didn't like Robb's tone. 

"Tell her, Theon," Robb said. 

She craned her neck to look at her brother, who stood up from his station and went to sit next to her on the sofa. 

"What's wrong?" She repeated. 

"Theon needs to be in London while you are in Scotland," Robb said. 

And? She had just said that she would be okay with Theon returning to London; why did they both look so grim?

"So, I've been thinking – what if I come to Scotland?"

"What?" She asked, "Why?"

Robb raised an eyebrow at her words, and she saw Theon snort. 

"He hasn't been anywhere near his social media for months, he would never drag his arse to Scotland for me and his mother wants him to win an Oscar so that his career stops circling the drain. He won't touch me!"

He.  Sansa didn't even use Joffrey's name anymore if she could help. 

"I'd feel better knowing one of us is with you."

"But – your wife is pregnant! And don't you have that new play you were talking about? Besides, Jon will be there, he will protect me!"

What. The. Hell? So much for keeping a low profile!

"You asked for it, sis –"Theon said, hiding his words behind a cough. 

"Will he, now?" Robb asked, putting on his poshest accent. He used the one when they were kids and play-acted their famous family acquaintances. 

"I mean – of course, he will. He is my director. Us being safe is paramount for him,"

She said, and it wasn't even a lie; Jon had been paranoid with Tyrion and Baelish about security on set ever since that extra had been a total arsehole to her.

It was a nice save, but her brother still looked unimpressed. 

"And Dany and Jorah will be there as well!" She added.

"Sure, I believe you. Even though it's not what you said at first or  how  you said it." Robb said, and she  hated  when he used that tone of voice: I'm the older brother, and you brats need to do as I tell you. 

She sighed. She had just lost her match with her brother. He would be in Scotland. 

"Think of the bright side: when we get back, we might also go and visit Mum and Dad's home; Talisa could join us. You could bring your boyfriend along – and Theon, whoever he's secretly dating!"

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"I'm not dating!"

Rob sighed dramatically and said, "Worst liars ever!"

"It would be a hell of a detour on our way back here!" Sansa said, trying to change the subject. 

"Wouldn't be the craziest Stark road trip that ever happened," Robb replied with a shrug of his shoulders. He grinned and added, "Be glad I stopped Arya from coming herself – Baratheon is number one on her shit list."

"She really has a list. I saw it." Theon said.

"Of course she does." She said and didn't know whether to snicker or facepalm. 

"She is also interning with Jaqen H'ghar when she finishes college," Robb said.

"That, I knew. Arya told me. Mum and Dad are wondering where they went wrong with us." Sansa replied. 

They all smiled, and then Robb said, "All right – if Jon  protects  you, I won't come, but I will visit the set when you return from Scotland."

"What about the new play?"

"It will take a couple more months to get proper financing." Robb explained, "So, I will meet your boyfriend since I have some time."

"Talisa doesn't want you around because you're being a mother hen, right? Also, he is not my  boyfriend !"

She was a lousy liar about Jon. 

"Not according to the Internet!" Rob grinned. 


From Tumblr:

 

mrandmrsMuir: 

 

khaleesiandhercaptain asked:

I'm thinking about the lack of official statements from Dany and Jorah's people. Perhaps they thought pictures were worth a thousand words? They declined to comment, but they haven't denied the articles' claim, and we all know that Jorah's camp doesn't tolerate bullshit said about him. Sometimes, I'm at work, doing adult, responsible things and the words: he loves her, and she loves him pop up in my mind and haunt me. It's been some intense twenty days. Remember all the flailing around watching pictures and analysing videos, trying to understand what was happening? This is better. And have you seen the newest pictures? The ones in London and the ones on set yesterday? They clearly want us dead. 

 

Hey, bb, 

Do I remember? Do I? We were here, in the trenches together! It was less than a month ago! 

So, here's a funny story: my sister brought me out for drinks the day after the news broke! The first round was on me and Uber because she said: "You were right; now stop obsessing over them !"

As if!

You may be right. The pictures in themselves, while quite chaste, didn't leave room for much doubt. They are together. – On an aside: will we ever, ever see them kiss? I mean in GQA, of course. I would drop dead if a candid kissing picture of the two of them ever came out. 

Who needs official statements when the fans of a late actor lose their heads all over the internet for a week and a half? I've gotten used to the B@r@th#+n trolls; these ones caught me entirely by surprise. Like, was Dany supposed to be alone forever? I don't get it. 

Who needs official confirmation when all the gossip sites have taken Melisandre's news and run with it? By the way, I saw some shots of the photoshoot they did for The Ghost and Mrs Muir that I had never seen before, and even screencaps from the videos in Dany and Jorah's social media. 

Most of the articles I read and saw were positive, except for a couple that remarked on their age difference, which I'm sure Jorah and Dany already know.  

You are right; Jorah's camp has not denied a single word. He denied his involvement with Daenerys back then and sued the gossip rag because of that awful tidbit that went with  the picture.  So, yes, no word from the man himself or his camp  is  a confirmation.  

Yet, despite all of the above – there is still something that doesn't add up when I think about how the whole thing was handled. Especially considering the new pictures. 

Did I see them? Hell to the yeah.

Strap in, this might be rambling:

Believe it or not, I wasn't aware of their existence for hours; I was minding my own business, doing work things on my computer (I can relate to you, on those words being haunting – it happens!), I opened my Tumblr to reply to some of the messages I have in my inbox, and then @jornaerysownme DMed me with the pictures because you know the golden rule of our fandom about paparazzi pics of Dany and Jorah! The only exception was when Melisandre's news broke. But other than that, we're pretty good as a fandom. 

So…

- Dany and Jorah were in London!

- Apparently, they went to a sushi restaurant!

- Jorah is in jeans and a blue jumper. He looks hot, he looks happy, and I stan that man so hard! 

- Dany is wearing a blue beanie and scarf matching her boyfriend's jumper. Can they get any cuter?

- I love that he's very tall, and she is definitely not, but she is so chill that she walks with her super tall boyfriend wearing boots! I stan a queen!

- Jorah was wearing a coat that looked very much like the one he wore during TGAMM as Captain Gregg. I don't think I have seen him wear it before. Is it the same? Because if it is, then I have theories. Loads of them. You're welcome to share yours 😊

- Holding hands. Interwoven fingers! That's not the first time I've seen pictures of them holding hands, but this time, it looks like they weren't aware of the paparazzi, so it's a genuinely candid picture of them holding hands.

- No space between them as they walked. In synch. 

- Dany's coat is fantastic. It costs two months' worth of my rent, but I want one!

- Nothing to see here: just a couple eating at a restaurant and then waiting for a cab outside. 

- They are smiling in all the pictures; they are chatting. They look so  happy, and they look super  cute together. 

 

Those are my random comments about the pictures – I don't particularly like that they were taken without their consent, and I'm not a fan of paparazzi, hence our golden rule not to share and reblog 'stolen' and 'candid' stuff. 

Feel free to point out the hypocrisy of discussing the pictures. I know. I  know.  Look, I'll get used to the idea of them being officially together and stop flailing around. It'll happen, eventually. Bear with me, meanwhile!

Let me tell you, however, how much I have loved the pictures from the set! First of all, I'm ambivalent about those pictures because I don't want to be spoiled about the movie, but Tormund's article got me curious. He, too, saw the Stormborn+Mormont effect; he posted a few selfies with the cast and crew and Jon Snow (who looks hotter and hotter by the day) after he published his article. 

I don't want to be spoiled, but I'm curious about their movie roles. What is their dynamic going to be? In the leaked script, it was not  meh,  but it was just a dark reflection of Alysanne and her husband. According to Tormund, however, the leaked script and the shooting one are quite different. He's also said nice things about Jorah and Dany. So, here's hoping. 

Poor Dany and Jorah looked like they were freezing: all wet, waiting to shoot the scene. 

I like Jon Snow, but  damn,  did he have to put those screens up? 

We got glimpses of their costumes and of them literally chilling between takes. They were so close, and in one of the pictures, you can see them smiling at each other, and  that  is why I don't need a joint statement after all. 

I saw so much love in those smiles and locked gazes. 

Also – wet Jorah. I like. 

  Yes, they probably want us dead. Or they're just too much in their bubble to notice us mortals!

 

 

#Daenerys Stormborn #Jorah Mormont #otp: can I keep him though #otp: he loves her and she loves him #kinda feel bad for them about the paparazzi pics #didIbreakthegoldenrule?

 

47.000 notes


 

The room was warm. Oberyn Martell had given them a heads-up that Baelish wanted a meeting with the whole cast of the movie, plus Jon and Tyrion. They were technically on their lunch break, and it took but a glance at his friends to understand that none of them wanted to be there. However, Baelish could be petty, and he hadn't forgotten how Jon and Tyrion had not allowed him on set once. He doubted he would soon forget how he and Daenerys had played him. 

He had no idea why they were there. Why wasn't Baelish still with the rest of Joffrey's team supervising the movie's promotion? Wasn't there any festival he could attend with Joffrey trying to impress critics and award-voting members?

He shuddered at the idea that it could be their lives the following year. He wanted the movie to be successful, but he didn't particularly care for the circus surrounding awards and promotion. He never had. 

Daenerys was sitting next to him, and Baelish was looking at them. He was smiling and didn't like that look on the man's face. He didn't like that he was looking at them and that he had requested a meeting. 

"Thank you for being here," Baelish said after a moment. 

No one said a word, and the man behind Tyrion's desk sat down. 

"I've been catching up with dailies all morning. I must say that I'm impressed. You are doing a great job!" Baelish said.

He cast a glance at Tyrion, who was sitting next to Jon. They both looked unimpressed. So did Sansa and Daario, who were seated next to each other.

"Daenerys, Jorah – I saw the latest pictures of the two of you," Baelish said. 

And? They had been in their free time; the pictures were innocent and chaste. 

"We didn't spot any paparazzi," Daenerys said. She hated that it happened but would not show it to Baelish. 

To think he was used to having decent working relationships with his producers. Baelish, however, whom he had known for a very long time, was the notable exception. 

"We will have an in-depth conversation about that. Need I remind you of your contracts?"

Daenerys' eyebrows shot high. They were both acutely aware of their contracts. In fact, the whole evening with the Starks had been studied by their people (mostly Varys)  not  to breach the morality clauses of their contracts. 

"Why?" He asked, "We didn't comment on the pictures."

He didn't like it; it was still something he struggled with, but they had accepted that there could not be any official statements about their relationship while they were shooting the movie. If they said anything, it would be used to promote Good Queen Alysanne. If they spoke openly, Baelish would  sell  their words – and Drogo's father might cause waves again.  

 The pictures were their statements. By the time the publicity for the movie began, they would be old news, and no one would care that the two actors in the film were together, except for a few awkward questions during press junkets.  

"That's too bad," Baelish said, "we had such a brilliant marketing strategy plan. The press would have loved it!"

Daenerys crossed her legs, and he heard Tyrion sigh. He bet the press would have loved it, and it would have probably tested his relationship with the woman. 

"Right." She said, after a moment, "It's not going to happen, and you know that."

"You made your point, yes." Baelish said; he smiled and then added, "Good thing we might have an alternative!"

He exchanged glances with Daenerys first and then with his friends. Tyrion subtly shook his head no. He didn't know what the man was talking about. 

Sansa, on the other hand, was rigid in her chair. 

Baelish switched on the monitor behind him, and some pictures popped up. 

"They've just been published!"

It was Sansa and Daario jogging together. It was four pictures of the two of them either jogging or stretching. 

"My Gods, that is  bad  Photoshop!" Daario commented with a shake of his head. 

 "They look real enough." Baelish said he was still smiling; he gave another appraising look at the pictures and added, "We really might have something good here."

Daario snorted, and he looked cross. He didn't think he had ever seen that look on the man's face since they had met. He had seen that look in some of his movies, usually levelled at some villain who had just said something vile. Jorah looked at Sansa, whose face was unreadable. From the slight slump in her shoulders, he thought she might be resigned to the idea. 

"Don't look at me like that! We're going to make it elegant and low-key!"

What a load of horseshit! He thought, happy for his training because he was getting angry on his co-stars' behalf. 

Sansa had told them about the paparazzi. It happened the same day she had her conversation with Baelish, and he told her he wanted them all quiet on social media until they went to Scotland. 

"Boltons are so classy. Everyone knows that!" Daenerys mumbled, loud enough for Baelish to hear. 

"I don't think it's any of your business, Daenerys!" Baelish said, his voice even, adding, "I don't see Sansa complaining. You said no, you don't get to –"

"Mind your tongue!" Jorah said, interrupting him. He was a reasonable man, all things considered, but he would not stand and hear that tone of voice used on Daenerys! He had also known Baelish for a very long time; he wasn't afraid of him and would not stand for his behaviour. 

Baelish's smile only grew wider. Then he spoke again of the plans they were already making based on four pictures published by the Boltons. 

He hazarded a look at Jon, whose jaw was twitching and who looked like he was barely keeping still. He didn't think he was angry because of the pictures or even Baelish's plans. It was the way Baelish had said Sansa's name and talked about her as if she didn't matter that had angered the man. 

Only Sansa's presence in the room possibly stopped Jon from going to Baelish's jugular. 

"The pictures are innocent – and they aren't even hinting at a romance between you two," Baelish said.

"Where's Martell?" Tyrion asked, interrupting him. 

"London, controlling this blooming narrative," Baelish said.

So, Martell was on time out because he had warned them the last time? 

"What blooming narrative?" Daario asked, and he sounded almost angry now. 

"Will they? Won't they? Are they or are they not?" Baelish said, "Nice, easy, and it always sells."

Sansa sighed; that was the first sound she had uttered since they had gathered in the room. Could it be that she had seen it coming? She had known about the paparazzi pictures for weeks. Martell had said it was a possibility. 

He heard Daario speaking to Sansa in a low voice, saying, "I've never had a showmance or a fauxmance; I'm not going to start now. I don't need this  now !"

Baelish had managed the almost impossible feat of making Daario Naaris complain about something. One of the reasons why they got along so well was that none of them whined about their job. They were all aware of how lucky they truly were. 

Sansa whispered, "I know, mate, I'm so sorry!"

Sansa didn't sound resigned, however. She sounded angry. 

Baelish dismissed them, saying he would be on set and chat individually with each of them. 

They left together, and he saw Daenerys going to Sansa. Daario scurried away, his mobile phone already in his hand. 

Jon looked ready to punch something as he strode away and was left walking with Tyrion. 

"That went swimmingly." Tyrion said, "I feel like I need two showers, you?"

"Me too." He said. 

"That's not from Cersei," Tyrion said, "she doesn't want people to even breathe Sansa's name right now."

"How would you know that?" He asked.

"Jaime. He's back in London, but he's texting me." Tyrion replied, "I think he misses us."

Despite himself, he smiled. Jaime Lannister's commentary of things on set was something he had come to expect. He even missed his bickering with Brienne. 

"What do we do?" He asked.

"Technically, Baelish isn't wrong about the strategy he's proposing," Tyrion said. He tilted a finger up and said, "I didn't like how he said it and how he demeaned the girls, but romances sell."

True. And they had a movie that needed success, especially if Joffrey won awards, thus steering his career away from its demise. Cersei couldn't sink their film if it was as successful as the first polls suggested.

"I would like to talk to Oberyn before regrouping," Tyrion said. 

He nodded his agreement and then spotted Jon talking to Sansa and Daenerys. Sansa looked calm, Daenerys looked pissed off, and their director didn't look like he was about to punch a wall. Which was only a slight improvement, considering they still had the whole afternoon and evening ahead of them. Good thing Daenerys and him were almost done for the day. 

"Let's get back to work," Tyrion said, "Gods, I truly need a drink right now".

 


 

Texts between Tyrion Lannister and Oberyn Martell

 

Tyrion : stuck to fauxmance detail?

 

Oberyn : just for the day, nobody puts me in a corner. 

 

Tyrion : did you just misquote Dirty Dancing?

 

Oberyn:  I'm having a shit day, mate. Baelish is losing his marbles. 

 

Tyrion:  a warning about the pictures would have been nice. 

 

Oberyn:  when we meet next time, let me tell you about the lovely brunch I had with your sister last week. She wanted me to help run Joffrey's awards campaign. A study in knives in the back, I'd like to call it. 🔪🔪

 

Tyrion:  you still didn't tell us about the Boltons publishing the pictures. 

 

Oberyn:  I thought you knew. Sansa asked me what I thought, and I told her it was possible. Did you read the messages in the group?

 

Tyrion:  I do. And you did not. Unless there is another group I'm not aware of. 

 

Oberyn : nope. Just the one. She wrote in the group about the paparazzi, and she @ me asking, "fauxmance?" I replied, "Possibly". Besides, I genuinely thought Baelish wanted to be an arsehole to Dany and Jorah for binning all his "grand" plans for them [5]

 

Tyrion : the pictures are terrible, by the way. 

 

Oberyn:  poor Boltons, they used to be much better than this at Photoshop. 

 

Tyrion:  the idea isn't even bad per se. Did you suggest it?

 

Oberyn:  Yes. Baelish wanted the whirlwind romance: paparazzi while they walk hand in hand, romantic dinners, etc. I suggested this. Except that the two leads won't ever play ball. Naaris especially, since his people are already contacting the studio; way to go, Baelish! 👎

 

Tyrion : how much trouble are you in? 

 

Oberyn:  I'm touched. Very little. I know where some of Baelish's bodies are buried 🤫, he won't do a thing 😎

 

Tyrion:  what did you tell my sister?

 

Oberyn:   I told her   that I have too many commitments I can't quit, that I'm honoured with her request and wish her son all the best in the coming award season. What the fuck did you expect? She was ecstatic, by the way. 😒

 

Tyrion : I need to speak to you about something. Privately and soon. 

 

Oberyn:  swamped at work. Call me tonight. Please, don't let it be boring. I'm dying here. 

 

Tyrion:  I'm missing something – maybe you can help. 

 

Oberyn:  wut? 

 

Tyrion:  I'll tell you over the phone. I'm calling tonight. 

 


From Twitter: 

 

@joffreybaratheonismyKing:   I thought  @ officialDaarioNaaris had better taste than that. Poor Jon Snow. 

 

@futureperfect21:   well, she has a nice bod. Naaris could do worse. Wasn't she shagging the director of her movie anyway?

 

@ FireAndIce849 @futureperfect21 I wow, classy! And we don't know who's shagging who. Can't two mates go jogging together? 

 

@daenerysismykhaleesi:  they do look cute together. Photoshopped like crazy, but cute.   

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  friends go jogging. Also, leave Jon out of this.  

 

@ joffreybaratheonismyKing @jonsnowdeservedanoscar : I think Sansa already did mate. Moved already on to greener pastures. 

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  @ joffreybaratheonismyKing

So, you shag all the people you go jogging with? How do you function in real life?

 

 @ NaarTastic34 : they do make a cute couple. Even in those early photos from the set, you could tell they have chemistry. Who knows? Surprised because Daario is very private. 

 

@ joffreybaratheonismyKing : @ joffreybaratheonismyKing : That's what happened with Miss Ice Queen. Ask her ex. She turned the whole thing into a circus. 

 

@ sansaisagoddess:  @ joffreybaratheonismyKing  seriously? What part of the multiverse are you from? *she* turned the whole thing with Golden Boy into a circus? She? Also, not so icy, considering.

 

@ NaarTastic34 : Let's not slander Sansa. If anything, she is friends with Daario!

 

@ jonsnowdeservedanoscar : @ NaarTastic34  I wholeheartedly agree with this. Some people are just wired that way. Personally, I see two mates who are jogging together. Don't know what the fuss is all about. 

 

@sansaisagoddess:  @ jonsnowdeservedanoscar  @ NaarTastic34:  can't see what the fuss is all about either. Yes, they do look cute. But they're both attractive, it comes with the territory. 

 

@daarioonarismysecondson:  well, they do look cute. Are they friends? Is there more? We'll see. Please, folks, don't tag Daario. You know how private he is!!

 

@fireandice456:  the bad Photoshop is distracting me from even thinking about the two of them. Omfg, my 10-year-old nephew could do better! Look at the shadows, they're all wrong!!

 

SansaAlysanne01 @fireandice456  lol. True. Also, Sansa and Daario are friends; I don't see that kind of chemistry between them, not from those pictures, anyway.

 

@ itktgqa:  they're close, but not  that  close. 

 

@joffbratheonismyking:  all in all, disappointed with @ officialDaarioNaaris , mate you could have do much better!!

 

@daarioonarismysecondson @joffbratheonismyking,  stop tagging Daario with this shit. Unlike your fave, mine is truly a private man. 

 

@sansaisagoddess : @ joffbaratheonismyking : we live with the disappointment of your continued existence, yet… 

 

@ jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @joffbaratheonismyking:  so much wrong in 13 words. A new record! Could people chill a goddamn moment? It's four pictures! 

 

@ joffbaratheonismyking:  @ jonsnowdeservedanoscar  wonder if you'd be chill if there were pictures of Jon and Sansa …

 


 

He had calmed down. One of the reasons he loved his job so much was that it made everything else go away. He focused on his task and could function. The way Baelish had addressed Sansa had made him see red. He was also angry because Sansa had been expecting it. She was resigned to playing the game. 

He sighed. Ygritte was on set. She wasn't on set every day, she had things to do in Belfast, apparently, even if she had not shared them with him. And he  had  asked. 

He saw her approaching, and he knew that look on her face. She was concerned. 

Ygritte was – tough, but she also had a good heart, and they had loved each other for so long, and all that love couldn't be swept under the rug. It had changed; they were friends, and they would always care about each other. 

He hadn't told her about Sansa, and she wasn't telling him what she was doing in Belfast. She popped up on set twice a week, and sometimes they chatted. It had been her presence in his same hotel that had finally prompted him to lease a flat. Even if they would leave Belfast soon for their shoot in Scotland. 

"Can we talk?" Ygritte asked. 

Jon looked around: crewmembers were resetting the scene, and they were still setting up the lights for the new scene, so, yes, he  could  talk. Did he want to? Not particularly. 

"About?" He asked. 

Ygritte worried her lower lip with her teeth like she always did when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn't like. 

"I'm worried about you – because of Joffrey Baratheon."

That caught his attention. He leaned against a monitor and asked, "And why is that?"

"Look – I've heard some rumours. They put a muzzle on him. He's under constant supervision because of his movie."

"About bloody time." He replied. 

"His career was dying, but now, he's getting a lot of good press for the movie, and the box office is good; the movie has legs. His career is not on life support right now. If he feels safe enough, he will be out for blood." 

He felt chills run through his spine. Sansa. Would the asshole try to harm Sansa again?

"Your blood, Jon." Ygritte continued, "As I said, I've heard rumours. He really hates you."

He shrugged his shoulders, "There will be blood, then."

He wasn't worried about himself. He could take care of himself – and he despised Joffrey Baratheon. 

Ygritte didn't ask him questions or comment on his words. And he didn't ask where she had heard those rumours. 

Out of his eye, he saw Baelish talking to Sansa in a corner of the soundstage. Sansa was already in costume, and she kept her back straight in front of the man who had proposed that stupid fauxmance and talked about her as if she wasn't even in the room or had any say in the matter. Was he paranoid if he thought that Baelish was behind those pictures? 

He hated how the man looked at Sansa, how he was crowding her space and kept touching her forearm. 

Sansa didn't flinch or, producer or not, no one would have stopped him from decking the man in front of the whole crew. 

He wanted to get close to Sansa, but they had decided to keep a low profile, and no one on set had to know they were together under any circumstance. They needed to be professionals. Their friends suspected, but no one had asked yet. 

Besides, neither of them wanted to turn their relationship into a circus. Sansa especially, after Joffrey. 

She didn't want to be in the middle of another media circus but had not said a word about Baelish's ludicrous proposal.

It didn't make sense. Why?

She had told him that she had hated being in the tabloids. And yet she had not said no like Daario had.

And he had to grin and bear it for the time being. 

Ygritte was looking at him, and he heard her say, "You really care about her."

He looked at her. He couldn't lie to Ygritte. She knew him too well, so he shrugged his shoulders and said, "It doesn't really matter –"

It did, but they were on set, and their private life had to stay out of it. It did, but short of punching his producer, there was nothing he could do. 

“Joffrey will use this.” Ygritte said.

"Let him try!" He replied, ice in his voice and fire in his veins. 

 

 


 

Baelish had left the soundstage. One could almost hear the collective sigh of relief. Tyrion was an excellent producer, and no one liked it when he was on set. There was still some tension, she noticed. Brienne was acting sterner than usual (but that had started before their producer had turned up on set), Davos wasn't in his usual jovial mood and the last time she had spotted Daario, he had looked pissed off, so much that he had gone to his trailer, which he never did. He always hung around with the crew!

Jorah was about to shoot a scene and was talking to Jon. Tyrion was nowhere to be seen (if she were him, she would burn sage in his office), which left her sitting with Sansa out of earshot of Jon Snow. 

Sansa had expected Baelish’s move. She had asked Martell about it and looked resigned while their producer described his idea of marketing. 

Sansa looked worried. About Jon, possibly – because Jon was angry. 

She wasn't sure why the man was angry – was it because Baelish had been an arse to them? Was it because he didn't want the showmance to happen? She didn't know. 

Baelish had not pushed the subject with Jorah and her. She didn't know whether it was because of the Starks or he was waiting for the right moment to be a petty arsehole and make them pay. 

"I'm sorry." She said. She had apologised to Sansa, but part of her genuinely felt terrible for her co-stars. 

Sansa smiled. "Don't. It's not even personal this time."

Whether it was personal or not (and it was), she didn't like it. She didn't even understand why Sansa had not said a word. Daario had talked and shown he was against the idea, but Sansa hadn't. 

It didn't make sense, considering that things between Jon and Sansa were clearly better than they had been since they started shooting the movie (which meant Jon's mood on set had marginally improved. The stick was still there). 

That they didn't pry didn't mean they were  blind. 

"Have you ever done anything like Baelish suggested?" Sansa asked. It sounded like a genuine question. There wasn't a hint of malice in her voice. 

She didn't know. How could she? Not many knew that her relationship with Drogo had started as a fauxmance. Their people had been good, and she had been so ambitious and desperate then. And Drogo had always been even more ambitious than her. 

"Yes." She said after a moment, "I was young, and we cannot really compare our situations." 

She had been so utterly alone then, afraid of her brother and so naïve. 

Sansa was not alone. And she had Jon. 

"Sorry –"Sansa said, "it's just –" she sighed and then asked, "What did you think when you looked at the pictures of Jorah and you?"

She looked at Sansa. 

She wasn't sure why she was asking that question, but Daenerys trusted her – and they were in that together. She owed Sansa some sincerity, so she said, "I don't like that we had to take them. I don't want us on tabloids."

She was proud of Jorah; she loved him and treasured their relationship, but she would never willingly play that game again. 

"A fauxmance, if it happens, would not be real. It would be part of my job." Sansa said. "I will never,  ever  let –"She didn't finish her sentence, but Daenerys saw that she stole a glance toward Jon, who was still talking to Jorah. She even spotted Ygritte chatting with Baeric and Pod; she, too, had noticed that Sansa was sneaking glances at Jon.

Sansa and Jon were getting closer and closer – and she suspected Sansa wanted to protect Jon from that side of their business. 

"If I were in you, if I were inclined to play this game, I would make things clear with Jorah; I would explain my reasons to him so there are no misunderstandings."

It would  never  happen to Jorah and her. They had whored themselves out one time so that Baelish could  never  enter their private lives. 

"What if you already told him – but he was still hurt?" Sansa asked. She looked sad; she didn't look like the smiling and happy girl she had seen for the past few weeks, the one who had made Tormund Giantsbane fall a little in love with her (even though to be fair, Giantsbane seemed to be very fascinated with Brienne as well). 

And Jon looked angry. Would those two ever be on the same page?

"Then I would explain myself better, Sansa. Because as much as he loves me, he can't read my mind." She said.  And you're so much your father's daughter!  She thought. 

Daenerys liked Sansa Stark. She liked Jon Snow. They were her friends. She understood not wanting to expose one to the game. She would die before she let her son be anywhere near the paparazzi. Jon Snow, however, was not a child. And Sansa could not risk her – whatever her relationship with Jon was at the moment, to appease Petyr Baelish, of all people! 

"How about we give Baelish nothing?" She asked. Wasn't that why she was fighting Cersei Lannister? Wasn't it why she had hired Varys even though she despised him?

"How about it's Daario who puts this to rest? He clearly doesn't want to play. I bet he's already called his people."

Sansa blinked. "This is  not  personal, Daenerys."

"It is," Daenerys said, "these things happen if all parties are amenable. Or they don't happen. We are already at war, remember?"

Sure, Baelish could spread the rumour that Sansa was difficult to work with; he would probably do the same with her. Jorah had been working for too long, and he already had a solid reputation, so she wasn't worried about their choices hurting him. 

Another thing to consider was that Sansa didn't know who would believe Baelish, especially once Margaery followed her plan? Sansa might be more willing not to play if she knew. But Margaery had told her she would tell Sansa when she was ready. Therefore, she couldn't tell her friend. 

"Daario is a star; he is bigger than us; let him handle this." She said instead. Which was also the truth. 

"He's not part of this, Dany," Sansa warned.

No, he wasn't. But he had shown them he wasn't willing to be Baelish's puppet that day and had more star power than Sansa or herself. 

"Let him fight this battle for the both of you. If not – I would  really  talk to Jo-"she trailed, "Jorah."

Lame save. But why the secrecy? They were all joined at the hip anyway. 

Sansa nodded when Baeric called all the people on set to be quiet. The bell rang, and Daenerys saw Sansa sneak another look at Jon. 

She looked at Jorah. 

Yes, she hated paparazzi with a passion, but, at least for that day, they were free. 

 


 

Theon was scowling. He was looking at his mobile phone, and he was scowling. Margaery had a short feeling of déjà vu. It was a memory of a younger Theon making that face at something his parents told him. Back when he was a sullen and stroppy teenager. 

They were in her hotel room. She was exhausted. She felt she needed more time between her miniseries and extra-curricular activities. 

"Globes nominations are in," Theon said. 

Right. Margaery had almost forgotten about that. 

"And?" She asked. They were splayed on her sofa; she had been running her lines while Theon had checked his phone. No editing, no research, no sex. Just an ordinary afternoon. She had a night shoot, and she should start getting ready. 

She needed a vacation if she survived all of that – the miniseries and her plan. She was thinking of the Bahamas. Or Cuba. Cuba looked good: no mobile reception and rum. Lots of rum. 

"Mum is in, and I'm surprised because she hasn't talked to HFPA since the whole mess with her sister went down."

Right. The Starks meant business. Catherine was beyond angry with the Lannisters and wouldn't rest until Joffrey paid. And Cersei. 

"Congratulations!" She said, and she meant it. Not that Theon's mother didn't deserve all the accolades she was getting, but she knew she was actively campaigning for the first time. And she was doing that for a reason that had nothing to do with her career. 

"Joffrey Baratheon is in," Theon said. He showed her the phone. There was a recent picture of Joffrey at an event in Los Angeles. He looked happy. He looked confident. 

"Is everything going according to the plans?" He asked. There was a note of bitterness in his voice, of urgency. 

"Yes, of course. Why are you asking?" She said. 

Theon threw the mobile on the nearby armchair and said, "Because I don't know anything. My parents aren't telling me a word. You are not telling me anything more than, 'Edit this, Theon. Be a darling and help me make those phone calls.'"

"We are trying to protect you and Sansa!" Margaery said. And her voice came out a bit louder than she had expected. 

"I'm not a child!" Theon spat.

"And thank goodness for that!" She spat back, then marvelled, adding, "You need to be patient, love."

Theon's lips fought not to stretch out in a smile when he asked, "Did you just call me love?"

She rolled her eyes, "Shut up! Don't you have some work to do?" She said. 

They both knew that  love  was not one of her terms of endearment. She had said what she had said. Too late to take it back now. 

"Sure thing,  love,"  Theon replied with a smile. 

"I'll have a shower. Call your mum, and don't be an idiot!" She said, getting up from the sofa. 

"Yes,  love. "

She would never live it down, it seemed. 

She smiled as she got into the bathroom. The thing with Theon – whatever it was, was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. And Theon was right. She was not telling him everything. She was trying to protect him. She was trying to find a way for the fallout not to include him. 

She was trying to protect what they were. Whatever it was. 

 


Jon's flat was tiny. She helped him move in, which took about ten minutes since the man had only a couple of suitcases, his backpack, and the material connected to the movie. 

She was helping him unpack one of his suitcases in his bedroom. It had been a long day, and Baelish had made things worse. 

Jon was still angry and looked confused and hurt, and Sansa still didn't know how to address the issue. 

Sure, Daario would fight Baelish about his proposal every step of the way. Daario had told her he had already talked to his people, and they would suggest where Baelish could stick his marketing ideas.

"They're like him, except I pay them – and I've made things clear with them ages ago!" Daario had said. 

They were spending most of their free time together. Either in her flat or at Jon's, whether in his hotel room or the new flat. And things were usually less tense. 

"I'm proud of you, you know that?" She said suddenly, breaking the silence in the room. 

Jon looked up from the pile of (mostly) black jumpers he was folding and placing in a drawer and seemed confused.

"I'm proud of you and I. of us." She continued. She took a deep breath and said, "I don't like tabloids or blogs or what have you - but if it happened with Daario, it would be just part of my job. My real life, what I really care about, would be safe."

The fallacy in her plan was that her parents had never played the game. They had refused to use their relationship for marketing reasons. They had refused to do the same with their family. They had kept private lives and work separate.

 How did they manage?

 


 

"What I really care about would be safe," Sansa said. 

He blinked. Did – did Sansa want to protect him?

No one had wanted to protect him for a very long time. No one had thought he needed to. He had to blink back suddenly, tears at the thought, and his voice came out a bit hoarse when he said, "I have a thick skin, Sansa. And for the record, I'm proud of you."

She was sitting on his bed, and he took a few steps and sat beside her.

"Maybe nothing will come out of it, but if it does, trust me," Sansa said. 

She had told him Naaris would fight Baelish on his idea. His respect for the man had gone up a notch. Jorah and Naaris had been able to talk during their meeting with Baelish. He had been too angry to. 

He still was.

"You would trust Baelish not to turn the whole thing into a circus?"

The look in Sansa's eyes was hard when she said, "Only a fool would trust Baelish."

 She took his hand in hers, and he hesitated before kissing her. She was fire, making him forget why he had been angry in the first place. It didn't matter; she was there with him and chose him every day. 

"Stop, please." Sansa breathed against his lips. 

He did; he moved back but still held her hand. Sansa was not trembling. She looked calm. 

She didn't leave like she sometimes did when a kiss triggered her. 

"I can't –"Sansa said.

"I know, love." He said. There were still too many unsaid things between them, but she was still not ready to share them, and he gave her space and time. 

What else could he do?

"Could – could I stay with you a while longer?" She asked. 

He smiled. Sansa sought refuge in his arms, and the jumpers and the contents of his suitcase were forgotten as they snuggled on the bed. 

Sansa in his arms. It was their real life. It was not a ploy by Baelish. It was the two of them together. And he would do that forever if he could do it. 

Sleep found them as they were still in each other's arms minutes later. And Jon's last thought before drifting off was that Sansa belonged in his arms – and he in hers. 

 


 

From Twitter: Groupchat #jonsa

 

fireandice456 : am I the only one freaking out a little for the pictures of Daario and Sansa? I mean--- 

 

snowismyfire : I can't believe this is happening. I didn't see it coming. WTF? Why use those bad pics? Should I dm the itk? They were in the thread, saying they're close but not close. 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : by all means. Because I played it cool, but I so didn't expect them. What about Jon? Did we see things that weren't there? 

 

SansastarkGQA : yes, bb. Do it. 'cause, between Barafreaks and Daario's stans, I'm freaking out a little. They looked cute together, but I don't think there's anything between them. The picture of Jon and Sansa together is still the lock screen on my phone! 

 

snowismyfire:   so, what should I ask? He replied to my hello. 

 

fireandice456:  the obvious: what the fuck are those pictures about? Friends jogging? A new couple that none of us saw coming? Did we all hallucinate?

 

jornaerysownsme:   well, I would like to have some answers about Dany and Jorah

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @jornaerysownsme  no offence, bb – but what answers? They're together🥰

 Whereas Sansa and Daario are going jogging together? For reasons?WTEF? First Ygritte on set, now this. Maybe we were wrong. Read too much into pictures and videos!

 

fireandice456 : like hell! Daario and Sansa are cute, but it was a bad Photoshop job, and it changes nothing. Still, did we ever ask the ITK about Jon and Sansa's relationship? Let's go for broke. We think they're legit anyway, don't we?

 

snowismyfire:  I'm copy-pasting your comments to them. They declined to be added to the chat. By the way, I want to know how Jon is holding on. Am I weird for being worried about Jon? 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : nope, I'm worried about him too. And want to understand what the hell is going on. 

 

sansastarkGQA : mates that go jogging together? Seriously, they aren't even looking at each other in those pictures. It's just bad photoshopped paparazzi pics of two actors making a movie together. Chill. 

 

snowismyfire : I'm asking about Ygritte as well. fuck it. 

 

jornaerysownsme:   @ jonsnowdeservedanoscar  I'm a Jorah fan. I need some answers because there are things that don't add up about the way they went official. Why use Melisandre? Why not have a joint statement? @ snowismyfire  can you ask that?

 

snowismyfire:  doing it. I don't like the pictures for the record because there's been some new trolling for Sansa and Jon by the barafreaks. And because I have a bad feeling about them, in general. 

 

fireandice456:  This is the first and last time I'll ever ship real people. It's stressing me out!

 

jornaerysownsme:   hear, hear @ fireandice456 , I saw the pictures, and I was like, "What the fuck? Why now?"

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : I'm rewatching the videos of the "dinneramongfriends" night. Daario wasn't even there! What the hell? And I like him! I'm a fan!

 

Fireandice456 : waiting for @ snowismyfire.  We know the ITK is legit. We have known for a while, so let's see what they have to say.  

 

snowismyfire:  so…the itk is answering. They wrote this message for us first. I'm copypasting, and then I'll send the screenshots later as usual:

 

itktgqa:  tell your friends to calm down. Nothing is going on. They're four pictures. Take this with a grain of salt, but I've been told that they weren't even alone when they were taken. 

 

Itkgqa:

 

"What the fuck are those pictures about? Friends jogging?"

 

Yep. Sansa and Daario are friends. Nothing more to it. 

 

"A new couple that none of us saw coming?" 

 

LOL no

 

"Did we all hallucinate?"

 

Depends on what you saw. Can't help you with that, sorry. 

 

"I would like to have some answers about Dany and Jorah."

 

And: 

 

"I'm a Jorah fan. I need some answers because there are things that don't add up about the way they went official. Why use Melisandre? Why not have a joint statement?"

 

Maybe they can't while they're shooting the movie. Perhaps they killed a few birds with one stone with those pictures. They are together. You read the article, right? A source close to them said, "He loves her, and she loves him." it's real. Not a showmance, not a fauxmance. 

                                                                                                                

"Did we ever ask the ITK about Jon and Sansa's relationship?"

 

No, you didn't. Thank you for that. I suppose you are now. 

I can't give you an answer because I don't know. Sansa and Jon are closer than they were initially, but I don't know what's happening between them. (Feel free to read between the lines of what I'm  not  saying)

About Ygritte: she's visiting the set and yes, Jon, and she has other friends on set. She has a project in Belfast; I have no idea what it is. She and Jon are, to the best of my knowledge, friends. 

 

And that's all his replies so far. Any other questions?

They said goodbye and aren't online anymore. Do we believe them?

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : sort of. They've never been wrong. They even told us about Tormund days before he announced it. So – much ado about nothing?

fireandice456:   So, it seems. But I'll repeat myself: this is the first and last time I'll ever ship real people. It's stressful! Also, can I address something I've been wondering for a while?

 

jornaerysownsme:  sure, go ahead. I'm not sure I understand what the ITK said about Dany and Jorah, but okay. 

 

snowismyfire:  sure, bb, go ahead. 

 

fireandice456 : who is this itk? They know a hell of a lot! And it's not even the usual ITKs I've seen in other fandoms: they deliver. How often are they online?

 

snowismyfire:  randomly. Never for a long time. Idk, someone who has access to everyone and knows production things that will happen? And then they disappear for days. And they ignore the trolls. They never engage with them.  

 

Jonsnowdeservedanoscar : idk. Are they someone on set or in production? Do we believe them?

 

snowismyfire : they had me since the pub thing. It would have been one hell of a shot in the dark, don't you think?

 

fireandice456:  Shouldn't we investigate a little?

 

sansastarkGQA:  and risk losing them because of this? Nah. I'm curious, however. 

 

snowismyfire:  we all are, bb. We all are. And we're also calmer about Jon and Sansa, aren't we? Damn, and here I was, hoping they would tell us that they're together!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

So here are the notes I jotted down while I was writing this chapter (some of it in my bedroom, some of it after my nephews climbed all over me while I was at my sister’s for Christmas!)
1. Tormund’s message board. Now, I’m familiar with Reddit, which is possibly the only message board I lurk into (that and some Discord servers). I relied a bit on that and Livejournal for the formatting. Daario Naaris has very vocal fans who aren’t entitled like Joffrey. I got a bit meta with one of Jorah’s movies, based on a couple of movies Iain Glen did. He has made some very interesting movies. And while I fell in love with Jorah Mormont in the pilot episode, I spent most of it wondering where I had seen the actor who played him before. Well, it turned out that I had seen him in a lot of movies and tv movies before!
2. I finally introduced Robb! It took me forever, I know, but I did it! I don’t know yet if I’ll introduce Arya. I don’t have plans about that, but I changed some of them about other characters, so…a woman doesn’t know what’s going to happen except that Arya Stark will work with J’Haquen (loved, loved their dynamic in the show).
3. The not making paparazzi pictures spread it’s something I see happening in some fandoms. What is your experience?
4. Oberyn was not supposed to be in this chapter, but then while I was writing, I was like: “Why isn’t he here? Why didn’t I think about it?” and let’s just say this text thing was fun to write. And Tyrion really has questions for Oberyn. He is still very stressed.
Also, the texts and social media things are needed for the plot, the subplot, and the second part of the fic.
5. Why is Ygritte still in Belfast? Any thoughts? It will be revealed soonish.
6. I love Theon and Margaery. Am I the only shipper out there?
7. Longish note about the Jonsa chatroom. Whoever has been in fandoms knows that if you go deep enough – especially in certain sub-sections of it, you will find mysterious “in the know”. They’re usually vague, they’re usually confident, and when some of what they say pans out, they become oracles for some and public enemy number one for others. In my personal experience, itks are weird things. This is part tongue-in-cheek, partly based on real-life chats with people who got in touch with it's in fandoms I've been in. Were they for real? To this day, I have no idea. Is this itk for real? Yep. Who are they? Any ideas?

Chapter 18: Previously On

Summary:

The night before leaving for Scotland.
Previously, in the lives of our characters -- stuff happened.
Sansa tells Jon about Joffrey, both Tyrion and Joffrey attends dinners.
Daenerys is happy.

Notes:

I'm so very sorry for the delay in updating. I'm back at work and after the holidays it kicked my butt!
There are flashbacks in this chapter. Some of them had been mapped out since November of four years ago. Warning for abuse, not graphic, but it's mentioned.
Joffrey Baratheon is, I think, his own warning. And Ramsay isn't even in the fan-fiction, *yet*.
No Twitter, no tumblr, no texts in this chapter.
Jon and Sansa are love, guys. Hope you like the chapter:)
I'm looking forward to the next few chapters, believe it or not we're drawing to a close. I'm mapping out the second part of the fan-fiction, so -- stay tuned.
As always thank you to those who read, left comments and kudos.
No end notes of particular interest (apologies for being a moron with Martin's names, mostly), but drop me a comment if you're interested in knowing when I first thought about the flashbacks or anything else, really.
For those interested, I'm writing a lot of stuff lately (mostly because after two and half years of not being able to write it feels so good!) and my Dany/Jorah long fic is coming along. Still early to post it anywhere, but I will.
Also, my other fic, the au canon divergence will be updated soon.
See you soon (a week, ten days at most) for the next update. Our heroes in Scotland!:)
Oh, I almost forgot: for the sake of the story, I pushed the award season a bit forward and moved dates a little.
Let me know if you're interested in knowing the time period for major critics awards (San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, London Film Critics Circle) and televised awards (AACTA - which are the Australian Oscars - Golden Globes, Bafta, Sag, and Academy Awards) I will try to provide a timeline :)
One last thing: the song in this chapter is "Round Midnight" by Thelonius Monk. I love the Ella Fitzgerald version, but there are some more modern ones, look it up if you don't know it, it's amazing!:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

  Sansa – Then – I

 

She loved Joffrey’s house. He lived in a wing of that giant house by the pool, but they spent time in the main living room with its white furniture and golden touches, both when they were alone or when he had friends over. 

He was studying his script. He had been studying the script and finding the voice for his character for hours. It was a process Sansa was familiar with, having seen it all her life with her parents. They had other plans, but she was also used to living with actors. She knew how lost they could get in preparation. 

She rechecked her mobile. 

There were texts from Arya, Theon and friends from school. It was Margaery who sent her a link in their chat. Robb had just been nominated for a Laurence Olivier award! 

She was so proud of him!

She got up from the sofa (white and with so many pillows) and got out on the patio. Joffrey spared her a confused look, but she ignored him. 

She had to wait a couple of minutes to be able to talk to her brother finally. All the people they knew were probably having the same idea! 

Robb sounded over the moon for the nomination. He sounded incredulous even if he had poured his soul out with that play. She had seen him, and she couldn’t be prouder of him. 

Robb told her their parents were flying into town, and she had to celebrate with them. 

He didn’t ask her to bring Joffrey along. Robb didn’t like her boyfriend. Neither did her parents. Her mother especially had told her to keep her eyes open. 

They chatted for a bit longer about Theon and how he was swamped with work, about Arya and her next fencing competition, about her exams and his next project.

Robb told her to be careful, and she said the same. She was smiling when she got back inside. 

“Hey, babe, guess what? Robb has been nominated for an Olivier!” She said, and she was excited and happy. 

She sat next to Joffrey on the sofa, and when it happened, she didn’t see it coming. A closed fist against her jaw. She saw white for a moment as tears filled her eyes. The right side of her face felt like it was on fire, and the pain throbbed in the patch of skin between her temple and her jaw. 

What?

She didn’t ask him why. Sansa didn’t say a word; she gathered her things and left, slamming the door behind her. 

The bruise was purple-red when she heard knocking on her flat’s door in the evening. She had applied an ice pack to her face. She had cried – she had tried to understand. 

Granted ,  Joffrey wasn’t always the most affectionate person. And the more she knew his family, the more sense it made. His father had died only a few months before. He was still grieving him. And he was stressed because of the new movie he was making. Baelish had asked for rewrites; it was the second script he had to memorise in two months. 

And – sure, he wasn’t always gentle. Not when they made love, at least. She hadn’t had much experience before Joffrey, and maybe she couldn’t compare notes, but he wasn’t the guy for gentle lovemaking. That was clear. 

Her parents would be in town the weekend, and she was sporting a massive bruise on her face. How would she explain that? 

She opened the door, and Joffrey was there: he was wearing a black coat, a dark green shirt, and the jeans they had brought the last time they had been shopping together. She had chosen them for him because they fit him perfectly. 

He looked sad and earnest. He looked sorry. 

“What?” She said. It didn’t make sense. He had sounded angry before – but  that  was not acceptable!

“Can I come in?” He asked. 

No. Fuck off!  It was on the tip of her tongue. It was in her stomach and her throat. He had hit her – how dare he? 

“Sansa –“He said. And he was her Joffrey, not the sweetest of men. From whom should he have learned to be sweet? His mother wasn’t, not really. 

(but Myrcella was. And Tommen. They were sweet and caring. Why were they, and Joffrey wasn’t?)

  He wasn’t sweet, but he loved her. He had told her. He made her laugh and kissed her under the stars the night they met. 

She swallowed her words and stepped back to let him in. 

“What do you want?” She said. 

“Baelish is driving me crazy, and the director is a cunt!” He said. 

And? 

Joffrey sat down on her couch and patted the seat next to her. He smiled, and part of her was melting. She loved Joffrey. She really did. 

She wanted to ask him what the hell had he been thinking. She wanted him to apologise. She did nothing. She sat down next to him, and a moment later, a black velvet jewellery box was in her hand. 

“Open it, babe!” He said. He smiled and looked like the man she had met at that after-party. It was hard not to smile with him. She opened the box and blinked in surprise: it was a tennis diamond bracelet. 

“I thought of you when I saw this. Do you need any help with the clasp?” He asked. 

She owned jewels. Some of them were still home, in the safe in her dad’s study. Some of them were in a wooden box in her bedroom. She had never owned anything like it, anyway!

“Oh, this is perfect on you, babe!” Joffrey said with a grin. 

The diamond sparkled on her pale skin. She thought for a moment of the bruise she had on her face. 

It was an accident.

Was it? Then why wasn’t he apologising? Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“Lannisters aren’t concerned with what sheep think.” She had heard Cersei saying this while she talked on the phone. 

She wasn’t  sheep.  She was Joffrey’s girlfriend! 

He didn’t touch her – he looked at her. Did he expect her to do anything? What was she supposed to do?

“You’re welcome, babe.” He said when she didn’t say anything.

Why did she let him? 

“I –“She trailed. 

“Wait – there’s one more thing! I’d wanted it to be a surprise tomorrow!” Joffrey said. He looked genuinely giddy as he showed her two tickets and two backstage passes for her favourite band concert!

She had asked him to go to that concert for weeks, and he had told her he was busy, that it was just a concert – but he had been planning to be there with her all along! Didn’t it show that he cared? That he was in love with her? That it had been a glitch in the system?

“Joffrey-“She breathed. 

“You. Me and Pearl Jam tomorrow. What do you think?” He asked and grinned. 

Tell him to take the tickets and go away!  A part of her screamed. 

“You hurt me.” She said. 

When he touched her, she didn’t flinch – he brushed some locks away from her face and looked at her. 

“I’m not blind.” He said. 

She waited for him to add something, anything. He didn’t. 

“I’m happy for your brother. I sent him a basket.” He said. 

A basket. Was it all the apology Sansa would get?

She sighed. She didn’t flinch when Joffrey looped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her at him. He kissed the crown of her head and said, “We’re going to have fun tomorrow. Sod the script!”

That – was the most she had gotten from Joffrey since the new script had arrived. She closed her eyes. Her face hurt. She had no idea what to come up with to avoid her parents and siblings. 

“How can I get out with this  face? ” She asked.

“Mom has a genius make-up artist. He lives with us. She used to wear make-up all the time after she fought with my dad.”

She felt like throwing up. She wanted to stand up and tell Joffrey that he could keep his jewels and tickets and that she was Sansa Stark and would not be bought. 

Then Joffrey sighed and said, “Don’t  ever  distract me while I’m working.”

It sounded like a threat, but Joffrey’s eyes glistened with tears when she looked at him. 

Only later did she remember that he was a good actor, but when she did, it was too late. 

She was alone, then. 


 

Eighth Week of Shooting

 

Sansa – Now - I

 

Theon had left in the afternoon. He had called her on the way to the airport to remind her to lock her doors and windows and to be careful on the way back from the set. 

“Tell Jon I said hi!” He had said at the end of their phone call. 

She had been mortified. 

Theon was the only person who knew about Jon. She had made him swear not to tell Margaery. Which had been awkward. And she still didn’t know anything more about what was happening between her best friend and her brother. 

No one knew. Their friends and coworkers might have suspicions, but they were good at keeping a low profile on set. Jon was a private person, after all. And he cared about what went on while they were shooting. Everyone knew he was protective of her; he had shown it from the first day, and they didn’t need to know more. No one. Not even Daenerys and Jorah. 

It was too soon. Sansa was terrified that Jon would wake up and realise he would be better off without her. 

Jon was in her flat now. They would leave for Scotland the following morning at dawn. Ten working days on location and then back to Belfast. Then, she would have a few days in Iceland with Daenerys at the end of the shooting. Just the two of them, Baeric, Davos and a small unit. 

She was finishing packing her bags. Jon had already packed his suitcase, and it was in the living room. 

It was – new. And weird. And Sansa still had no idea how one had a normal relationship. Her only genuine relationship had been a dumpster fire. 

They were spending most of their time together – was it good? She wanted to ask her parents about that so badly, not that they’d know. They avoided working with each other if they could. They only made exceptions for a few projects they loved through the decades. She would love to ask Daenerys – she looked happy, and from the outside, it looked like Jorah and her were doing things right. 

She resisted thinking of the fact that her friends had chosen to go public with their relationship on their own terms. Was it what she was supposed to do? Jon was her director, however. They would tear him apart. It wouldn't be fair to him. 

No. They couldn’t tell anyone until they were ready or they wrapped the movie, and things were calmer. 

Jon, however, looked happy. They were on the bed, her suitcase on the floor half packed. They were still fully clothed, kissing each other. She had wrapped her legs around his waist, and as they kissed, their hips were rocking against each other’s, seeking friction.  

They spent the evenings either at her flat or Jon’s, with Ghost, sometimes sleeping at her feet. It never led to anything more than kissing. Her body was still a bloody landmine, even if she felt better, stronger and more in control. Her body sometimes had other ideas altogether, and she could do nothing when it happened.  

Other times, Sansa pulled back because of fear. She was terrified at the idea of bollocking things up with Jon, of the man realising just how not worth the trouble she really was.

Sometimes, Jon pulled back from her and halted before things got too heavy between them. He did it because he was a good man who always tried to protect her. Of that, she was sure. 

They had never gone that far: dry humping each other, with their clothes still on, Sansa’s breaths coming up ragged and his hoarse. 

The throbbing and the want she felt were delicious. She  wanted.  She was the one who touched his skin first, her hand sliding underneath his grey jumper, and his skin was soft, warm and smooth. 

She needed so much more. They moved, and now she could feel Jon’s erection strained by his jeans against her sex. More friction. Jon stilled as she started to undress him. There was hesitancy in his eyes, doubts. She tried to kiss away his doubts, and he thrust his hips forward, and his hands found her breasts underneath her jumper and caressed them, his thumbs circling her nipples, the naked skin of his torso and back that she explored with her hands, while he kissed her, deep and gentle. More friction, Jon let her hips thrust and seek release against his bulge, her movements growing frantic for a few moments. 

Pleasure – her nub swelling and throbbing, and she was peaking, still fully clothed, in his arms, letting out a moan as he kissed her. 

Jon traced a scar on her collarbone with the pad of his fingers, and she flinched away from him, breaking their kiss. She felt terrible because Jon was still very much aroused, and she felt on fire, but she was also  scared. 

“I’m sorry.” She said. Her voice came out hoarse, and she felt out of breath. 

He didn’t touch her, but his smile was soft when he said, “Don’t. You never need to apologise to me, Sansa.”

She let out a tremulous breath. 

“Joffrey – when I met him, I was starstruck. He looked so charming. He wasn’t – that’s just a mask. He –“she trailed.

Jon knew. He had seen the scars. He had told her he knew. What difference would it make how she worded it?

“He abused me.” 

She looked at Jon. He was sitting on the bed now. He was listening. And she had to tell him. He had to know to make a real, informed choice about them.

She started to talk, to tell him, and Jon listened. 

 


 

Daenerys – Then – I

 

The doctor said that she was in shock. Given her  condition,  she had been given a mild sedative. She didn’t honestly think she was in shock. She was numb with grief, yes. Drogo was young, he was – bigger than life. He couldn’t have died in an accident on set while doing a stunt he had done hundreds of times before. 

How did her life turn into a nightmare? She didn’t understand. Drogo had been  fine  on the phone when she heard him minutes before the accident. 

Their marriage might have been over, but she didn’t hate her husband. She never wished anything like that on him. 

She was numb because she was pregnant – and she had been strong-armed into releasing a press statement about it. Drogo’s people and family, her people and his producers, ensured that the news was everywhere. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the idea of being pregnant. Did she even want to be a mother? Now? She supposed she had no choice since everybody knew. 

The funeral had been long. There had been so many people in attendance. One of Drogo's brothers had given an eulogy, and then some colleagues had, and she had listened, tears in her eyes, still unable to understand what in the bloody hell was going on. 

Her husband was dead. She was pregnant. There was a funeral. People had talked about Drogo, saying how special he was (true), how much Daenerys and him had loved each other (true. But no one knew they had decided to get a divorce and were waiting for him to wrap his movie to talk to tell people about it) and how his accident had been tragic (accurate, but also stupid. He had died from a stupid accident). 

She moved – someone, either one of her people or Drogo’s, always told her what to do. Missandei was at her left, and she was starting to think she had not fainted or began to scream at those people to get the fuck away from her only because of her friend’s presence. 

There were many people as they buried Drogo. It still didn’t seem real. It still felt like she was stuck in a nightmare, and she would wake up any minute now. 

She was surprised when she spotted Jorah’s face after the burial, as many had left. She didn’t smile or remember how to, but she was happy to see him. The guilt for the spark of happiness she felt seeing Jorah spread quickly through her body, making her eyes well up with new tears. 

They had told her what to wear, they had told her not to wear any make-up (not that she had wanted to), her clothes were too tight – and it had been on purpose, to show the world her small bump. 

They had told her that would be press – and to ignore it. They had told her many things. No one had told her they were sorry for Drogo. Jorah did. She was in his arms, and she would never remember, not even much later, if he had walked to her or she had. She only knew that she was in his arms, and it was the first hug that was worth a damn to her. 

It was the first hug she was getting that didn’t make her feel like a horrible human for being still alive while a son, a brother, or a friend was dead. 

She felt safe in Jorah’s when he held her. Whatever they had been before – whatever she might have felt, it didn’t matter now. 

She was numb – and didn’t notice (Jorah did) the photographer snapping pictures of the two of them sharing an embrace in the graveyard. 

At the time, she only saw the concern in Jorah’s eyes; she felt less numb. 

She had no idea how those pictures and the caption under one of them would shape the next three years of her life. 

 


 

Daenerys – Now – I

 

It had been a quiet evening. They had wrapped things on set early and returned to the hotel to finish packing them. They had been listening to music as they both packed their bags. 

Jorah was singing along to the songs they were listening to, and she was adjusting his suitcase as soon as he left to take other items. Ten working days. It meant two weeks of shooting. It meant they would wrap the movie quite quickly, even sooner than expected. Jon had pulled a bloody miracle, and they had all been on it because they were ahead of schedule and still within budget despite Jorah and her missing a day of shooting. Even Baelish had had to concede that they were doing something good. 

And they were. Daenerys had finally been convinced to watch some dailies; she wasn’t usually a fan of watching herself on monitors after she shot a scene or on dailies, but what she had seen was very good. They were doing a very good job. Jon was already working on a rough cut to show to the studios as soon as they wrapped, without postproduction or vfx. He really believed in the movie. 

She folded a jumper as Jorah returned to their bedroom. He looked at the adjustments she had made to his suitcase and shook his head. 

“I talked to Ned-“Jorah said. 

She raised an eyebrow, silently prompting him to go on, and the man said, “Ned and Cat have invited us to their home. When we get back. We have a long weekend, and then I’m free for a week, as you know.”

She smiled. Jorah looked happy at the idea, and Daenerys was curious to see the elusive, much-talked-about, and never-seen on magazines or TV Stark’s castle in Ireland. Was it really a castle?

“We should bring Rhaego if he’s not with his grandfather that weekend. He would love that place. The kids sure loved it growing up.”

The kids: Robb, Theon, Sansa and Arya. However, Jorah had never met the younger Stark. 

She smiled, feeling on the verge of tears because Jorah always included Rhaego in all their conversations and plans as if he were his own son. 

“I would love to.” She said. She was happy. She was so happy that it scared her because she had never felt anything like that. 

“You will love it. Yes, it’s cold. But there are hot springs inside,” Jorah said. 

She smiled. Yes. Definitely too happy. She was afraid that it couldn’t possibly last. 

She hoped she was wrong. She hoped she was being silly. But the fear had lodged itself in her heart now. And it was making her smiles almost bitter. 

“Things will be okay, right?” She asked, “For us. I mean.”

She didn’t have any doubts about her feelings for the man and for the ones Jorah had for her. She believed in them. She was afraid of the world, suddenly. Worried that they would try to take that happiness away from them. 

“Yes, my love. Things will be okay. I swear to you.” Jorah said. 

He took her in his arms, his hands splayed on her back and looked at her, “We’re going to be alright, my love. More than alright.” He said.

“Promise?” She asked. She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, suddenly. 

“I swear. On my life!” He replied. 

Jorah kissed her lips, and seeing him in good spirits was good. She loved listening to him and his plans to visit his cousin or best friend. 

It was good to be in his arms. To feel safe and loved and cherished. Daenerys was still afraid that something might happen to take away all that happiness, but she was with Jorah, and she could do anything if he was by her side. 

“And I’m looking forward to being a performing monkey with you for the photo shoot!” He said. 

“You always look so suave and sexy in your photoshoots.” She replied. 

“Do I?” He asked, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Yep. Done one together already, remember?” She replied. And she was telling him the truth. She had loved the photoshoot they did together for their play. They had been performing monkeys, yes. That didn't mean Jorah hadn't been sexy. 

He smiled and went back to his suitcase. “Will you keep our present for Lyanna in your suitcase, or should I put it in mine?” He asked.

Again – happiness. They were normal together, discussing their plans to meet Jorah’s family. They were chatting about the gift they had bought together for a teenager he had not seen since she was a toddler because of his ex-wife, but that they had so much fun choosing. It was honest and real - more than anything she had ever experienced. 

Things will be alright. Nothing will take this away from us. We won’t let it.  She thought. 

She wouldn’t. 


 

 

Sansa – Now – II 

 

They were still on the bed. They hadn’t moved since Sansa had started talking. John had listened to her words – he had asked some questions. His last question had been, “Why do you hate Jaime Lannister?”

He didn’t ask her why she hadn’t run away after Joffrey hit her first time. He didn’t ask why she didn’t leave him after – when things became a circus and she didn’t know what was up or down. 

No. Jon had asked her about Joffrey’s uncle. Father. Or Whatever Tyrion’s brother was to Joffrey. 

“When I finally had enough –“She trailed, hoping he wouldn’t ask about that. She didn’t think she would  ever  be ready to talk about that. “His ‘uncle’ came to talk to me. Before – Tyrion had tried to protect me from Joffrey when we were both there. Jaime –”

“He protected his son,” Jon said. His voice was low and filled with loathing. 

“Yeah,” She said, “he did.”

She couldn’t tell him that Jaime came to talk to her the morning after the worst night of her life. She couldn’t even say to him that the man’s word had done a number on her, so much that she hadn’t been able to feel like herself for over a year and a half after that.

 Sansa had recognised herself in the mirror only recently while they were shooting the movie. She didn’t feel so bloody alone any longer. She had realised that she had never been alone. Jaime had made her believe otherwise; she would never forgive him for that. 

 

  

Sansa – Then – II

 

Joffrey was not in the house when she woke up after she had broken up with him after his friends had finally left. 

Part of her had still hoped it had been a nightmare, but what she was in the living room, Joffrey’s man cave, brought back the few accurate memories she had of the night before. 

Empty bottles everywhere, ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, a couple of trays with some coke still on them, there were also a few straws on the coffee table and some bills folded to make them into straws. 

She had run back into the bedroom, stumbling over a pair of shoes and went straight to the bathroom. 

She had thrown up for what it felt like hours. Her stomach hurt, and her throat was sore. Her body ached everywhere. 

She wiped away the tears. Why did she cry anyway? It was all her fault. She was stupid. She was a ditzy, spoiled girl. Wasn’t it what the tabloids had been saying for a year? They were right. 

She had broken up with Joffrey, though. She had thrown the ring on his face, barricaded herself in their (his) bedroom and passed out on the bed. 

She undressed, trying her best not to look herself in the mirror because she truly didn’t want to see, and went under the shower. 

It was over. Sansa would pack her bags, she would leave that fucking place, and she would go to the police and report him. She should have done so long before. She wasn’t supposed to have a shower; that was what they said in the television programs on the telly, but there was no way she would not try to get herself clean. 

She washed herself with her eyes closed, her face turned up toward the water. She would pack her bags, leave all the things Joffrey had given her there, call a cab, and go straight to the police to report Joffrey. 

Yes. That was the only thing Sansa could do. 

She was sore, and she needed something for the pain – but she didn’t know what was in her system. She thought she might have some ibuprofen in her purse. She would take a pill and then pack her bags. 

She was wearing a robe when she returned to the bedroom and almost screamed when she saw Jaime Lannister sitting on the bed. 

The ball of dread exploding in her stomach and chest left her breathless. What – was that man doing in the bedroom? 

“Sansa – sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jaime said. 

Her hair was wet, she was wearing a robe, and she wanted nothing more than to tell that man to get the hell out of the room. She couldn’t, however. 

It was Cersei’s house. She would not like that. 

Joffrey – 

She had broken her engagement with Joffrey. She had passed out – but she remembered that! She had told him she would report him to the police. 

She should have – called a cab right away. 

Why was she so stupid?

Thinking had been hard, but – she shouldn’t be there in that house. 

“Can we talk?” Jaime asked. The tone of his voice was kind. He had always been gentle with her. Unlike Cersei. Unlike Joffrey. 

“I don’t want to listen.” She said. Couldn’t the man see that she wanted to be left alone? Were Lannisters so abject that they genuinely didn’t care about anyone who wasn’t themselves?

“Please. It’s important.” Jaime said. “Have a seat.”

He wanted to talk to her – and he would, whether she wished to or not. 

“Joffrey told Cersei that you want to report him to the police,” Jaime said. She sat down on an armchair opposite him; her body ached, and her heart was broken in two. Why couldn’t they leave her alone?

“It’s not a good idea, Sansa,” Jaime said. “I’m telling you as a Crown Prosecutor and barrister.”

Sansa looked down at her lap. Of course, Jaime would tell her that. He would do anything to protect his family. 

In the details, he told her her mistakes, like staying in the house despite having her own flat, sleeping in the bed she shared with Joffrey, and having a shower. 

“Imagine what a jury would think,” Jaime said, “if anyone would believe you. Provided the case got to court, and no one told you that it’s your words against his. He has at least ten witnesses at any given time. What do you have, Sansa?”

Her eyes stung. She had the truth – the pictures she had taken for the past few months. She had – memories and fear and shame from the night before. 

“The coppers would fake sympathy – the Crown prosecutors would ask around, getting nowhere because you have nothing.”

“I have the pictures,”

Jaime shrugged, “I’m a crown prosecutor. I’ve been a defence attorney. A good barrister wouldn’t even let the jury see the pictures, provided they exist.” He said, “I’m telling you because it’s true: you cannot win this. You would only be dragged through the mud. Think of your family – what they would go through because of you.”

Gossip rags already compared her to her aunt. She hadn’t talked to her parents – for months. Joffrey didn’t want her to be anywhere near them. And she had tried so hard to make him happy or, at least, not make him angry. 

And photographers had been everywhere they went, and there was no escaping them and the Lannisters’ PR machine. 

They would shame her family, uncovering all the dramas, comparing her to her aunt, to her uncle – and her parents would be ashamed of her forever. 

“He would walk, Sansa.” Meanwhile, Jaime said, “You would lose – in court and with the people.”

Tears were in her eyes, and she was trying to fight them back because she had been taught to be strong. She  used  to be strong. 

“People hate you. We’ve been controlling the narrative all along, and you know that.”

It was true. People hated her because she was cute, rich, and on the front page of every tabloid, whatever she did, whether wearing the wrong dress, not wearing make-up, or wearing too much of it. 

“You are a smart girl, but that’s not the public narrative. You’re a stupid socialite, for them.” Jaime said. His voice was still kind; he wore a bespoke suit and looked like a prince. Jaime Lannister was stomping her under his heel like a bug with his words. He didn’t seem to care about her at all. 

“You are a nice girl, but we’d make you look like a petty bitch who is angry because her fiancé broke their engagement.”

She didn’t tell him that she had broken things off with Joffrey. Jaime Lannister knew the truth (how much did he know? Did he care about what Joffrey did the previous night?), but Lannisters didn’t care about it. They moulded and twisted the facts until nothing was left but what they wanted. 

“We’d make you look like your aunt, worse even. Is that what you want?” He asked.

He didn’t expect her to answer, she realised. He expected her to shut up and comply like she had done for the past year and a half. 

“You cannot and win ever win this. Don’t try, Sansa! Delete those pictures, pack your stuff, go home and try to move on.”

The last part had genuine sympathy in it. For a moment, Jaime looked at her as if he cared and was sorry about what happened. 

“Where is your mobile phone?” He asked. 

She blinked her eyes in confusion. What?

“Sansa – where is your phone?” He asked again. 

“I don’t – I don’t remember right now.” She said. Her voice sounded so small. 

Jaime sighed and took out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. How did he even have her number?

Why wasn’t she screaming at him to leave from the top of her lungs? Who was she?

Her phone rang – it was under the bed. Jaime took it and gently placed it on the armrest. 

“Delete the pictures.” He said. 

Or  wha t? 

“You will catch a cold like this. C’mon, Sansa!” Jaime urged her, “The sooner you do it, the sooner you can go home.”

Oh . Of course. Joffrey and Cersei would never let her leave with those pictures. Why did she tell Joffrey?

She had been drugged – and the truth had slipped out, and he had been so angry, angrier than she had ever seen him. She had believed he would kill her that time. 

She hesitated before taking the mobile phone in her hands. It wasn’t right – but she wanted to go home. She wanted to be left alone. 

She deleted the pictures as Jaime stood before her and watched her do it. 

“There,” He said when she finished, “it wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Jaime Lannister had always been nice to her – he had smiled at her jokes and put himself between Joffrey and her sometimes, trying to be a buffer when her fiancé was starting to lose his mind. 

She closed her eyes. 

No tears. Sansa would not cry in front of that man. 

“Go home, Sansa. I will talk to my nephew. He will never bother you again.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Bother?” She spat. He had done so much  more  than that!

“Never again,” Jaime said. 

She stood up from her armchair, grabbed some clothes from a drawer and rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. 

Jaime was right. No one would believe her. No one would be on her side. The people closer to her had warned her against Joffrey – and she had been stuck inside that circus for over a year unable to get out until the previous night.  

She needed to go home. But what was home? When she looked in the mirror, she realised that she couldn’t go to her parents, with those bruises on her body and face, her split lip and swollen cheek. 

She couldn’t even go to Theon, Robb or Margaery. Her eyes welled up with tears when she realised that she would need to hide in her flat until she could be in public or in front of her family as if she was the one who had done something wrong.

She had. She had not run and never looked back the first time Joffrey hit her. She had forgiven him. Jaime Lannister reminded her how stupid and naïve she was. 

She didn’t think she had ever felt like that: small, like a bug, insignificant, alone and defeated. 

What did she expect? 

Behind the closed door, Jaime said he would call a cab for her or drive her home if she wanted. 

“No. A cab is fine.” Her voice was still small. 

Unlike Joffrey, Jaime had never raised his voice; its tone had been kind and calm as he utterly destroyed what was left of herself. 

Jaime reached a place not even Joffrey had touched and had broken it with his words, with his indifference and the fact that she knew he had not said a lie during their conversation. 

She could not win against Joffrey – she could only go home and hide. 

 


Sansa - Now - III

 

The tears had come. Sansa didn’t want to cry in front of Jon; she hated crying in front of anyone, but as her words hovered over them, she couldn’t help it. For a moment, she was back in that room with Jaime Lannister telling her those things – scaring her to the point that she hadn’t been herself for a long time. 

And Jon didn’t ask what had prompted her to finally break things off with Joffrey, for which she was beyond grateful. 

“If he is hurting anyone – that’s on me.” She said, voicing for the first time something she had been thinking for a long time. People like Joffrey didn’t change. They couldn’t. Women had thrown themselves at him when they were together, and Joffrey could be charming when he wanted to be. 

Whatever happened would be her fault because she should have been stronger that day; she should have pushed Jaime outside that room and gone to the police anyway. She should have done the right thing. 

“No, it’s not.” Jon said, “It’s on Joffrey – and his family!”

Was it why she had got the pages for the audition? Was it Tyrion’s way to apologise for not having done anything at the time? Was it his conscience (because he clearly had one)?

“Sometimes – I think I’m damaged.” She admitted after a while. That, too, was something she had never said aloud. She had often thought it, both in the immediate aftermath of her break up with Joffrey, when paparazzi called her every name in the book, and she believed every single word they said, later – when for a series of coincidences, she started to act, and she heard the whispers about her family opening doors for her – and recently with Jon. She was damaged and trying hard to get the pieces back together and be herself. She was trying to do and be better. She was trying to be strong. 

“You are not, Sansa.” Jon said, “Please, believe me.”

She smiled through the tears because she believed Jon. If nothing else, her trust in the man holding her in his arms was humbling and the best thing ever happening to her. 

Time wouldn’t make her any less damaged, but maybe she would learn how to be stronger. How to always be the girl she saw in the mirror: Sansa Stark. She didn’t want to be a victim any more. She wanted to live.

She wanted Jon. 


 

Tyrion – Then – I

 

His notebooks were in a box on a chair next to his desk. Two new ones were on the desk as he waited for his printer to finish the document. It was just a first draft. Six months of hard work, trying to put the movie he had always wanted to write into words. There had been other work to do, meanwhile. He was a professional screenwriter who doctored many scripts when he didn’t write movies or plays. 

And so, he had finished the scripts he was supposed to finish. He had doctored the scripts they had asked him to and written in his free time. The printer was almost done. All the images in his head, a lifetime spent reading about queen Alysanne and her husband, dozens of notebooks with his notes and ideas about the movie had been poured into that script. He also had access to the Crown Archives, and he had sent emails to historians all over the world to discuss the Targaryens. He was looking forward to reading every scrap of paper he could get his hands on. 

He saved the document again, even if he had just printed it. He took his red pen, a marker and a block note because he had work to do. 

There was also another script he kept open, the one for a remake of “The Ghost and Mrs Muir.” he kept it just in case. Even if the movie had gone up in flames months before. 

Jorah had finally got his divorce from his wife. It had been ugly; the woman had asked for Varys’ help, and the man had delivered. It was a testament to Jorah Mormont’s talent and his goodwill in the business that his career hadn’t withered up completely. He knew some of what had happened, some from Jorah, most of it from Varys, after months spent pestering the man for information, and he didn’t like anything of what he knew. 

He had tried to help Mormont, but the man had been too focused on protecting Daenerys Stormborn to care about what happened to him. 

It was a mess – and neither Daenerys nor Jorah deserved what had happened to them. 

He started from page one, making notes on his block notes because he knew that it was just the first rewrite of many. There was some awards buzz on one of his movies; he was glad to hear about it, but it would only matter if he won something and could capitalise on it with the studios. 

He had one dream movie. And he had just finished the first draft of it. 

He heard his mobile beeping, alerting him for an incoming text message. He was tempted to ignore it because he genuinely wanted to get something done. There were also the rewrites Cersei had asked him to do for two of her movies, and he was already postponing them.

He checked his messages and saw the message from Missandei: a picture of Daenerys holding her newborn son in her arms with a caption. She had given birth two days before, and she was okay; the baby was too. Daenerys looked tired, and he couldn’t tell whether she was happy from the picture. He asked Missandei. He had to wait for a few minutes before a reply came, and it was a: “in love with her son. Wishes his father could see him.”

It didn’t tell him much. What he knew – from having spent six months with the woman and the following seven hearing things about her from Varys, was that he was sure she was in love with the child. She might wish his father was there to see him, but she might not be happy. 

And there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing he could do to help either Daenerys or Jorah. He tapped the pen on his block notes. 

Well. Tyrion could tweak some things and change others for two roles in his script. He had written Anne with Daenerys in mind, choosing to portray the exact opposite of the woman he knew and cared for with that role. And Professor Reid? He hadn’t a face, but he had watched Daenerys and Jorah interact for months and wrote the complete opposite of the dynamic between the man and Anne. Foils to Alysanne and Jhaerys. Specular opposites of the last two actors he had closely worked with. 

He could do nothing to help Daenerys and had done all he could to help Jorah Mormont. 

But one day, perhaps – if that script was ever made into a movie, he would ask them to play the parts. They were the only actors for the roles. 

 


 

 

 

Jon – now – I

 

“I need a shower,” Sansa said in a low voice. She had dozed off for a while, breathed against his chest as he kept his eyes open in the half-dark room and thought about her words. 

“Of course –“He said. 

Sansa squeezed his hand before getting up from the bed. He looked at her profile, her hair in a loose bun. She truly was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.  

She had been so young, and the Lannisters – well, Cersei and Joffrey had made sure she was utterly alone and believed their words. And Jaime Lannister had been an utter bastard to the woman. 

He had no idea what had caused Sansa to finally break things off with Joffrey. Despite the man’s abhorrent behaviour, she had genuinely loved him. She had told him, and he heard shame in her voice as she admitted that she had loved Joffrey and had first forgiven him because of her feelings. 

Sansa had only cried when she had told him about Jaime Lannister and what he had told her. She had also said to him that she had spent days hiding in her flat, not answering her phone, pretending that no one was home because she had been afraid and ashamed. 

Those had been her exact words. She had been afraid and ashamed. 

And Jon wished she had told him while Jaime Lannister was still in Belfast. 

He would have – he shook his head. He wished none of that had ever happened to the woman he loved. 

And he would bash Joffrey’s head in one day. 

And there were too many images in his head, so he stood up, sitting against the pillows. The bathroom door was ajar. The lights were on, and he saw Sansa’s image in the mirror as she removed her clothes. He averted his gaze. Nevertheless, he caught other scars on her shoulder blades and the back of her arms. They were faint. The one in the back of her arm looked like a human bite. 

Fuck!  He thought. Jon balled his fists into the blanket and breathed. Wanting to smash things would not help Sansa. It would not make anything better. And he didn’t matter. His feelings didn’t matter. Not at the moment. 

Sansa had trusted him – with her body and with her memories. He wanted to be there for her. He closed his eyes, hating his mind more than anything because it came up with so many images that he hated – and he couldn’t stop them. 

Well, Sansa had lived through them. She still bore the scars to prove it. The least he could do was endure his own mind. 

She had answered her questions, and she had been honest. Jon had heard the truth in her voice and had just been there, trying to offer as much comfort and love as possible. 

He waited for her as she had her shower and looked at her luggage on the floor. He realised Sansa never wore jewels, not even in the pictures from her mother’s premiere in London. She had stopped wearing too many layers of clothes, but she always wore long sleeves, and after seeing that scar on the back of her arm, he could understand why. 

He took another deep breath. Joffrey’s tweets came to mind, and he gritted his teeth. Theon coming to Belfast made so much more sense now. Theon knew about them and made himself scarce whenever he was at Sansa’s flat, but he always ensured she wasn’t alone and that she was safe. 

He heard a noise and noticed Sansa wearing a robe and looking embarrassedly at him. He tilted an eyebrow, and she shrugged and said, “Sorry – the door.” She smiled and then said, “See? Damaged.”

He shook his head, “You are beautiful, Sansa.”

She was. Inside and out. Jon had seen the scars on set – and those new ones didn’t change how he saw her. He had already fallen in love with her before he knew about the scars. He had probably already been in love with her when Tormund told him about the rumours he had heard about Joffrey. 

And the truth was far worse than any of the rumours Tormund had told him about.

The truth was that Lannisters, with Tyrion’s exception (maybe. Where the fuck was he? Why didn’t he do a thing for Sansa?), were complete monsters. Daenerys was right – they deserved to be taken down in every way possible. 

Sansa looked close to tears again, but her voice was steady when she said, “I won’t be a minute,”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He replied.

It was the truth. Jon wasn’t going anywhere. 

 


 

Tyrion – now – I

 

It figured that he would be stuck in London for two days just right before the cast and part of the crew moved to Scotland. It figured that he wouldn’t be able to see Shae because everyone and their mother wanted to talk to him. 

And the dinner party he had been invited to was just the cherry on the cake. 

Tyrion liked those evenings – when he wasn’t so bloody busy or when there was no way he would meet his sister’s minions (some of them were groupies, living in adoration of his sister. What on earth was wrong with them?) or when he had had far more sleep than he was currently having. 

That said, he was one of the executives producers of the movie. Baelish was busy with Joffrey’s movie promotion, and Tyrion had lived in the bubble in Belfast for over two months. 

Thankfully, Oberyn was there, too. It was the only good thing about that evening. At least he would not get utterly drunk if the man was there. They would leave for Scotland together the following day because Oberyn had to oversee the photo shoot, and Baelish was still hellbent on the fake romance between Daario and Sansa. 

He drank his wine as they went to the enormous room where the dinner would take place. He heard people commenting on Joffrey’s movie. Being Joffrey’s uncle, the words said in his presence were lovely. 

Oberyn had made him aware of what he didn’t hear, what some groups of men were saying about Joffrey’s movie and his award campaign. 

“His family and Baelish might buy him the nominations. But who’s going to put him number one on their ballots? Because it sure as fuck it's not going to be me!”

“Four years ago, maybe, but he was too young then – now, Baelish is delusional!”

“Must be contagious .”

 

The little dipshit didn’t have much support in the industry. Tyrion had understood that in the aftermath of Joffrey’s tweets when so many artists and peers had taken Sansa’s side. Joffrey had the stellar reviews – and Baelish was extremely good at getting his movies nominated, but that was about it. He couldn’t see him winning. And Lannisters, as a general rule, hated losing.  

“Heard many great things about your movie, Tyrion!” A man in his fifties from another studio said, breaking his train of thought. He wasn’t even the first who had spoken to him about the movie.

 Yes, Good Queen Alysanne had already buzz around it. He had heard a lot of praise for Jon Snow – executives would fall all over themselves to have him direct their movies after they wrapped. He had heard praise for Sansa and Daenerys, even Jorah and Daario. 

People were praising  him  – and he listened, Oberyn at his side, and smiled, saying thank you. What else was he supposed to say? He had lived those moments before, but there was too much connected to that movie that couldn’t make him really enjoy the compliments. He loved the project too much. He was protective of it. And their war with Cersei worried him. 

Yet, the buzz was real. Tyrion would have to tell the others. It wasn’t just Baelish or Tormund. Oberyn had told him what he had heard through the grave pine. And it was good. Fantastic even.  

There had been a couple of long phone calls with Oberyn Martell before that evening. He had questions about the Starks, Daario, and his refusal to play the game. He had questions about Oberyn’s brunch with Cersei because his sister seldom did things randomly. 

Oberyn had obliged – he had shared what he knew (possibly. One could never be sure with men like him) about the Starks. What Oberyn knew for sure was that Catherine Stark was indeed campaigning for award season. Dinners, galas, fundraisers for charity. Her campaign was not public, which was an oxymoron, in a way, because awards campaigns were run both behind the scenes and on red carpets. Hers was being run entirely behind the scenes. 

She was definitely in the conversation. She was winning most of the major critics’ awards, she had won a trifecta, and she had been nominated for the AACTA and the Globes, like Joffrey. Unlike his nephew, however, she had decades of career and goodwill in the business, backing her and an immaculate reputation. 

“Yes, but why?” He had asked Oberyn. 

Oberyn had been silent over the phone when he asked him, later saying, “They’re playing the game. It’s because of Joffrey.”

 Of course. The Stark knew, and they wouldn’t forget. But how could being in an award campaign could hurt Joffrey?

Oberyn claimed ignorance. He wasn’t sure he believed him. 

As for why Sansa had told him about Joffrey’s movie – Oberyn’s theory was that the Starks wanted him to know. They wanted him to choose a side. To choose Sansa. 

“Also, Arya Stark is starting to work for Jaqen H’ghar in the spring.” Oberyn had told him during their second phone call. 

She was a professional fencing athlete, studying one thing or another in college, but she had decided to work for the man who was working for Sansa. The man who had refused Cersei’s idea of a paparazzi shot of Joffrey and Sansa together looking friendly to go with his terrible public apology. 

“Over my dead body.” The man’s words had been, according to Sansa. And now Arya Stark was going to work for him. 

He didn’t have a good feeling about that. And if his sister hadn’t been an utter cunt since the whole thing had started, he would almost be worried for her. 

“Something is brewing.” Oberyn had said.

He was the second person who told him that. He liked it even less than the first time. 

“Can you find out?” He had asked. 

“I can try. I work for your people, Tyrion. Did you forget it?”

They are not my people , he had thought. Except that they were his brother and sister, his nephews and his niece. They were his family. 

The dinner was boring. More talk of movies that were in conversation for awards, more talk of films that were being produced, more talks of movies that would be made. 

He drank his wine and listened. 

And despite his worry for his family, he missed his friends in Belfast. He missed the bubble of camaraderie and conspiracies and long chats he had with her friends. 

And he had picked a side – he had done so months before. He had not thought of the consequences; he had not thought that if the Starks played the game, they would do so to win. 

He had – acted on impulse. 

And he didn’t regret it. 

More wine. Tyrion still had no idea about Daario’s motivations; Oberyn had been tight-lipped about it, and the brunch with Cersei had been her attempt to weaken him and his movie. 

Even now, a quarter of the movies released by her studio had not done well commercially or with the critics, she was still trying to hurt him. And the only movie which looked proming for the studio at the moment. 

His sister would never learn. And he was so tired of playing nice. 

Things would get messy. He thought. He just hoped that whatever the Starks had in mind, they would wait for them to wrap their movie. 

Part of him hoped that Sansa’s family would succeed, whatever their plan was. 

 


 

 

Joffrey – Now - I

 

He could see it. He could almost hear it. He saw himself at the table, his mother at his right side, what-was-her-face on his left as they read the nominees list. They didn’t play clips at the Golden Globes, but he would smile (and he was already practising because they would  not  blindside him anymore! The cunt on the talk show had been the last one, and only his mother’s people had saved her from being beaten bloody in her dressing room!); he would clap at every name, and he would wear his best suit. 

He could hear it: “And the winner is Joffrey Barahteon for My Beautiful Boy!”, and as he went to the stage, a voiceover would say, “This is Joffrey Barahteon’s third nomination and first win.” 

He could almost taste  it. 

He was no fool. He had been in conversation before, but at the time, he had been very young or didn’t have the role. He didn’t think he would get an Oscar for My Beautiful Boy, but he needed the nod. He was too young to win an Academy Award, but the publicity would do wonders for his career. 

He was at a dinner. Fuck, he had lost count of how many lunches, brunches, dinners and galas he had been to since he had started promoting the movie. He had been all over the world for the past month. The jet lag was killing him; his cheeks were sore from how much he had been smiling, and he hated living out of his suitcase. 

He was home – so to speak. He hadn’t seen his bedroom for the past twenty-four hours. Events, interviews, lunch with his mother, a photoshoot, practising in front of a mirror in his spare time because he would be fucked before they got him again on the Internet. 

Fucking Theon Greyjoy and fucking Starks and fucking Sansa Stark. 

All because of her. 

He needed a bathroom break. He needed to smoke a cigarette after his bathroom break. He also needed a shot or twenty of vodka. 

There was a club soda in his glass, wine, untouched, in the other. He had eaten what was on the plate while trying to work the room. 

His mother was there because she didn’t trust him. She was working the room as well, as only Lannisters could do. 

“Dear,” The woman sitting next to him said. She was a producer, and she was ugly as fuck. “You were excellent in the movie, Joffrey. Congratulations on the nominations and wins!”

He smiled, showing dimples and teeth. He had practised that smile for over a month now. He had gotten good at it; it was his: “Can you believe what mess I caused for being a dumbass?” and he was reasonably sure it was working on the woman. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” He said. 

“However,” the woman said between bites of salmon and asparagus, “from what I hear the support just isn’t there, kid.”

Which support? Fans that were watching the movie? Casual viewers, who were becoming fans? Critics who ate in his hand? People in the industry respected and feared his name. What the fuck was she talking about?

Well, he wasn’t exactly drowning in new projects. It was better than it had been right before the movie premiered, but still – he hadn’t got Chazelle’s film because of the lead actress, a bitch who had a bone to pick with his mother. Scott had never returned his calls, but he had a project or two in the works. They were all but signed. 

“It’s already such an honour to be nominated, ma’am. This is – beyond my wildest dreams.” He said. His mother was looking at him. He could feel it.

Shit, would she come to his rescue as if he was five? 

“Indeed. And well, we all know how these things work, kid.”

If she ‘kid’ him once more, he would fucking punch her in the cunt. He smiled and sipped his soda. 

“Did you hear from your uncle?” The woman asked. And that caught the attention of the person on his left and even the man in front of him. 

“We talked this morning,” He lied. No one cared about Uncle Jaime; she must be talking about his uncle Tyrion. Fucker. Freak. 

“I heard great things about his movie –“The man sitting next to the ugly cunt said. 

Now. Joffrey could play it in two ways: smile like a lovesick puppy to make people think he was still not over Sansa (which, according to his new PR guy, would be a mistake), or play up the family pride (which would piss Tyrion off, so it was a good thing in his book anyway). 

“Did you?” He softly asked, “My uncle would be happy to know that.”

He decided to be almost truthful. His new PR guy had told him that he should try it. 

His new PR guy was a moron, but according to his mother, he was good. 

His mother was still looking at him. It was like having a laser beam on his fucking face. Would she drop it? Wasn’t he doing everything they told him to say without fucking up? Wasn’t he doing the whole dog and pony show without uttering a single complaint? 

“Heard great things about Jon Snow.” The man sitting in front of him said. He sounded impressed. Oh, he bet he was having the time of his life up there in Belfast with Daenerys Targaryen (when she wasn’t fucking the old man) and Sansa. He wondered whether his uncle watched them. 

Fuck, he truly needed a bathroom break. A line. Just one line. It wasn’t even coke; it was whatever Doctor Qyburn had made for him.

“I’m a fan.” He said, and grinned, “told him when I met him. We’ve talked about working together. Who knows?”

The ugly cunt raised an eyebrow at his words.

Well. Nothing Joffrey said was false: he had met Jon Snow once. They had talked. He had told him he admired his work and had also told him he would love to be directed by him.

Jon Snow had been an arsehole and had walked out on him, but that was the only part he was omitted from the conversation!

“That would be amazing.” The man said. Was he gullible, or was he pulling his leg? That was one of the things he sometimes had trouble understanding lately. He assumed everyone was out to get him because it made him always be on alert, and no one could trust people in their business, but some people made him genuinely curious. 

“Did you hear that Catelyn Stark won Los Angeles Critics awards? I hear she’s the top choice for the LCF.” The woman sitting on his left said. 

“I  did.  Really? So good for her!” He said. Fuck, who cared? His new PR guy had told him to watch all the movies in conversation so that he wouldn’t look like a complete moron during interviews. He had. Gods knew how he had made it through Lady Stoneheart. 

“I’m sure you’ve been hearing a lot about your fellow nominees.” The ugly cunt said. 

“I absolutely adored her movie. She deserves all the accolades she is getting and more.” He replied. That was easy. Still, meeting Sansa’s mother didn’t sit well with him. His mother was paranoid about the Starks, but in his experience, the Starks loved their money and did the bare minimum to stay relevant. So, Sansa’s mother was in menopause and wanted to shake up her career and life with some awards. Why did his mother worry? 

Sansa was fucking Jon Snow in Ireland; she was making the movie of the year. Wasn’t it enough for Mommy and Daddy dearest?

“Anyway, wouldn’t it be awkward if you handed Sansa Stark an Oscar next year?” The man sitting in front of him said with a chuckle. 

What. The. Absolute. Fuck?

Oscar. Oscar? For Sansa fucking Stark? What on Earth?

“It would be my honour.” He promptly replied. 

Joffrey had heard enough buzz about Jon Snow’s movie, but it was the first time he heard someone in the business talking about Sansa.

The man smirked. So. Not gullible. A complete shit. Or maybe he needed to pay more attention. He would need to practice answering these kinds of questions. Perhaps he should even listen to his PR guy and hire an acting partner for that bullshit. 

It was impossible. Joffrey knew he would not win an Oscar; he was too young, but there was no way that Sansa Stark would  ever  win an Academy Award. It didn’t matter who her parents were or who she had fucked to get the role. It just couldn’t happen. 

Could it?

That would make for a nice image, one he would cultivate in his spare time: meeting Sansa again, face to face, having a long chat with her, telling her how proud he was of her and her accomplishments. Beating every lie she had told him and every time she had fucked Jon Snow out of her. 

It was a pretty picture, almost better than the one where he won a Golden Globe or a Bafta. 

 


 

 

Daenerys – Then – II 

 

The pub was packed. Almost everyone who had been at the table reading was there that night. Tyrion wanted them to bond; they would spend months together. He had done something similar during the run of the play. 

Was that her life now? Before Tyrion’s call and email, she had spent her days reading books with Rhaego in her garden. She had missed her job. 

And Jorah was there. He was there every morning, and she couldn’t help smiling, feeling so stupid for the three years they hadn’t seen each other. They had coffee or tea every day. They read the script, talked about it, and were catching up with each other. It felt like they had never been apart. 

She had missed him – more than she had been willing to admit. She had felt so guilty after Drogo’s death – and when Rhaego was born and Jorah – he had been put through hell during his divorce. 

He looked happier that night – and no, the fact that he had tried to outdrink Tyrion (who would be that foolish?) and Jon was unrelated to the smile she had seen on his face before she left for her bathroom break. 

He had been smiling all day, the previous days’ discomfort at what their fans on the Internet or what blind vices said about them forgotten. And she had  eyes.  She knew he had looked at her more openly than he had while they were working together. 

Neither was married, after all – and there was nothing wrong with looking. Gods knew she was. 

She was going back to their booth when she saw Bronn. The man was smiling and looked more relaxed than he had all week. Unlike her costar and her director, Bronn would never try to outdrink Tyrion Lannister. He was nursing a beer and greeted her with a one-armed hug. 

“Blondie!” Bronn exclaimed. 

“Not for long, I’m afraid!” She replied. 

Bronn rolled his eyes. They were still close, and Daenerys had genuinely missed him, too. The four of them, Tyrion, Jorah, Bronn and her had been quite close during the run of the play. 

“You look – happy,” Bronn said. 

“I am.” She replied with a shrug of her shoulders.  

Bronn grinned. He looked around momentarily, and she followed his gaze when it fixed on Jorah.

“He looks happy too, thank fuck!” Bronn said and gulped his beer, “He deserves it.”

She nodded. She couldn’t agree more with Bronn. Jorah deserved to be as happy as he was looking right now. Happier even. 

 Bronn touched her shoulder, and his eyes were sober when he said, “He asked for Tyrion’s help after the picture.”

Fuck. The bloody picture. After that, Daenerys had a meeting with her people, Drogo’s family, his management, and his people. She only remembered bits and pieces of that day, but she recalled looking at the picture and remembering what she had felt. 

The picture and the allegations and, right after that, the whole mud thrown at Jorah, and she had just refused to read; she hadn’t wanted to know any more. She had been too scared; she had let her people deal with everything; Daenerys had kept her head in the sand for months because she had been pregnant and alone, and nothing had made sense. 

“His help with what?” She asked. 

She could feel her heart in her throat. Her stomach was dropping. 

“To protect you –”

What?

She had believed she was alone, that no one would save her from the draconian contract she had signed and how they had terrified her into silence. 

To protect the lies her adult life had been built upon, to protect a child she wasn’t even sure she really wanted at first, to protect Drogo’s name and legacy, to persevere lies and deceit and the game. 

While Jorah – what did he do?

All she knew was that Varys had been repping Jorah’s wife; she didn’t even remember who had told her; might it have been Tyrion? 

And what did Jorah do?

Bronn looked at her; she must have voiced her last thought aloud because the man shrugged his shoulders and said, “Tyrion talked to people after your man called him.”

Jorah wasn’t her man. 

Jorah was a friend. He was a good friend. 

She had signed and said yes because she genuinely believed she had no choice. Who would protect her from Viserys? Who would pay for the expensive asylum from where he would never get out as long as she had money? Who would protect her from the truth if it came out? Who would protect her child? 

“This is how it can go.”  They had said. 

And every word had sent her further and further down a hole. 

What did Varys do? Was it why her name was never mentioned again after Jorah sued the tabloids, and the attacks to him became even harder?

Was it how Jorah’s ex-wife got what she wanted?

If one employed Varys – one won. The man would deliver. End of. No exceptions. It was why Cersei Lannister kept him close. It was why a woman like Jorah’s ex-wife might have employed the best of the best. 

Jorah  wasn’t  her man. 

He was possibly, if her gut was right, and he indeed had done what she was starting to think he had done, the best friend she had ever had. 

“Did he take the fall for me?” She asked in a small voice. 

“I could get fired for this.” Was Bronn’s only reply. 

Yes. 

Fuck. 

They had been drinking coffee in the morning, and they had chatted about the movie, and he had asked her about her son. She had shown him pictures and videos, and she had smiled, thinking that the photo of the two of them she had posted on Twitter had been trending.

He had almost lost his career; his ex-wife had nearly bankrupted him. 

Did he do it for her? To protect her? Did he know the horror story they had told her in Drogo’s house? Did they know that they had reminded her that she was just a girl with nice boobs, blue eyes and a modicum of acting talent, that she was replaceable and that she wasn’t stupid, therefore she should play the game?

And she was still wearing her wedding and engagement ring, per Drogo’s family’s request. 

And she had stopped working because they had asked her to – while Jorah –

“I – I need to go.” She said. 

Bronn still had his hand on her shoulder. He let it go and said, “Fired, I could get fired, blondie!”

She nodded. And she wished she had known. She wished she had known sooner. She would have  never  taken Jorah’s words as lightly as she had the other day. 

What would have happened if Jorah hadn’t – taken the fall for her? Or had they trapped them both for some reason?

Did they trap them both because of what didn’t happen in New York? Because they had been decent and done the right thing at the time? 

Or was it because they had been mere pawns in a bigger game?

She took a moment before returning to the booth she had shared with Jorah all night. She had missed him so much and was elated to have him back in her life. 

People were still singing on stage. She had already sung a song with Sansa, but until she calmed down enough to sit next to Jorah again, she could somehow show him that she hadn’t forgotten a day of their days together. 

So, she asked for a specific song. And as she started it, she looked at Jorah – and it was like she was seeing him for the first time. 

It was.

Because she loved him. But that wasn’t anything new. She had loved him for a long time. 

She – didn’t know, and she should have, really, because it had been right  there  that she was  in love  with him. 

And she sang one of the songs he liked, one they had listened to while in New York.

She loved him. 

 

Let our love take wing some midnight

‘Round midnight

Let the angels sing

For your returning

Let our love be safe and sound

When old midnight comes around

 

They would never be pawns again. Daenerys decided as she finished the song, and then, among cheers and catcalls, she returned to her seat. Jorah was waiting for her, a smile on his lips, his eyes so expressive. 

She would break the wheel – Varys, Drogo’s people, her people, whoever got in the way. 

No one would touch them any more. 


  

Joffrey – Then – I

 

Per his mother’s orders, he was hiding in one of the guest rooms. Things might have gotten a bit out of hand the previous night with Sansa. His mother had already known when he had gone to her. She had looked mildly disgusted with the whole thing. 

“Stay here. I will handle this,” Cersei had said. That had been hours before. 

Did Sansa leave? Did she go to the police, the slut, and report him? 

She had fucking thrown the engagement ring on his face!

She had screamed she would report him to the police. 

He didn’t even sleep because his mother had told him to wait. And she had sounded cross. What a cunt. 

So he was in that room with only his phone and not even a bottle of something to get him through the waiting. 

He heard knocking on the door, and he perked up. 

Finally! He wouldn’t be opposed to hearing that Sansa’s body had been thrown into the Thames or even a shallow grave on the side of some road. Anything, as long as she stopped being such a whiny bitch. 

Lannisters paid their debts. There had been a wager. It was not like Joffrey had  raped  her. She was his fiancée!

“Come in!” He said. 

She had said yes. Joffrey had given her a choice, and she had said, “You.” What the fuck was she on about?

It was, not his mother – just her wonder twin who, since his father had died, had been trying to act all fatherly around him. Useless. Pathetic. 

“Uncle!” He said with a smile. 

Well. How about that? Did his mother send her precious twin, a lawyer, to handle Sansa? It would surely look cute on his resume. 

“She’s going away. She won’t report you.” Jaime said. 

Of course, she wouldn’t. Why would she? Things had gotten a bit out of control because of booze. And he had thought she would loosen up a bit with what Dr. Qyburn had given her. 

Instead, she had been a whining, annoying bitch. 

“Are you sure?” He asked.

Uncle Jaime nodded. He stepped inside the room and sat beside him on the bed. He looked at him and said, “Now you listen to me, son.”

He rolled his eyes at his words. He had had a father. Robert Baratheon had been his father. His uncle could shove his “listen to me, son.” 

“Listen to me, kid! This is what happens if you ever go near her again: she will report you. And the physical evidence alone will be on the front page of the Daily Mail for months! Months, do you hear me? Then, the crown prosecutors will find witnesses. Do you think Tyrion will cover for you? And if they feel very inspired by her quivering chin and blue eyes, they will decide to dig deeper. Ask for blood tests. Drugs, booze, you name it. You will be able to see the results on the front page of the Sun.”

“Fuck you!” He spat.

“Oh, and she had pictures. I saw them. Your lawyers might be good and not let them be accepted as proof. I know prosecutors who would give them a run for their money. I remember the black eyes and the bruises around her throat. What would a jury think?”

Fucker! Was he trying to play bad cop with him? 

“We would win the trial.” He said.

Jaime shrugged. “Possibly. Your reputation, however? Puf! Gone in flames, your career? Gone as well!”

He grimaced at his words.

“Leave her alone. Put out a statement that you broke your engagement because you have different goals or whatever Varys comes up with. She won’t say a word. No contact, don’t even think about calling her –”

He clenched his jaws and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“You are siding with her!” He spat. 

Jaime let out a sigh and shook his head, “No. I sided with you. I spent almost an hour terrorising an already traumatised girl into not reporting you to the police to protect you. To protect the family!”

He smiled at his uncle’s words. Maybe he wasn’t so useless after all. He knew he was a good lawyer. So his mother kept telling, anyway. 

“I did nothing wrong!” He said. He wanted to smash the whole room. And he would once the man left. He had done nothing wrong!

Jaime sighed again. What was wrong with him? He should take the win! 

“Be careful, Joffrey. Sansa is not like the other girls – she is a Stark.”

“And I’m a Baratheon! My dad owned the business!”

“You are not your father,” Jaime said, and he caught an odd edge in the man’s voice. 

“This attitude won’t help you in the long run, kid.”

He was not a kid. He was a man. He was – at the top of the world. And Sansa Stark had been a whiny, stupid girl who couldn’t deal with being with him.

He kept thinking  Lannister.  But his mother was a Lannister. He was a Baratheon. Robert’s son. 

And he could have all the pretty girls in the world. That was Sansa’s loss, really. 

And his uncle didn’t understand a single fucking thing. He had helped him, however, and he had been taught to thank you, the people who did him favours. Especially if they were family. 

“Thank you for your suggestion, uncle.” He said. 

He would do what his uncle had said. It didn’t mean he couldn’t find ways to make Sansa pay for what she had done, for screaming at him and throwing the ring he had given him in his face.

He would. He couldn’t make Sansa bleed physically any more. Too bad. There were many ways to hurt someone. He would need to talk to Varys. He wanted her crucified on tabloids. He wanted her to regret ever being a whiny bitch to him. 

 


 

Jon – now – II

 

Sansa’s hair smelled good – like honey and cinnamon. She was in his arms again. He had thought, for a moment, while she was under the shower, that she would tell him to go when she got out.  

Sansa, instead, had not asked him to leave. She had gotten out of the bathroom wearing her pyjamas and quickly finished packing her suitcase while he went to the bathroom and changed for the night. She hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t spoken either. At some point, she had asked him if he was hungry; he had said no and had asked the same. 

Sansa wasn’t hungry either. She had left the room, however, and she had heard her in the kitchenette, and she had come back with a bottle of water and two glasses.

“I’m thirsty.” She had said. 

“So am I.” He had replied.

They had sipped their water silently, both sitting cross-legged on the bed. When she placed her glass on the nightstand, Sansa took a look at the alarm clock on it and said, “Oh, Gods, look at the time –”

“Do you want me to leave?” He had asked. He had been in his pyjamas, but he would leave. He could sleep in Theon's room or on the sofa. 

Sansa had shaken her head, “Can you stay?” She had asked. 

He had nodded.

Yes. Jon wanted to stay for as long as she would have him. He wanted to stay until she didn’t feel like she had to shower after talking about what Joffrey had done to her. He suspected that it was the case because she had welcomed him in the flat fresh from her shower, her hair still not completely dry. 

“Let’s get some sleep. Or my director will have my head tomorrow.” She said with a smile. 

“I will kick his arse if he tries,” Jon said.

She kissed his forehead, and then they slid under the covers. It often happened lately. He loved sleeping with Sansa. And she had told him she slept better with him holding her. 

It had been one of the many confessions of the night. 

They were spooning. 

Sansa had taken her hand in his for a moment, and then, with a whisper, she had said, “You can touch them if you want.”

Them. The scars. 

He – didn’t know what he wanted. He hated those marks on Sansa’s soft skin but loved that she had survived them and used them as props during her main scene. She had said, more than once, that she was damaged. 

He could only see a strong woman who was thriving despite what happened to her. She was an exceptional actress. She was kind and good. She was beautiful, and so many people loved her. Unlike what the Lannisters had made her believe, she had people who would fight for her.  

She had him. She would always have him. 

“Do you want me to?” He asked, whispering as well. 

Sansa craned to look at him and said, “I think I do.”

He nodded. 

“Just say the word if it is uncomfortable, love.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

For what? For trying to be decent? For loving her?

 Sansa closed her eyes and let go of his hand. Their bodies aligned, and he hoped she didn’t notice his fingers trembling as his hand slid under her shirt. He traced her skin with the pad of his fingers until he felt the first scar, the irregular lines of it. And then the faint scars on her collarbone.

He didn’t know where they had come from. They looked different from the others. 

Sansa didn’t tell him – and he would not ask until she was ready. 

Sansa’s skin was soft and warm as he trailed his hand on her side and slipped behind her shoulder blades.

Those scars – were harsh on her skin. It must have hurt. 

And Joffrey Baratheon would never hurt Sansa anymore. Not until he breathed. 

I love you.  It was there, in Jon’s touch, on the pad of his fingers, in his lungs with every breath he took and swallowed. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was filling him whole. It was eating him up. 

I love you.  Jon wanted to tell Sansa. He needed to tell her – but it was too soon. And so he forced himself not to. 

I love you,  He thought when his hand slid from under her shirt and sought hers. They twined fingers, and he whispered, “All right?”

She nodded without looking at him; she placed his hand above her heart and said, “It’s beating fast – but it’s you. It’s not the scars.”

His heart was beating fast, too. 

I love you , he thought, but he kissed her temple and said, “Let’s try to get some rest.”

“Good night, Jon,” Sansa said. 

I love you,  he thought, but he said, “Good night, Sansa. sleep well.”

Jon thought he would not sleep – not after what he had heard, not after touching Sansa’s scars, but with his hand still in hers and their fingers interwoven, he closed his eyes. And moments later, sleep claimed him. He was smiling. 

And so was Sansa. 

 

Notes:

My spelling with some of the names is terrible, I'm aware. I'm going back and editing as soon as I've got time. Sorry. Still flying solo. Still dying like people in Winterfell during the Long Night:)
Just one name is willingly misspelt. FYI

Chapter 19: On Location

Summary:

the cast goes on location. Paparazzi are still a thing, but there is a reason behind their presence. The photoshoot happens. Oberyn tells them who, exactly, is the paparazzi following them. Jon and Sansa get closer and closer. Daenerys has nightmares

Notes:

I’m so sorry for the delay in updating this chapter. My family has been visiting, and I literally couldn’t sit in front of my computer. I wrote the whole chapter on paper, and it took me a whole day to type it! Lots of things happen in this chapter. Some of them off-screen, some of them on the page. We finally know more about Margaery, and I can’t believe it took me that long to get to this part. Believe it or not, we’re getting somewhere near (ish) the end of the story.
I’m looking forward to next chapter and the story won’t be updated for two weeks at least, next week is going to be crazy at work, it’s the end of term and so many meetings and mountains of paperwork are in store for me.
As always, thank you so much to those who read, bookmarked, and left kudos and comments on the story. Your kindness and your words mean the world to me! I’m still writing; I’m not abandoning this story any time soon. Please be patient with the updates because this month has been pretty crazy for me. What do you mean it's February the 1st? It feels like April! *cries*
Spoilerish note at the end

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

From  Scoop Online:

 

New exclusive pictures of the cast of Good Queen Alysanne on location at Castle Sinclair Girnigoe in Wick, Scotland. 

 

The cast and crew of "Good Queen Alysanne", one of next year's most anticipated movies, has been in Scotland for a few days. They moved to shoot in Wick yesterday, and in the exclusive images below, you can have a sneak peek at our exclusive behind-the-scenes pictures!

In the first picture below, you can see the director of the movie, Jon Snow, on the left, clad in black, chatting with the director of photography, Davos Seaworth, while at the centre, wearing black and white under their coats, you can see Daenerys Stormborn and Sansa Stark share a laugh. Both women hold heating pads close to their chests and seem in a good mood despite the cold and the snow. 

In the second picture, we can see Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont as the hair and make-up department put on their finishing touches between takes. The two actors are smiling despite the light clothes they're both wearing. 

The co-stars recently attended Robb Stark's last show of 'The Crucible' at the Old Vic and its afterparty together. 

 Publicists for both actors are still declining to comment on the status of their relationship, despite insiders' quotes. Still, it appears clear that the two actors are very close. 

Sansa Stark and Daario Naharis are in the third picture. They're both wearing costumes: black with hues of dark red. They're pictured chatting with assistant director Baeric Dandarion; Stark is laughing at what the other two men say. Let's be honest: Naharis and Stark look incredibly handsome together!

In the last picture, you can see Naharis and director Jon Snow together near a monitor, looking deep in concentration as they watch something. 

Stay tuned for our continued on-location coverage of the movie!


Tyrion's suite had become where they regrouped at the hotel. It had become so for the past two days when the man invited them all to his room for drinks. They had a private room in their hotel in Edinburgh, which the studios had rented for them, but it was in Wick, Tyrion's room. Oberyn had been very adamant about them lying low while on location. 

It would be all fine if it weren't that every time he looked at Tyrion – or had to talk to him, 

he couldn't help thinking about Joffrey, Jaime – and what Sansa had gone through with the Lannisters. 

He was trying very hard not to let what Sansa had told him to influence him. He was trying hard to be civil to Tyrion; he was trying to remember that he and Tyrion were friends and that the man was fighting his own family and had never backed out, not even for a moment, after Joffrey's tweets. 

He wasn't sure how much it was working. 

If Tyrion had noticed (and he had, Jon thought. He was too bright not to), he hadn't said a word - especially not that night when Daario Naharis had joined them. 

It had happened because Daario was fighting Baelish about the whole publicity stunt their producer had in mind: a false romance with Sansa to parade around during the movie's promotion. While Sansa had resigned herself to comply with the studios' orders, her co-star was still vehemently against Baelish's idea. 

That afternoon, Tyrion had told them that he wanted to talk to them about the photo shoot, and, at that point, not including Daario would have looked weird. 

And yes, there was still an almost Pavlovian response in him every time Daario and Sansa touched; his jaw twitched, and he gritted his teeth in frustration, but the fact that Daario was fighting Baelish, for whatever reason, made him okay in his book. And he was sorry it had taken him that long. 

They were all tired – splayed on sofas and armchairs in front of the fireplace, and he felt a bit guilty while looking at his actors. 

It wasn't his fault – or even Tyrion's. Since, apparently, he had pulled off a bloody miracle in Belfast with the shooting – staying within budget and ahead of schedule – Baelish wanted him to continue because he now wanted the movie to be ready for the Toronto Film Festival. After all, he wanted to run a proper awards campaign the following year. He had said late releases put him on edge. He had said he wanted to do things properly with Good Queen Alysanne. 

Baelish's request meant that he had spent a very long first night in Edinburgh, attending conference calls with everyone – from people in London to the heads of each department and Samwell Tarly, while Baeric, Brienne and Tyrion worked their magic with the shooting schedule – and he had been sure, positive, that he would be killed by his cast and crew when they got it. 

It didn't happen because, except for Sansa and him, everyone in the movie had already worked with Baelish before, so they took things in stride while Tyrion was still smoothing things out with the unions, and they were all collectively praying that things would keep running smoothly, without setbacks of any kind on set. 

That was the first and last time he ever worked with Petyr Baelish. 

They were spending most of their off time together – even more so than in Belfast, and he honestly didn't know what to make of it. 

Since Daario was there with them that night, they couldn't talk about Cersei or Joffrey, but somehow they clicked together. 

Sansa was not sitting next to him; she was sitting Indian style on an armchair, knitting (she had taken up knitting again ever since they had left Belfast); Jorah and Dany were seated on one of the sofas, and Tyrion and Daario on another. He was sitting at a respectable distance from Sansa on another armchair. The people in the room had all seen Sansa and him arriving together at the airport in Belfast. No one had said a word. No one even hinted, made remarks or teased them. He appreciated that. 

Dany and Jorah had even covered for them the day before with Oberyn. They had sneaked out during a pause, and the man had been looking for them. 

"Why are paparazzi here?" Daario suddenly asked, "I get Belfast – but how did they even know we were here?"

"It's not exactly confidential information, Daario," Tyrion said. 

True. Shooting information was public – and they were staying at a hotel; therefore, there might be loose lips. Daario, however, was not wrong. And he agreed with the man when he said, "I don't like it. Wick is not exactly Georgia, where everyone goes shooting these days."

Jon looked at Sansa. She hated paparazzi with every fibre of her being. Still, nothing of her true feelings about them had transpired after Joffrey's tweets or when they spotted them on location. 

Daenerys and Jorah didn't look happy about the paparazzi's presence either. 

"It's only for a few days; then we'll be back on soundstage, and they'll leave us alone," Tyrion said. He sounded like he was trying to placate Naharis. 

Tyrion looked at the people in the room and said, "Maybe that's why Martell has told us to lay low while we're here."

"So, it's all Baelish's fault?" Daenerys asked. 

Tyrion sighed. "Let's not make it a Machiavellian thing out of it. We know he wants to sell Daario and Sansa's relationship – and you and Jorah are loved online. He's just doing his job right now."

"Sansa and I don't have a relationship!" Naharis replied. His voice was low and harsh, but Jon didn't bristle at how the man said Sansa's name.  

"You know what I mean." Tyrion said, "he'll make people believe whatever he wants them to."

"But we said no!" Naharis exclaimed. 

Tyrion shrugged, "He can still sell the idea. At least that's what Oberyn claims."

"And Baelish is still pissed with Jorah and me," Daenerys added. 

"I'll talk to Brienne and Baeric first thing in the morning," Jon said. He didn't like what Tyrion said or even how he said it, but it checked with what they knew about Baelish. The only thing he could do was try to put up as many protection white screens as possible and make sure security on set was tight. 

"I guess I will have to call my people," Daario said. 

Jon looked at Sansa. She hadn't said a word, but Jon knew that Daenerys had told Sansa to let Daario fight that battle for both, given he had more clout and star power than them. 

"The photoshoot will be safe. Oberyn would hunt the paparazzi down himself if it was spoiled." Tyrion said.

"More than it has on Instagram?" Daario asked with a grin. 

There were chuckles, and then Daenerys said, "Well, Oberyn did say he had had to change it. Sorry, babe!" She winked at Sansa, and the redhead chuckled. 

Gods, he loved that sound. 

Daario's mobile phone rang. The man silenced it but said, "This is my cue to leave. And I might be paranoid, but the pictures in Belfast made me suspicious. I don't like what Baelish is doing with this."

Jon looked at Tyrion – what would the man say?

Their producer nodded but said, "Might be paranoia – but you might be right. He wants to turn this movie's promotion into a three-ring circus."

Daario got up and sighed. "He used to be less on the nose about these things."

Jorah said, "Oh, no – he's always been a sleazy bastard, even when we were kids, and he had paper cuts all over his fingers!"

Daario's mobile rang again. The man smiled and said, "I really need to take this. But it's not comforting to know that he's always been an asshole."

"Wasn't meant to –" Jorah said kindly. 

Daario nodded at Jorah's words and left the room. Jon wasn't surprised when Daenerys said a few seconds after he left, "I don't think he's paranoid."

"No. I don't think either. But Baelish wants to pull out all the stops to promote this movie. Or so Oberyn says." Tyrion commented. 

Daenerys groaned and mumbled, "Fantastic."

Sansa, who hadn't stopped knitting, finally put her things away and said, "This is all fine, but Daario has a point about paparazzi. Our jogging circuit was not public knowledge."

Jorah nodded, "Neither is Daenerys' address. Or the fact that we had to leave Belfast in a hurry."

Jon had been informed that there were pictures of Daenerys and Jorah dating back to before her husband died. She had been shown them – and had shared that information with them. It was one of the reasons why he had left the hotel and leased a flat, not using the studios' money.

That – felt more intrusive than promoting a movie. 

It felt like Baelish was spying on his actors and stalking them using paparazzi. 

Tyrion looked deep in thought, and Jon gritted his teeth. 

Tyrion was a decent man – but he hadn't done anything to help Sansa when she was with Joffrey. He had allowed Jaime on set. Did he know the things the man had said to Sansa? Did he care?

He was trying to remember that Tyrion was their friend. But it was more complicated than usual at that moment. 

"Let me ask around –"Tyrion eventually said. He then clasped his hands and said, "Now, get some rest. We all need our beauty sleep tonight!"

They all stood up; even Bronn, who hadn't said a single word that night, had texted nonstop on his mobile. 

"You did an excellent job today, Jon," Tyrion said. 

As opposed to my usually sloppy work? What the fuck does he even mean? He thought. 

He levelled the man with a gaze and said, "Thank you, Lannister."

He hadn't been subtle with his reply – and he honestly couldn't bring himself to care. 

Tyrion frowned at the tone in his voice but didn't say a word. He had been that a lot for the past few days. 

Sansa exited her armchair and said she would retire for the night. She didn't even look at him., 

"We're going too." Dany said, "You wouldn't believe how early our call sheet is tomorrow. Our director and producer hate us!"

"Yep. Your guts, Stormborn!” Tyrion said, then he mumbled something about whiny actors, smiling. 

"Can I have a word with you, Jon?" Tyrion asked as Sansa, Daenerys, and Jorah were leaving. He didn't look at Sansa. They didn't have plans for the night except to sleep in the same bed together. Sansa would wait for him in her room. He hated leaving her at dawn, and she didn't seem fond of leaving him either, but they didn't want Joffrey's tweets to be seen as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Or anything resembling his twisted version of events. 

When the others left (and he hadn't missed the questioning looks from Daenerys), Tyrion asked, "Is everything all right?"

"You mean, besides the obvious?" Jon asked. He knew he must sound snarky, but he didn't care. 

Tyrion looked at him. That man knew him – could he tell he was angry on Sansa's behalf?

Sansa may have forgiven him – he needed more time. 

Tyrion sighed, "One of the things I will always regret is not doing enough to protect Sansa when she was with my nephew." He said.

So, he knew why he could be barely civil to him. Tyrion could be scarily intuitive when he wanted.

"I'm the man who killed his mother by being born. My sister has spent our lives reminding me of it. I was a modestly successful writer then, but not enough for my family's standards. I was a coward. But I care about Sansa."

It was the truth – he supposed. He was sorry Cersei was a monster but couldn't feel sorry for Tyrion. Being a decent human being should have come first. 

"Doesn't make me feel better," Jon admitted.

"Me either. But it's the truth. And Sansa knows that." Tyrion said. 

"Did you even apologise to Sansa? Did you bother -?" Jon asked. He had had Jaime Lannister on set for weeks. Jon had drunk wine with Jaime at Tyrion's party, and Jon hadn't known – he was furious at himself for that. He would never forgive himself, even if he hadn't known the facts. How could Tyrion do that to Sansa?

"I did – when she was cast. We had lunch together. Despite everything, she doesn't hate me. I even asked for her permission before inviting Jaime on set." He shrugged, "I'll admit I manipulated the facts a little, but I needed him in Belfast, away from Cersei. It worked."

Sansa didn't hate Tyrion. He had already known that. Hearing Tyrion's words made Jon wonder whether falling all over again for someone they were already in love with was possible. 

Jon believed it was entirely possible because that was how he felt. 

"She's a better person than me." He said.

Tyrion drank wine from his goblet and said, "She told me once to keep you out of this."

Jon didn't know that. 

"She threatened my siblings and then told me to keep you out of our little thing."

Despite himself, he couldn't help but smile a little at Tyrion's words. 

"She's not broken. My nephew is a shit, and he should be in jail, but he didn't break her." Tyrion said. 

Sansa had nightmares. She had told him that she couldn't drive any more without having panic attacks. She flinched and froze sometimes when she was in his arms. 

Tyrion, however, was right: Sansa was not broken. 

"I'm happy for you two. I've never seen Sansa smile like this." Tyrion said. 

"I still want to punch you in the face and beat the shit out of your family," Jon replied. 

"You're welcome to both after we wrap the movie. Tell you what, Snow, you can punch me right after the photo shoot," He grinned and added, "Or you can keep Sansa smiling like that."

He could do both. 


                                                                                                                       

From the website Blind Gossip: The #1 Blind Item Site in The World. 

The Girlfriend/Boyfriend Experience. 

 

Whose actor/actress, whose face is everywhere lately, has had trouble finding their current public partner? Are they parading around on red carpets and at public events?

This performer is handsome and rich and might be an Oscar nominee soon. Yet, their people have had trouble finding someone willing to be their public partner for awards season.

Not even hungry D-Listers said yes. Is it because it is said they're still pining after their very public ex-partner? Or is it something more sinister?

They're not in the closet.  

But their nice image used to be more polished. 

And as they say, not all that glitters is gold.

 

PERFORMER:

CURRENT PUBLIC PARTNER:

FORMER PARTNER:   

 


Margaery – Then – I 

 

She closed the door and leaned her shoulders against it. She didn't remember ever feeling so exhausted, so torn to pieces. 

The silence in her flat was – pleasant, she supposed.

Words. Too many words were still running through Margaery's head. Her father, the police, her mother's nonsense, the Septon, and Loras' friends from work. 

"Sweetheart, there's been an accident."

Her father had said those five words and had shattered her world. 

Eighty hours, and she only remembered a handful of them – and everything felt like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. 

Loras. 

He taught her to read when they were children. 

They used to play in their garden, and he was always the knight of the Legends, and she was always the princess he saved. 

For the first twenty-four hours, the police had talked about suicide – which had angered her grandmother out of the numbness and grief she had fallen into and had broken her own heart into a million pieces because Loras would never kill himself. 

Loras loved his life; he had worked so hard to be successful on his own, without using their family's influence, using their mother's maiden name on the job, working for free for online magazines and newspapers ever since he was a kid. 

Loras – had been stressed out because he was an investigative reporter, and the internet had made his job harder. He was tired, but he had been so sweet and kind when she had talked to him the morning of the day he died. 

She told the police that they had plans for the weekend – and people didn't willingly crash their cars into pillars if they had plans. It just didn't compute. 

After the autopsy was done – yet another crack in her heart to think about her beautiful brother's body being mangled in the accident, enough to have a closed casket funeral, but not enough to not have an autopsy done. 

The police said Loras might have fallen asleep at the wheel, which had shaken her from her numbness. 

Loras and she had driven through France and Switzerland together. Loras never,  ever  fell asleep in a car, not even when they were children! He was the best driver she had ever met. He drove race cars, for fuck's sake! He was a pilot!

After that – words. There had been words from Loras' boss, from a couple of his exes, from the Starks. 

Nothing had made sense. Margaery hadn't stopped crying because that was the only thing that made sense. She dried her eyes with a napkin she kept in the sleeve of her jumper and moved away from the door. 

How the fuck did it happen?

Her grandmother wanted Loras' car examined because he had been young, successful, beautiful, and the best thing ever coming out of their family. Accidents happened – but they didn't feel like it was the case. 

She walked to her kitchen. Loras had been with her in that room last weekend; they had watched a movie together, they had eaten pizza, and he had been tired, but they had chatted about being rebels and not buying their mother anything from Bulgari for her birthday for a change. 

She drank some water and sobbed in her glass. 

After seventy-two hours spent around people, she needed the quiet. She needed to think. She needed her brother back.

She had been to Loras' flat before going back to hers. And there were boxes in her car. She had packed without seeing. She had barely resisted the urge to scream: "Stop it! It's not real! Stop this madness right now!"

Her father was a good man, but he was paralysed with grief. Her mother was useless on good days, and those were horrible days for her. Her grandmother – she was worried that what happened to Loras might kill her. So, she had been the one to go to Loras' flat – she had emptied his fridge and looked around, not knowing what to do after that. She had held the bag from the hospital because not even her grandmother had been able to look at the bloodied, smashed things in it. 

The bag was in one of the boxes in her car. She was in her flat now, moving about, switching on the light wherever she went. She was scared of being alone – haunted by Loras' ghost- but she would also give anything to see him once more, to have the chance to hold him and tell him how proud she was of him. 

She eventually went to her bedroom – she needed to get out of the clothes Margaery was wearing – she wanted a scalding hot shower and no benzos because her nightmares the few times she had dozed off had been terrifying. 

There was a vanity near a wall in the room. It was an antique and a gift from her grandmother; she had gotten it when she moved into her flat. The big wooden jewellery box on it, however, had been a gift from Loras when they were kids. 

New tears welled in her eyes as she sat at the vanity and touched the big box. She opened it, looking for something Loras had given her, something she could wear. 

Margaery frowned when she touched the padded envelope hidden under some bracelets. Foregoing her napkin (she forgot where she put it), she dried her tears and nose with her jumper's sleeve and sobbed when she recognised Loras' handwriting on the yellow envelope. 

She sprung up from her sitting position and started to pace the room, holding the envelope in her shaking hands. She hadn't opened that box for over a week. Loras had been in her flat and had left that envelope. Why?

It couldn't be a gift because if it were, he would give it to her – they were both terrible at hiding gifts. 

She drew a breath. Her heartbeat was so fast and hard that she could feel it in her throat. She opened the envelope. There was a small external drive and a note. 

She ignored the new tears that filled her eyes and read the note.

 

Maeg, 

When you find this, you will probably think I'm crazy. I am not, however. This is insurance. When you find this, after you'll bitch at me for being a drama queen, I will explain. I swear. 

I don't feel safe right now. I'm coming to your house tonight knowing I'm being followed. I'll tell you the whole thing. I will tell you when you ask me about this, however.

It is the story I've been working on. I already told you something about it. There is a year of hard work on this hard drive. 

You already know the password, sweet sister. We were raised by our grandmother, weren't we?

Love you,

L

 

She read the note twice, tears streaming down her face and a smile that cracked her heart open as she absorbed her brother's last words to her. It took a moment for his words to really register with her. 

 

I don't feel safe right now.

 

I'm being followed. 

 

It's the story I've been working on. I've told you something about it.

 

He hadn't told her much. He had only said to her that he was working on something about entertainment and its machinations. He had told her he had an excellent source, however. 

She ran to her living room. Her laptop was on the coffee table. She sat on the sofa, holding Loras' note in one hand and the external drive, still in the envelope, in the other. 

She powered up her laptop and took the external drive from the envelope. It was a black thing; it was cold, and she shivered. She plugged the drive-in – and it was password protected. 

 

We were raised by our grandmother. 

 

She sighed, blinking away new tears when she typed the words her grandmother constantly repeated them. 

 

Growing strong. 

 

She let out a sob when the password was accepted. And she blinked in surprise when she saw the dozens of folders neatly catalogued in the drive. All the files were named Lannister and Baratheon. There were dates and names. 

Margaery used her landline phone. She didn't even remember where she had put her mobile at that moment, and she dialled her grandmother's number as she started reading the first document in the first folder. 

"Grandmother," She said when the woman picked up, "it wasn't an accident. They killed him." 

She sounded frantic, like she had lost her mind, but the tears had stopped, which made sense. 

"Who did?" Her grandmother asked. She sounded like herself for the first time in eighty-something hours. 

"I'll explain everything tomorrow. Call dad. We need to talk!"

She hung up the phone. She didn't answer her grandmother's question. She didn't tell her that the Lannisters had killed Loras. 


Margaery – Now – I

 

She answered the phone as soon as she got inside her trailer. 

"Hey," She said to the person on the other line. 

She closed her eyes for a moment while she listened. 

"No, she's doing an excellent job." She replied.

"Yes, Theon is still in London – and I told you." She trailed as the person on the phone reminded her that she had been the one who had asked for Theon's help and that the man had repeatedly said yes. 

"I know, but we didn't have her when Theon said yes!" She replied. 

And to defend Joffrey, they would use the fact that his ex-fiance's brother was involved in the plan. That was the only way out she could come up with for Theon. They needed to be strong to weather the oncoming storm. They had to be careful not to offer the Lannisters anything to defend themselves. 

Loras had worked on an expose on the Lannisters for over a year before someone – Cersei, most probably, had him killed because her brother had asked the right questions to the wrong people. Given his job and influence, Cersei's brother had ensured that Loras' death was deemed an accident. They knew better.

Two days after Loras' funeral, someone broke into her brother's flat and stole his laptop, his mobile phone, and every electronic device the man owned. About a fortnight later, she had heard from one of Loras' colleagues. He had told her that all the terminals on their floors had caught malware, which had been hell on their office computers, even Loras'. 

By then, she had already talked to her family; she and her grandmother were going through Loras' files – the results of her brother's car examinations had come in but had been inconclusive. 

Yet, she and her grandmother had weaved together. 

The hardest thing to do – besides the crippling grief – had been identifying Loras' source. When she did it, and they finally talked, the ideas had taken root. 

"We are on schedule," She said, "It will happen right after nominations are announced," 

Good Queen Alysanne would wrap soon – and she would wrap her miniseries while facing the shitstorm.  

Poor Matt, he was doing such a fantastic job with his role. 

And she would miss acting. She loved her job.

Some things were more important than a job, however. 

The person on the phone, Loras' source, reminded her, once again, that things would only work if the timing was perfect; otherwise, what the Starks were doing and what they were going to do would be useless. 

Other people, besides her, were putting everything at risk to take down the Lannisters. Catherine Stark had told her that they would deal with Cersei later – that she had not even started with the rest of the Lannisters, Baelish and the Boltons. 

That was good – and it didn't matter that she would be blacklisted everywhere – or that her grandmother was selecting bodyguards and drivers for her already. 

She would see the Lannisters pay – and she needed to talk to Catherine Stark because her source didn't care about Theon being used as a scapegoat or collateral damage. She did, however. She was done having people she loved hurt because of the Lannisters. 


It was their last morning in Wick. They would have their photoshoot right before sunset, and then they would shoot night scenes and then go back to Edinburgh. That morning was freezing cold, but Sansa was in a good mood. 

Sleeping with Jon – even if it was becoming less and less platonic – kept the nightmares away; she felt safe and loved. 

Her smile faltered, and Sansa noticed the same happening to everyone under the tent when Baelish approached them. 

Someone behind her, maybe Brienne – or Davos, she wasn't sure, groaned. 

"Gentlemen, ladies!" Baelish greeted them smarmily, saying, "I need to talk to Sansa and Daario. Could you give us a moment alone?"

She exchanged a look with Daario – she immediately recognised the look in his eyes: he was angry. 

She didn't look at Jon but at Daenerys, who had been chatting with him before Baelish arrived, and the woman gave her an almost imperceptible nod. 

"We're kind on a tight schedule here, in case you forgot –"Tyrion said.

"Five minutes. And you were already on break anyway, weren't you?" Baelish said. 

Yes. They were on their lunch break, Sansa thought. She wasn't even in costume yet because she had been feeding lines to Daenerys all morning. She had one scene to shoot before their photoshoot – then another after, at night, with Daario, and she honestly didn't feel like wasting time with Baelish. 

The others, however, were leaving the tent, and she glimpsed the set of Jon's jaw. He was angry, too. 

The truth was that it was ludicrous that Baelish wanted to talk to them alone, in a tent, on set, on location! But their producer, who she had been told used to be a lot more subtle than that, was smiling and had a tablet in his hands. 

"Scoot closer, please." The man said, and Sansa saw Daario tilting an eyebrow at his words. They complied because, honestly, what else could they do? She thought that the three of them must look ridiculous to an external observer: she was wearing jeans and a pink jumper, Daario was in costume, hues of black and dark red, Baelish was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, and they were sitting while he was standing – and she wondered what the man's problem was. 

Baelish's smile grew even smarmier before he turned the tablet toward them to show them one of the Boltons' online gossip rags. There were pictures of her and Daario on the front page. 

"They went online an hour ago." Baelish explained, "There are already thousands of views, and they're spreading online as we speak."

Why is Cersei letting you do this? AMPAS is about to start voting! She thought. Tyrion kept telling her that, as far as he knew, Cersei would rather the world suffer from amnesia and forget she existed at the moment. 

Cersei, however, also knew how much she despised being photographed without her consent, having paparazzi snap pictures of her and the captions that went with them on magazines. She hated the trashy titles and how much they twisted reality. Cersei knew because she had told her at the beginning of her engagement with Joffrey when she believed there was something human in her. How fucking wrong and naïve she had been. 

She schooled her features. Daenerys repeatedly told her to let Daario and his star power fight that battle for her. J'Haquen had told her not to worry because things were under control – but it didn't look like that from where she was sitting. 

"You do look gorgeous together. Are you at least aware of that?" Baelish asked. He almost sounded genuine for once. 

Yes. They had been told – by their castmates, by Jon (when he wasn't a jealous idiot), by Oberyn. They had auditioned together and even had a chemistry reading together. They knew they had it. 

Being aware and willing to sell themselves to make Baelish happy was very different. 

"At least we are genuinely in the same frame this time," She said. The picture had been taken two days before; they were leaving their hotel. Thinking back, it made so much sense why they hadn't used the underground car park. Their driver was paid by the studios, after all. Brienne had been with her, but she had been cut from the picture, and if she remembered correctly, Podrick had been walking next to Daario. He, too, had been cut from the image. 

“You’re right, Sansa. We're in the same frame. This means we're engaged by common law!" Daario said. She had never heard that tone of voice coming from Daario, not even in his movies. It was snarky and cold, so unlike the man she knew, she had to stop herself from blinking in surprise. 

"Look, there is more!" Baelish said, completely ignoring Daario's words and hers. He didn't care. That was the truth. 

Daario crossed his legs, rested his palm under his chin and said, "Do go on, then."

They had been working together long enough for her to know that he was pissed off. And she completely agreed with him. 

Baelish, however, kept smiling and obliged, swiping on the tablet to show them two other pictures – they had been taken on set, between takes: she and Daario were alone in the first one, and they were both smiling in it. She was sure they had been smiling at something Davos or Baeric had told them. 

The second picture came with a caption; she could feel her skin crawl. The caption, "Double couple alert?" featured Daenerys, Jorah, Daario, and her between takes, and they were all laughing. From the angle of the picture, it looked like she was leaning a little on Daario, and he was tilting his head on her side. 

She knew that she hadn't leaned on him because, generally, and with few exceptions, she usually wasn't that comfortable touching people. 

She had gotten pretty close with Daenerys, but she only remembered them touching the night they took the pictures in Jorah's suite. 

Dammit! She thought. Daenerys and Jorah didn't want to be on tabloids more than she did. How would Varys control it? How did it get past him in the first place?

"So, we're laughing together." She said. 

"Indeed, you did – with your co-stars who recently appeared together at an event and again in London a few weeks later. I saw your brother's play, by the way, Sansa. Didn't I mention it? He was fantastic. He reminded me so much of your mother!"

It wasn't even a lie, per se. Robb had told her Baelish had come to see the play and met him in his dressing room afterwards. And many people had been telling how much Robb was similar to their mother and had the same stage presence, on stage. 

Still, there was a picture with a bloody caption – and Baelish was using Daenerys and Jorah, and she was getting pissed off as well. She had been telling herself she would be a trooper and withstand that ridiculous thing – Sansa had been sure she could make it. Hadn't she survived her year in a public engagement with Joffrey?

She wasn't so sure she could, now. 

"Hear me out, Daario," Baelish said, ignoring her words. "I won't ask you to lie. I won't ask you to do anything except basic red carpets looks during red carpets. Let the press do the work. No one can ever blame you for that. No one will. It's the tabloids. Can't live with them, can't live without them!"

She felt sick to her stomach. Baelish had told her the exact same thing when she had complained to him about paparazzi hounding her in college or when she was walking down the street. 

J'Haquen had told her that things were under control but that he would be happy to have a word or two with Baelish if she so wished. 

She did. She very much did. 

"You'll hear my reply from my people." She said. She shared her agent with her parents, but J'Haquen was her people. 

She had not complained before, and she should have. It didn't matter that Daario was more famous than her. Daenerys was right: those things happened when all parties were amenable or didn't happen. 

"I agree with Sansa." Daario said, "Can we get back to work?"

"Of course." Baelish sighed, "I think we all want this movie to be successful. Can we at least agree on this?"

"Only on this," Daario said. He stood up and, for a moment, despite his costume, he looked like the alpha male he had played in so many action movies. Daario was not scared of Baelish in the least. Sansa wasn't afraid of him; she was too angry to, but she still feared the people behind him, especially now that she was with Jon. 

She had been willing to go through the dog and pony show because if people looked at Daario and her, they wouldn't look for Jon. 

If Cersei thought she was still a little dove, then Jon would be safe. 

Except that Jon didn't want that. Jon still hated the idea of her having a fauxmance. He had even told her why. 

"I'm not jealous. Not really –"Jon had told her, "I think it's unfair to you. You hate this stuff. We'll lay low, and we'll deal with whatever happens together. We aren't doing anything wrong, love."

It had been the term of endearment that had done her in. Even more so than the earnest look on Jon's face or even his genuine concern for her. But still, she had soldiered on – and then Baelish had used Daenerys and Jorah – and her resolve to go along with his stupid idea had crumbled. 

Baelish had ignored her, and she would not let him forget that. Not that time. The man left her alone with Daario. The man sat beside her and said, "It's nothing personal, Sansa."

"I know." She said. She knew it wasn't personal. 

"If I ever was the type of person to do anything like that, I would love for it to be with you. But I'm not!" Daario said, and as far as she knew, it was the truth. She had been a fixture on tabloids for years whether she wanted it or not, and she didn't remember ever seeing Daario, except for the rare pictures of him walking his dog or jogging. 

  Daario sighed and said, "I fought to get this role. I've lobbied for it. I stalked Tyrion to get the audition. My next project is a Flanagan's horror, and then I'll have a rom-com. My first one in a decade. I have plans – fake dating you to make Baelish happy goes directly against them."

"You don't have to explain," Sansa said. She agreed with Daario, and he didn't owe her any explanation. 

"Thanks for standing by me," Daario said as the others returned with Brienne in tow. 

"You're welcome." She replied. 

Daario waited until they were all seated and then said, "So, just so you know – and since I don't believe Baelish will give up, I think I'm being followed,"

Daenerys didn't look surprised, and neither did Jorah. Jon and Tyrion, on the other hand, looked shocked. 

"Are you sure?" Tyrion asked. 

"Positive. And I also don't trust the studios' drivers. I'm hiring my own from now on, or I won't be a spoiled brat and drive myself!"

"Hire one," Tyrion promptly said, adding, "We'll talk about this later if you want. We need to get back to work."

Daario nodded, and Sansa did the same. Daenerys looked calm, but after months spent mimicking each other, she knew it was just a façade. 

"Do you know about the picture?" She asked her co-star.

"Yep," Daenerys said, "Varys sent a text. There is nothing we can even do about it. We were on set, in our costumes, as were you. Baelish is not stupid."

"No, he isn't," Sansa replied as they left the tent.

"What will you do?" Daenerys asked. 

“Have J’Haquen talk to Baelish.”

Daenerys chuckled, "Oh, to be a fly on that wall!" Jon and Daario were walking ahead of them. When they were not within earshot, she added, "So, not following Baelish's stupid plans any more?"

Sansa shook her head. 

"Good," Daenerys said with a nod of her head.

"Who's following Daario?"

"No idea." Daenerys said, "But I know Baelish had Jorah and me followed, so…"

"What do we do?" She asked. 

"Our jobs. We'll talk later," Daenerys said. She sounded curt and business-like, but Sansa could sense fear and worry underneath it. 

They were being followed – their producer was stalking them. Was it why they knew where she was jogging? Did Cersei, Joffrey and Baelish know about Jon besides the rumours on the internet and the gossip on set?

 


 

She had half hoped that with their Instagram shenanigans, Oberyn would change his mind about the photoshoot. Alas, he didn't. 

She had done her fair share of photoshoots – and she couldn't say they were her favourite part of her job. Oberyn had explained to them that he wanted to celebrate the cast's chemistry and the camaraderie on set. 

Since Jon was good-looking and had become famous on the internet, and since most of their crew had appeared in the video mocking Joffrey's tweets, Oberyn had wanted to capitalise on it and ride that wave. Davos, Brienne, Baetric, Tyrion and Jon didn't exactly look happy with the idea of posing for a professional photographer. 

She still had no idea how Martell convinced Davos, Brienne and Baeric to agree. But there they were, dressed up, ready to be photographed. 

They had met their photographer, Ellaria Sands, on their first day in Edinburgh, on set, where the first part of the photoshoot had taken place. 

She had now been part of a "divided by a wall" photoshoot club with Jorah. And with Sansa. She loved how the pictures turned out and asked Ellaria for a copy of a couple of them. It didn't matter as cliched as the idea sounded. It had worked. 

She found out later that Ellaria was Oberyn's partner, and they had been together for a long time. She also discovered that she usually did fashion spreads for Vogue or Vanity Fair. 

She had also found out that the woman was intelligent and talented and took terrific pictures. 

It was freezing cold; they would lose the light quite soon, and she was trying very hard not to think about what Daario had said and what it implied. 

So, she was wearing a lovely dress – all dressed to the nines, shades of black and dark red, the traditional Targaryen colour – and that was just the first of three changes of clothes she would have. In contrast, she posed for pictures with the others. 

Except for Tyrion and Jon, the crew would only be in that part of the photoshoot. Baelish had thankfully fucked off elsewhere, and they also had tight security on set. There were white screens everywhere to protect them from prying eyes and cameras. 

"I feel ridiculous!" Tyrion said. 

Ellaria and her assistant had finished setting things up. Daenerys said, "What to try while wearing chiffon and high heels, Lannister?"

"You look gorgeous, Stormborn!" Tyrion replied. 

She smirked at the man and discreetly flipped him off with two fingers. 

Sansa looked stunning. Her dress was similar to the one she was wearing but in reverse colours, and she truly wanted them to shoot the thing already because she was cold and had two other scenes to shoot after that. 

Ellaria knew what to do; her assistant moved them into position, and the woman got to work and gave directions. Meanwhile, someone was filming the whole thing because a sneak peek behind the scenes would go online soon, possibly at the end of the week. They kept the mood light between takes for that reason and because she was sure no one had the time to dwell on what Daario had said. 

They were a tight-knit group of people – they got along with each other, and they were friends, even if Jon looked like he wanted to throttle Tyrion half of the time lately. So, when Ellaria stopped taking pictures, she went straight to Jorah and hugged him, hiding her hands under his jacket. 

Fuck it, they were on tabloids anyway!

Sansa chatted with Brienne, and honestly, Jon Snow couldn't be subtle enough to save his life when he wasn't directing. He was chatting with Davos and Baeric, but she doubted he was listening to a single word they were saying. He was too busy trying not to gape at Sansa. It was lovely to see. 

On the other hand, Sansa was trying very hard not to look at the man. 

They resumed the photo shoot, and the following segment was about Jon and Sansa. They looked at each other momentarily, and Daenerys wondered why they were trying to hide whatever was happening between them. They glowed together. 

It was just a couple of pictures of the director and his leading lady – she would be in the next batch once both Sansa and she changed their clothes. 

All in all, they were having fun, which was not a given. Photoshoots could be boring. 

Yep. Jon and Sansa were electric together, even in their chaste, formal pictures. And she saw how Ellaria didn't stop taking photos, not even for a moment. 

Sansa and she (and Jon in another trailer) got changed and had their hair and make-up fixed in record time. Ellaria snapped pictures as they exited the trailer and walked toward their outdoor set. 

They were still being filmed as they got in position, and she made both Jon and Sansa laugh – Ellaria kept snapping pictures. After they were done with Jon, who cleaned up and looked very dashing in his dark suit and crisp white shirt, they posed together – they had had more fun the night they took pictures and posted them on their social media. However, Ellaria made it sexy and professional enough to be seen on Variety or Hollywood Reporter. 

While waiting for Daario, she told Jon he looked hot, and the man looked at her as if she had said something funny. She was very much taken, as was Jon, but she wasn't blind. Jon looked flustered and smiled with genuine relief when Daario joined them. 

There were a few shots of Daario and Sansa after that. And for her life, the two seemed the living embodiment of the cover of a bodice ripper novel. When Ellaria's assistant somehow voiced her thoughts, the woman shook her head and said, "Nope. Not going to happen today, not on my set!"

They were approaching sunset fast as Ellaria explained that she wanted the romance, the legendary love, but not necessarily the bodice ripper effect and how she wanted to achieve that. She needed to trust her vision and look at the pictures later because she needed to change her clothes, and they were running out of time. There was a last batch of photos she was part of, and she noticed that Jorah, Jon, and Tyrion were going to the trailer for a quick change of clothes, too. 

Daenerys didn't think she would ever be a fan of photoshoots, especially those where she wasn't promoting a character or telling a story but where she played some made-up version of herself. 

She liked what Ellaria was doing. The woman spun the cliche concepts into something original and sexy. The woman was doing everything she could to highlight their chemistry as a cast (Gods, Daenerys still hated that word, even if she loved the people she was working with). 

When she returned, Tyrion, Jon, Baeric, Davos, and Brienne were posing for pictures. Then, she was again with Sansa, Jorah, and Daario. Ellaria never stopped taking photos, and there was still someone filming every moment. She didn't envy the editors who would have to come up with a sneak peek in less than a week. It was too bad Theon wasn't doing that; it would have been fun. 

It was freezing cold, and the sunset was spectacular as they posed for portrait pictures individually and together. 

She wanted to wear her warmest clothes after, have a scorching hot cocoa and try not to go stark raving mad thinking about paparazzi and Baelish. 

She also needed to discuss what she had learned with Varys. The man was supposed to know everything. So, why didn't he warn her? Varys knew about Baelish and the pictures he had of Jorah and her. Now, she needed to know more and wanted that madness to stop. 

Hot cocoa first – ravish Jorah, who looked dapper in his dark blue suit. After that, she would have a conversation with Varys. And then they would be all in Tyrion's suite – sans Daario – to regroup and discuss their options. 

Oberyn finally appeared on set just as they were wrapping things up. 

She waited until the man was closer and said, "Paparazzi are following us now. Double couple alert? Really Oberyn? I expect more from you!"

Oberyn sighed and said, "That was all Baelish; I found out ten minutes before Sansa and Daario did. Where do you think I've been all day?"

She scoffed, but then Oberyn took a step closer and asked, "Why didn't your Svengali tell you?"

Excellent question, for which she didn't have an answer. 

"I'm wondering that myself. I thought you two were the best game in town!" She said. She didn't raise her voice. No one liked divas who threw fits on location with the studios' people. The thing was that Oberyn was supposed to be by their side. 

The man crossed his arms over his chest; Oberyn was a tall, lean man with kind brown eyes, and he looked like he was used to divas throwing hissy fits because his voice was low and gentle when Oberyn said, "He blindsided me as well. BAFTA and SAG nominations will be announced at the end of the week. AMPAS is voting. This cannot come from Cersei. This is all Baelish."

She had been told a variation of that speech for days – she still didn't understand why on Earth she was the only one who didn't believe that Cersei was not involved in it. 

She asked Oberyn if he genuinely believed that because she knew the man liked the Lannisters even less than she did, he had taken the job for Tyrion because, despite his last name, they were friends. 

She asked him if he was sure because Oberyn used to despise Tywyn Lannister almost as much as Tyrion, and from what she had heard or seen, Cersei was worse than her late father. 

"What does Baelish expect to find by stalking us?" She asked, eventually. Because, honestly, who cared if two actors were together? Who cared if a director and an actress were sleeping together or had fallen in love?

"He isn't used to his actors saying no to him. He wants power over you, which is the only way he has it now. And just so you know, he has asked for Ramsay Bolton specifically. I'd watch out if I were you. He always gets the shot – he is a fucking lunatic!"

He had snapped pictures at her husband's funeral. Ramsay Bolton was the man who had taken the picture that had almost destroyed Jorah's reputation. 

Of course, he was a fucking lunatic. 

"What can you do?" She asked. 

"I'm talking to you. I'm nodding, smiling at Baelish, and trying to do things correctly."

Was there even a right way?

"He'll be an arsehole during the press junket, and if the movie gets traction for award season, he will become an insufferable cunt, but if I don't fuck things up now, this won't turn into a total nightmare for you. Until then, lay low and at least try and pretend he's in charge!"

Forget hot cocoa. She wasn't even cold any more! She was burning hot with anger.  

"How would it look if we posted a group picture of us a few days before BAFTAS nominations are up, during AMPAS voting?" She asked after a second. 

"All of you?" Oberyn asked, "Are you really involving Naharis in this?"

"Baelish did. And we still have scenes to shoot. So – how would it look?"

Oberyn seemed to ponder her question for a moment. "They would not like it, Cersei especially, and I hear Baelish is working Baratheon hard. He would hate that you're not willing to play ball. It wouldn't be completely unexpected at this point, but he would hate that it wasn't his idea."

"Sucks to be him." Jon Snow said. Right. She had had that conversation in front of her co-stars and director, and she didn't even know if they were willing to play. 

Jon apparently was. And that was one of the reasons why she genuinely liked the guy. He never shied away from a challenge. 

"Let me speak to Ellaria," Oberyn said, "She will be on record saying it was her idea."

"Make it mine." Jon said, "She's your partner. You cannot fuck this up now. Can you?"

Daenerys looked at Sansa. She could so easily read the emotions in her friend's eyes; there were other people whose job was to look at Sansa, but she had had to learn how the woman ticked very soon – and the red-headed woman usually did a much better job hiding her feelings. 

She was bursting with love and pride and was scared but determined, she deduced. 

Oberyn nodded, and Jon said, "Let's take two before we do this. Everyone against it can go to their trailer."

Sansa and Jon did an excellent job of pretending they weren't rushing in the same direction. She honestly didn't care because Jorah was immediately by her side, and she smiled at him. However, He looked angry and said, "Oberyn is not wrong about Varys."

"I know." She replied. 

"And you weren't wrong either." Jorah continued. 

"I'm talking to him tonight."

"We are talking to him tonight," Jorah said. She blinked her eyes and had to resist the urge to say no aloud. She hated the idea of Varys and Jorah speaking. Jorah knew, and for the past few months, he had humoured her, played along, and been elsewhere whenever she talked to Varys. Not that time, apparently. 

"Ramsay Bolton took that picture, Daenerys." Jorah said, "And he is working for our producer now!" 

The picture had been very innocent; the way it had been commissioned first and then used had bent their lives out of shape for years.  

 They couldn't let them win – they needed to be free of them. 

"Fine," she conceded and felt very tired suddenly. "And Jorah, I'm so sorry."

Jorah was a private man; more than anything, she hated that she was the cause, decades into his career, of being a target for men like Baelish and Ramsay Bolton. He deserved so much better. 

"For what?" He asked, looking puzzled at her words. 

"For what we are about to do. For Varys. For Ramsay Bolton. It's all my fault!"

Jorah shook his head, cupped her face, and said, "You did nothing wrong. You never did, Daenerys." He smiled and said, "I chose you and still will. Whatever it takes!"

People didn't get it. They were saying and writing vile things about them. They had tried and weaponised their bond when both tried so hard to pretend it wasn't even there. 

They didn't get that Jorah made her a better person. They didn't get that she could do anything as long as he was by her side. 

They didn't get that she was lucky to have him – because she remembered what it was like not to have him, and she could not and would never return to that. 

"Whatever it takes." She repeated.

They had discussed their plan. Jorah had been by her side longer than anyone else. Jorah had believed in her when no one else had. That was the first time, however, that he said those words. 

When they posed for Ellaria, she remembered Tyrion taking their first picture together. Sansa and Jon didn't stand together then, but she insisted on posing by Jorah's side, with Sansa at her left. 

Sansa was still scared, but no one would notice from her radiant smile. 

"Jon, are you sure?" Oberyn asked after their director had his mobile phone in his hands. 

"Positive. Let the Lannisters know we are not backing away!" Jon replied

"Here we stand!" Jorah said

"Here we stand!" They all said as Ellaria took the picture. 

Daenerys ignored the knot of fear – and something else, almost foreboding she felt in the pit of her stomach. She smiled for the camera. 

Jon shared the image Ellaria sent him to their group chat. They looked dashing and happy. The cast of the most hyped-up movie of the past few years. It would spread like wildfire once Jon tweeted that picture. 

And Jon looked happy with that.

They were fighting, and nothing would stop them now. 


From Twitter: 

 

@jonsnowVA:  I've never been part of a photoshoot before. Thanks to  @EllariaSandsVA  for making it a fun, interesting and learning experience. Watch @officialGoodQueenAlysanne for our behind-the-scenes video soon. Meanwhile, here is us, freezing in Wick, Scotland, at the end of our photoshoot and before night shots. Shoot out to @DanyStormborn4real @officialDaarioNaharis @TLannisterforreal #SansaStark #GoodQueenAlysanbne #finestgroupofpeopleiveeverworkedwith

 


 

Edinburgh, end of week 1 on location. 

 

It felt like their first days in Belfast, when they were holed up in a hotel and paparazzi were hounding them outside. 

Except that they were in Edinburgh now, and although they knew paparazzi were around, they were not seeing them. 

Jon was in her room. They had been with Tyrion early in the evening, but it had been a long week; Jorah and Dany were visiting Jorah's young cousin. Daario had friends in town he wanted to hang out with. Tyrion told them he needed to try and get some sleep because he said his stress was having stress-related migraines. He also had a conference call with Oberyn, and he would be in London the following day to oversee the backstage video launch of their photoshoot. 

The photoshoot would only be published when the movie came out, possibly for Vanity Fair. Baelish wanted both Vanity Fair and Vogue. And Hollywood Reporter as well, she thought he was insane but was being a trooper in front of the man. She still had not heard from J'Haquen, and Daario had told her he hadn't heard from his people. 

Baelish was buying time. 

Varys, Daenerys had told them, had suggested to her that the paparazzi's presence and Baelish's apparent obsession with pairing Daario and her up was a distraction tactic. 

Which, to be fair, made sense. According to Varys, if they weren't actively trying to sabotage Joffrey but were too busy shooting insane hours and trying to dodge paparazzi and Baelish turning into a stalker, Joffrey would have his nominations, his movie would keep having legs, and she had been forwarded a link to a Variety article by Margaery in which it became apparent why things had been so fucking weird lately. Cersei Lannister's studios had bought the rights to distribute Joffrey's movie in the Eastern market. Baelish had sold the rights to distribute the film on streaming platforms. There was a lot of money going around, and it didn't matter that no one truly believed Joffrey had a snowball chance in hell to win any award. What mattered – and it mattered greatly to her family was that Joffrey was nominated. 

Her family had told her not to get involved with whatever they were doing (Theon didn't know either, and not for lack of trying!). They had suggested she get attached to the biggest movie or TV programme she could get her hands on as soon as possible. Ideally, before they wrapped up Good Queen Alysanne, which was nearly impossible at that stage. 

"Big names, big built-in fan base, don't play anyone's love interest!" Her mother had suggested. 

She had read just the right script and had shown it to Jon – because she trusted him implicitly, and it would not humble her how Jon had made trusting him as easy as breathing. And she had honestly believed that it would never happen again to her. Yet, it did. She did. She trusted the people she was working with – and she trusted Jon Snow with her heart and more and more with her body. 

They were on her bed. Jon had been reading the script while holding her in his arms. Could their lives be like this when they wrapped the movie?  

Jon sighed and kissed her hair as he closed the script and put it on the bedside table beside him.

"I can see you playing the white witch," Jon said, "it's a pretty good role."

"My parents suggested something like this." She said. 

"Pretty smart. If things with Cersei and this movie go pear-shaped, you will have something to fall back on. You should audition for this –"

Jon's unwavering faith in her abilities as an actress would never cease to amaze her. There wasn't any malice in his words. She could tell he believed in her. She sighed and listened to the steady sound of Jon's heart. She felt guilty because she couldn't help thinking that nothing would have happened if she hadn't auditioned for Alysanne. 

But she wouldn't have met Jon; she would still be hiding from Joffrey beneath layers and layers of clothes and still not recognise herself in the mirror. She would still be scared. 

That movie saved her life, and Jon saved her heart and soul. She didn't want his career to suffer because of Cersei, Joffrey and their hatred for her. She tilted her head and looked at him when asked, "What about you? Any projects after we wrap the movie?"

Jon shrugged his shoulders, "Not really. I need a holiday. I haven't had a day off for three years."

"Where will you go?" She asked. She felt her heart flutter in her chest as she asked that question. She would forever do anything to have that quiet, soft feeling of belonging and home .

"Where will we go if you'll have me," Jon said, and she heard his heart beating faster as he said those words. 

She believed him, and she couldn't help smiling at his words. 

"Where will we go?" She asked. 

Everywhere. I'd follow you everywhere. Sansa thought. 

"Something warm – away from sets and people like Petyr Baelish and the Lannisters."

She rested her forehead against his shoulder, and he played with her fingers when they held hands and entwined fingers. 

"That would be lovely." She said, "Us, being away from the madness."

He smiled, and she did the same. 

"And then I'll spend five or six months holed up with Samwell Tarly and Tyrion for the postproduction of the movie. But after that, I thought of something smaller in scale. I want to tell a story about friendship and love."

"You should brainstorm things with Tyrion." She said. And she was aware that Jon was still having trouble with Tyrion. She was moved by his anger on her behalf, but she didn't want their friendship ruined by what had happened to her with Joffrey. 

Tyrion had tried so hard to be decent with her when she had been with Joffrey. Cersei had always treated him horribly, even in her presence, and the woman barely tolerated her. 

Joffrey had been an utter shit to Tyrion. Nonetheless, the man had been the only person in that house who had actively tried to talk Joffrey out of almost choking her to death once. 

Could he have done more? Yes – possibly. If he had had more power if he wasn't still treated like a freak and the worst thing that had befallen their family by his own sister. 

No one except for the two of them knew what went on in that house, and she had forgiven Tyrion long before she had auditioned for Good Queen Alysanne. It helped that Tyrion had apologised to her and taken her side ever since going against his family for her. 

"Maybe – when things are better between us. I think we'll both be grateful when we wrap the movie. We need to take a break from each other!"

Jon was brilliant, and she trusted him to do the right thing. Even when it meant breaking the internet again like he had done two days before. 

She had thrown a gauntlet to Cersei when she had refused to be silenced, Cersei had retaliated, and Jon had thrown himself in it, headfirst because of what Daenerys and Oberyn had said, because of those stupid pictures with Daario – and for her. 

Jon's fans on the internet might have fallen a bit in love with him; she had just fallen harder. And when she kissed him, there wasn't any lingering fear inside her. There were no ghosts, no scars, nothing but her love for the man holding her as if she were precious. 

Jon had her heart, even if saying those three little words made her heart stutter. After all, she was damaged, but she could and wanted to give herself to Jon – because there wasn't anything else she wanted more. 

There wouldn't be anyone she would ever trust more. 

 


 

Vyserys was surrounded by fire. It was dancing in his hair, arms, and long fingers. With its austere furniture, fire was everywhere in Jorah's childhood home, and she could hear Lyanna screaming. 

Vyserys was laughing. 

Rhaego was in his bed. She could see her beautiful, beautiful boy crying, calling for help, calling for her as Vyserys touched everything and set fire to it. 

"Mum!" Rhaego cried. 

She couldn't reach him. She couldn't move. Why couldn't she move? 

Vyserys was laughing; it was the sound he made when he wanted to terrify her, and he always succeeded. 

She blinked, and she was in a car. It was dark inside; she was with Jorah. He was sitting on the passenger side. There were other people – but she couldn't see them. 

"Are you alright?" She asked. 

Jorah didn't turn. He ignored her. 

She felt something cold touching her knee, trailing up, and when she turned her head to the side, Vyserys was there, not laughing. Her brother looked at her as if he wanted to devour her whole. 

"Jorah-"She said. 

Someone was driving, and Jorah didn't turn. He wasn't hearing her. He wasn't aware of her presence. He didn't  care .

  "I took your son," Vyserys said. "He'll make me rich."

His cold fingers trailed up, leaving ice and fire on her thigh. 

"I called them all to take his pictures. He looks like you."

He was scooting closer, and she wanted to lash out, to hit him, to take his fucking hand away from her thigh, but she couldn't move a muscle. 

"We're broke because of you. We're broken because you were born. He will do what I want!" Vyserys hissed against her face, and she wanted to scream. 

"Leave him alone!" She said.

"No one can help you!" Vyserys said, and he grinned, kissing the side of her mouth.

She cried out, a scream piercing from her throat, and Jorah didn't turn. 

"You are alone!" Her brother said, and his fingers trailed up between her legs.


 

She didn't scream when she woke; it was a close call. She had trashed her blanket, but she hadn't woken Jorah up. It was a good thing, and it was also weird because Jorah was usually a light sleeper. 

Her heart was drumming in her chest, her breaths were coming out ragged, and she ran a hand over her mouth because she felt like she was going to throw up.

Jorah was fine. He was sleeping. He was there with her. She could touch him, and he would wake up and take her in his arms. 

She needed to check on her son, however. 

She moved silently so as not to wake Jorah, took her mobile phone, and padded silently into the living room. 

It was the middle of the night; she would scare Missandei to death if she called home, so she resisted the urge to make the phone call. She had cameras all over the house and in her son's room. She constantly checked on him, and until they wrapped the movie, it was the best she could do. Paparazzi wouldn't catch her dead anywhere near her son. 

 Rhaego was asleep in his bed. The house was quiet. Everything was fine. Lyanna had been fine when they left her home; she had been austere and snarky when they met, but she clearly loved her cousin and was a lonely girl in a big house. 

They were fine. Everything was fine. Yet, Daenerys couldn't breathe. She needed a bit of fresh air. She went to the window and opened it a bit. It was cold, and she shivered, but it felt good. 

She needed the cold to shock her out of the dream she had. She needed the air in her lungs and to remember that everything was fine. They were fine. No one would ever touch her son. Jorah was in their bed; there was no fire, and Vyserys was still in his padded cell. He would not get out. He could not harm anyone. Ever again. 

There was still a knot of worry in her stomach. She had been feeling it since before they left for Scotland. It was lodged there, and she was afraid of that feeling because she had only felt it twice in her life, the first time in the week before Drogo's accident on set and the last time days before Rhaego had tumbled down the stairs, giving her the biggest scare of her life. 

Both times, she had felt that knot in her stomach. Something terrible had happened, and she feared it might happen again. She wasn't superstitious, not by any stretch of imagination, but she had a weird relationship with her gut instinct. Those feelings were never wrong, and she had learned to trust them. 

She took a deep breath and noticed that it was quiet outside; she spotted a black SUV and a black motorbike parked outside the hotel; she didn't like them but decided to ignore that feeling for the moment. 

Things were fine. They still had a week of filming in Edinburgh and then would return to Belfast. Jorah had a week off, and they would wrap up principal photography quite soon. She would go to Iceland with Sansa and a small unit, and they would have fun there. Just the two of them. 

She silently went back to bed. After they wrapped up the movie, they would go somewhere warm, just Jorah, Rhaego, and her. They would be a family, paparazzi would leave them alone, and she wouldn't let them anywhere near her son and her  life. 

Cersei Lannister had played her hand and had been good. She had to give her that. Tyrion had trusted his brother's word, and she had trusted him. Even if her gut had told her that there was no way Baelish's behaviour was not approved by the woman. 

She would pay more attention. And they would be safe and away from the madness when Margaery Tyrell would hit. 

She scooted closer to Jorah, and the man, still asleep, put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. He didn't ignore her. He knew she was there; it had been just a dream. 

She wasn't alone. 

She kept telling herself variations of that, but sleep still didn't come quickly, and when it did, her sense of danger didn't go away. 


London, the following morning

 

Ellaria had done a marvellous job. He had seen many of the pictures she had taken – because the woman had never stopped taking pictures, even when they were not shooting. The photoshoot needed to be put together and edited, but the raw material he had seen was excellent. 

She had also personally edited the sneak peek of the behind-the-scenes video and had done so with Samwell Tarly in record time. 

He had been watching videos for hours sitting at a desk with Oberyn, and he was happy with what he had seen. Regardless of whatever shit his sister was pulling, he had a great cast and crew, they were working really hard, and he knew he had a good movie in his hands. The chemistry between the actors and the genuine affection with the crew members was apparent in the videos he had seen. 

The sneak peek was perfect. It would tease the movie and the photo shoot; it highlighted how much the actors were perfect for the roles they had and how good they were together. 

His sister was being a moron. What else was new?

"That's too bad that Sansa and Jon are so private. They're young, handsome, nice, they're already shipped on the internet, we could spin a fairytale thing with them." Oberyn said that even though Tyrion knew the man wasn't really upset about it, he had some integrity left, after all. 

"Too bad they're too stubborn to stick their heads out of their arses!" Tyrion replied. It was one of the universal truths of his life: his sister was a bitch, the movie was killing him and Sansa, and Jon were too stubborn to really do anything about their evident feelings for each other. 

"I really, really don't think so," Oberyn replied. He dug his hand into his trousers' pocket and tossed him a small, golden USB drive. "I thought it was appropriate since you're a Lannister."

"Fuck you!" He replied, looking at the USB drive. "What the hell is it?"

"The pictures and videos we don't want the studios to see. Ellaria thinks your cast should have them." Oberyn replied. 

He cocked an eyebrow at the man's words and plugged the drive into his laptop. 

When he saw the first images, he decided that Oberyn had a point about Jon and Sansa. Ellaria had taken two shots of Jon and Sansa looking at each other before they posed together. It was tough to miss the warmth and love in their gazes. 

So, they weren't just talking. Good. They deserved some happiness. They were good people. 

There was a beautiful shot of Daenerys and Jorah hugging, and he heard Oberyn saying, "I know you saw this in the sneak peek, but this is a moment that wasn't in it."

He could see that. He also knew that Oberyn hadn't precisely been overjoyed with Daenerys and Jorah's choice to take their relationship in public on their own terms, messing with a potential good marketing strategy. 

"Still think we could have done something nice with them, but –"Oberyn sighed, "they deserved the choice."

Daario Naharis was smiling in another picture, looking less reserved and alpha male than in other photos. 

"Why doesn't he want to play ball?" He asked Oberyn. 

Not that he blamed the man, even if romances always sold and Sansa and he looked gorgeous together. He was curious, however. 

Oberyn shrugged and said, "Maybe he has other plans. It's not like I know everything. You are the one who knows everything!"

"Oh, no!" Tyrion grinned and added, "I drink wine and know things. I don't know everything!"

It was the truth. Tyrion had no idea what the Starks were planning. He didn't know, exactly, what Jon and Sansa were up to. He didn't know whether Jon would forgive him for not protecting Sansa when she was with Joffrey. 

Tyrion didn't know whether he would ever forgive himself for that. He didn't know why Dany had looked weird the previous night before leaving to visit Jorah's cousin. 

Tyrion didn't know whether Cersei had lied to Jaime or his brother had lied to him to protect his family. 

Tyrion  knew  that they were ahead of schedule and within their budget. 

He knew that Joffrey and Catherine Stark had been nominated for a BAFTA and were respectively third and second at LFCC. 

He knew that Cersei had played her hand well that time; she had bought time, and they had been naïve. He had been naïve. He had been wrong in trusting his brother,  It would not happen again. 

Notes:

I made choices about not showing a few things that will be shown in later chapters (Dany and Jorah’s visit to Lyanna and Jon and Sansa), I included some other characters from the show, some families’ mottos, all the feels with Daenerys and Jorah – I truly ship them with everything I am in case you didn't notice:)
There is a reference to a 1994 movie, “Swimming with Sharks” which is about Hollywood which I can't reccomend enough.
Also, actual lines of dialogue from the show:)

Chapter 20: Stunts

Summary:

Daenerys and Jorah see something surprising on set. Plans are made. Margaery is worried about Theon. Jon and Sansa go out to dinner with Daenerys and Jorah. They finally meet Ramsay Bolton. Sort of.

Notes:

Author note: it turns out that I’m not too terrible at bureaucracy, and I had more time than I imagined to write. To be completely honest, I’m not entirely satisfied with how this chapter turned out, it is possible that I might go back to it and edit it a lot. So, don’t be surprised if it changes in the future. So, Jonsa fam: how are we feeling about the news of “The Dreadful”? I’ve been flailing since yesterday. For reasons I won’t elaborate, it feels so personal to me.
The next chapter is going to be interesting, I hope: the Starks will be in it. and we are three or four chapters away from the end. I can’t believe it!
The second part of the story, the one with the Award’s race, is not, as of today, mapped out yet. I will start working on it (most of it has been thought of and decided) in the coming weeks. I need to write down a timeline for the second story because I haven’t for this one, and I go back and check constantly, but I have pushed dates of awards all over the place. Also, since I’ve been writing this thing for the past four years, I’m sort of mixing Oscar races of the past few years a little – because it’s not 2019 any more and while I follow the race for six months a year, I either remember my students’ names or who were the nominees in 2019 or, say, 2021. Also, I chose not to follow this year’s race because there are too many actors I’m a fan of, and the stress is bad for my blood pressure. Anyway, I will begin to map the second story down ASAP and expect lots and lots of things that I will try to explain about Oscar’s race. Like, what does it mean if an actor hits all the critics, Golden Globes, AACTA and BAFTA, but he is snubbed at the SAG? In the real Oscar race, it means it’s a weak contender and won’t make it to the Oscars (see Andrew Scott this year. Still bitter about his snub). Still, it’s not an exact science because sometimes actors hit all the precursors and get snubbed (hi Margot Robbie!) or don’t hit any precursors and get nominated anyway (hello Marion Cotillard in 2014!). It depends on lots and lots of factors which make the Oscar race so interesting and fun to follow. And I suspect it will be hell to write.
Good thing that the characters have stuff to do😊
As always, thanks to the people who bookmarked and left kudos or comments. Your kind words mean the world to me!

Chapter Text

From Twitter: 

Group chat: #jonsa

 

snowismyfire : As if the picture Jon tweeted hadn't sent me spiralling. My goodness, this cast is gorgeous. 

 

fireandice456:  At 0:32 second of the BTS video, you'll get why I will never believe paparazzi pictures of Daario and Sansa. Nope, not me. * adjusts tin foil hat *

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  I'm the one who watched them under the umbrella, bb. I've been a fan of Jon for too long. Not believing the paparazzi until the bitter end. * puts on tin foil hat as well *

 

fireandice456:  Jon and Sansa didn't pose together in the behind-the-scenes picture, but neither did Daario and Sansa. Sansa was standing next to Daenerys (it wasn't in my bingo card that I would lose my fucking mind over Sansa Stark and Jon Snow or that I would care about Dahario Naaris #wthatevenismylife.)

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : Anyway, I went on a diplomatic mission. I am a Daario fan. Have been for a long time. Mostly, they're surprised by the whole thing because it has never happened before. 

Daario's ride-or-die stans are like this in chats, "if he says anything, if he does anything with Sansa Stark in public, we'll support him. He hasn't said a word so far to anyone. Wait and see. Don't be dicks to SS. Don't engage barafreaks." 

They're mostly sane and regular people used to not caring about gossip because Daario isn't in it. 

 

sansastarkGQA : The paparazzi pictures, this time, were not a complete flop. I mean, they're not photoshopped? But I see absolutely nothing going on there. Even in the picture with Dany and Jorah, they're just there. Honestly, I don't see what the big deal is. I see much more warmth between Sansa and Dany in the behind-the-scenes video, and they don't have a thing. Jorah doesn't strike me as one who shares 😉

 

fireandice456:  Honestly, me too. And I don't believe Jon likes to share, either. So….

 

snowismyfire : The itk isn't answering, I left a message, but they haven't been online for a while. 

The good news is the Barafreaks are too happy with Golden Boy's Bafta nomination to care about the video. I admit I've been a dick to them about the lack of SAG's nomination. Sorry, they've been utter shits to everyone for the past few months.  

 

Khaleesiandqueen : I'm shook by Daenerys and Sansa's chemistry in the BTS video. What even is that sorcery? Two ladies slaying and being so fucking adorable together? I don't even mean it in a shippy way. I stan two queens. Seriously. Dany made Jon and Sansa laugh. Her smirk is everything. 

 

jornaerysownsme:  Honestly dumbfounded at the Daenerys and Jorah's snippets. Like, I know they are together, but in the paparazzi pic, they're just there, on set. They're so sweet. What is even the context of them hugging, by the way? RE: Jon and Sansa. The second 0.32 broke me. Also, Jon Snow, goddamn boy, you clean up nicely!

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : Ikr? Check your DMS because I sent you a selection of pictures from last year's Golden Globes and Oscars. Fuck me, Jon Snow looks so hot. I'm a fan because he is a talented director and funny, witty, and stoic. But man, he is also hot. Sansa Stark is a very lucky girl.

 

sansastarkGQA : My girl is making him look even hotter. She looks fantastic in that video, and Barafreaks can @ me. I'll defend her until my last breath. 

 

jornaerysownsme:  Sweetie, get in line after Jon Snow. It was him who fired the extra and got a Twitter account to tell Baratheon to fuck off and told him that paparazzi where to stick it and, yeah, we know. I mean – we  know. 

 

snowismyfire:  Sorry, not sorry. I can believe in lots of things for the sake of gossip, but please don't ask me to believe the crap tabloids are sprouting. Naharis? Seriously? Mr. has never had a public girlfriend and goes everywhere with his mum or sister. He had a mysterious and invisible girlfriend whom he met in high school, but no one ever saw her? Naharis? Okay, sure. 

 

sansastarkGQA : Yeah, I always thought he was in the glass closet, to be honest. 

 

jornaerysownsme : I don't know enough about him and don't even care. It looks like Sansa and Daario have chemistry. Big deal. Jorah and Daenerys hugging. I can't. I didn't expect it, and I let out a noise when I saw it.

 

snowismyfire : Are our fandoms colliding that much? I don't care about Daenerys and Jorah, and I was like, "Aaaw" when I saw that moment. Also, they all look so hot. Beautiful cast. When do they wrap the movie?

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : Few weeks left. Principal photography will wrap at the end of the month, around the time Oscar nominations are announced (I know that because someone on Reddit wrote it.)

 

jornaerysownsme : Weren't they supposed to wrap at the beginning of next month? 

 

sansastarkGQA : I've been telling you my girl is a miracle worker. 

 


 

 

From Tumblr

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

MrsMuirandHerGhost  wrote:

 

I'm losing my damn mind. I thought I would get used to Daenerys and Jorah killing me – but nope, I'm not. The behind-the-scenes video. I'm deceased. How are you coping?

 

Hey, bb!

Do you remember when Daenerys posted her selfie with Jorah on Twitter, and we flailed together?

This is – I don't even have a correct  fandom  frame of reference, actually. I thought I believed nothing could top the night Melisandre's story broke, and my OTP became canon. I thought, "It cannot get better than that!"

And then Daenerys and Jorah were like, "Hold my goat's milk!"

The paparazzi pictures were tame. I like their costumes (Professor Reid is not stuffy! In all the photos from the set I have seen, he never wears Tweed or anything like professors in movies.), but they were just  there  with Sansa and Daario. 

And then Jon Snow decided to take it upon himself to give me a heart attack!

It's not the picture in itself. Even if it's beautiful and Jorah and Dany look entirely the part of the power couple! I didn't expect it! I was chatting here on Tumblr; we were discussing the paparazzi pictures, and then I saw the one Jon posted. 

 They all look tired but happy in that picture, but Dany's hand on Jorah's chest, possessive much, Khaleesi? The way their bodies are angled toward each other. Sansa is next to Dany, but Ms Stormborn didn't let anyone forget that she was right there with Jorah!

And the smile on Jorah's face. I don't remember ever seeing that kind of smile on his face. My man looks  content.  He looks so happy. *dreamy sigh* 

The behind-the-scenes video made me want that photoshoot right now. How long will it be until it is released? (when the movie come out? Damn!). 

I remember feeling absolutely broken by the "insider" quotes: he loves, and she loves him. The hug made me ugly sob. 

I let out pterodactyl sounds while watching the video, and right in the middle of something else, I saw Daenerys and Jorah hugging. What is context? It's for the weak, anyway. All I know is that my heart melted. I can't even make lists – I'm just staring at the bloody screen capture thinking, "They hugged. Her hands were under his jacket, he looks like he has won the fucking lottery, and she looks  elated ". All my feels. Seriously. All my feels.   

And if you have the video, freeze the frame at 0.32 seconds. Trust me, it's worth it. You can message me, and we can chat about it. I'm not buying what tabloids are trying to sell with Sansa Stark and Daario Naharis. It's just Petyr Baelish being Baelish-y and doing what he does. We stan Sansa Stark and we believe Jon Snow is hot in this house. 

 

#Daenerys Stormborn #Jorah Mormont #otp: can I keep him though #otp: he loves her and she loves him #isortofshipjonsa #the hug cleared my skin and watered my crops

 

47.250 notes

 


 

 

Eleventh Week of Shooting

 

She and Jorah were supposed to have a long weekend at the Stark's castle. According to Sansa, there  was  a castle which had belonged to her father's family for centuries. But then Catherine Stark was nominated for every award under the sun, and she had to be in New York and Los Angeles to promote her movie: bloody screenings with Q & A after!

She was surprised Sansa's mother was doing that. The long weekend had been rescheduled for the time being. There were plans to meet the Starks as soon as they wrapped the movie. The Starks had suggested flying below the radar as quickly as possible after they finished with Good Queen Alysanne.

Their long weekend had turned into a very short one. They had worked most of Saturday because it might be a distraction, still, Baelish had truly created havoc on their shooting schedule. They had been holed up in their hotel room in the evening and spent a few hours web-hunting for a house while in bed; they still hadn't found what they were looking for, but speaking of furniture and rooms with Jorah had been almost a surreal experience. One she looked forward to repeating. 

They had talked to their people on Sunday morning about their projects after they wrapped Good Queen Alysanne. They had signed contracts, and it was happening. She was doing a rom-com in London, and Jorah was shooting a science fiction miniseries in Scotland. Jorah would get to play the conflicted hero, and Daenerys would get to play the very opposite of the characters she was used to playing: it was light-hearted and bubbly. Their people had been in contact to craft a tentative schedule to spend as much time together as possible while shooting.

"Provided Margaery Tyrell doesn't set the star system ablaze first." Daenerys had said. 

Jorah believed Margaery Tyrell's plan would work, but he also told her they needed to tell Tyrion about it. 

"But he would tell his brother, and Jaime would warn Cersei!" Daenerys had replied. Because they couldn't trust Jaime Lannister, even Tyrion had seemingly got that, but she doubted it would stick. 

“Tyrion hates Joffrey.” Jorah replied to her words. He also told her that he felt he owed Tyrion. The discussion between them had turned, however, almost in a row. They had shouted at each other!

"I owe him as well, and you know that!" She had replied to his words when they had both had a few minutes to calm down.

 It was the truth. Daenerys owed Tyrion – they both did. It wasn't only that he had written two excellent roles with them in mind. It wasn't even that they were the only actors ever contending for the roles. It wasn't the fact that he might have saved their careers. It was so much more than that. Daenerys would always owe Tyrion because she had met Jorah thanks to him and was allowed to meet him again afterwards. 

 And yes, she was angry because Tyrion still trusted his brother, which didn't make sense to her. Jaime Lannister would always protect his family, even from Tyrion. And there were moments when Daenerys talked to Varys or Tyrion so casually mentioned their chats that she wondered whether Tyrion could have done more to help Jorah when his ex-wife sicced Varys on him. Could he have done more to help Jorah? She usually let those thoughts slide, but she couldn't help thinking about that while she discussed when and what to tell Tyrion with Jorah.  

In the end, however, she knew that Jorah was right. They were friends, and Tyrion deserved to be warned. 

She had texted Margaery, asking for details and more information because she had not asked enough when they met,she had been too shocked to, and she still didn't know her reasons and not for lack of trying. They had decided to wait until the end of the shooting before telling Tyrion –

"Hopefully, Sansa will know by then." She had said that because she hated lying to Sansa, she was too good at reading her. She felt like they knew each other too intimately. 

Tyrion would know shortly before his nephew would find out. They had eventually settled on. Hopefully, Tyrion would have enough time to protect himself from hell she suspected would befall the Lannisters. 

They were on set now, back in Belfast, finally. They were on a short break, and Jorah would have the whole following week free. He was going back to London to talk to the producer and the director of the miniseries he was going to shoot, and he also had some last-minute ADR for a movie of his that was still in post-production. 

Things were going well on set; they had become a well-oiled machine and were working hard to finish the movie ahead of schedule and within budget. They went to the extras' make up trailer to run lines because it was closer than theirs, and they had a long, dialogue-heavy scene they wanted to avoid rehearsing on a soundstage. They  were  professional actors. 

Daenerys Stormborn had the shock of her life when, upon entering the extras' make-up trailer, she saw her director, Jon Snow and her co-star, Sansa Stark, passionately kissing at the centre of the room. 

Sansa was in costume. The make-up girls would  love  that. Jon was without his headphones, and Daenerys was beyond surprised. 

 She wasn't shocked that Jon and Sansa were kissing per se. She was shocked that they had let themselves be caught on set. They were usually much more careful. They couldn't be subtle about what they felt for each other to save their lives; everyone on set suspected. They were usually very careful, however. 

Jorah, at her right, looked like he had caught his own daughter kissing her boyfriend.  Right . He had told her he had held Sansa after she was born. 

Jon and Sansa were still close. Jorah looked embarrassed and was positive that she couldn't hide her grin. 

Not for the first time, she wondered why on Earth they were trying to hide their relationship since they sucked at hiding their feelings. And it hit her – after weeks of wondering. It was because of Joffrey Baratheon, the little shit's tweets, Cersei Lannister and how they were trying to fight her every step of the way, hence Baelish's obsession with Daario and Sansa's fauxmance for the past few weeks. Sansa never forgot that. Sansa was afraid. She had known she wanted to protect Jon – and the man tried to protect her. They were cute. She would never let them live it down. 

No one spoke for a moment; Sansa and Jon were not looking at each other. Jorah was looking at her, and she was looking at her director and her co-star. 

She grinned, grabbed Jorah's arm and said, "Dinner on Friday. Just the four of us!"

Jon and Sansa exchanged a glance and frowned at the same time in confusion. Jorah was smiling. She looked at Jon and said, "Pick the place. You know where we live. No studios' car."

Jon nodded and said, "Only the four of us. No Lannister."

What?  She wondered.  Why? 

Granted, it was about the four of them; besides, Tyrion already knew about them. He had to. They spent too much time together and Tyrion had eyes, after all.

 "Fine." She said. 

Smiles were exchanged as she dragged Jorah out of the room – they would need to go to her trailer to rehearse the scene since it was closer. The knot of fear, of dread in her stomach, was still lodged there. It was swelling and throbbing. She had felt it for weeks, and it wasn't going anywhere. She ignored it. Everything was fine. They were fine. They would go out with friends on Friday. 

"Am I a bad friend to Tyrion?" She wondered aloud, "I don't like keeping things from him."

Loyalty meant something to all of them – and perhaps they had got a bit codependent. Still, she honestly didn't like the idea of keeping things from Tyrion. 

"You are right." She said, "He deserves to know. And I wonder why Varis isn't telling him anything."

They slowed their walk; they were almost outside her trailer. 

"Perhaps he is waiting to see what all the players are doing," Jorah said. 

Which sounded like something Varys would do. And Tyrion could take care of himself. Or so she fervently hoped. 

"I wish I didn't know." She said. She agreed with Jorah. 

"But you do. Margaery told you."

"I do. I'll tell Tyrion before we wrap the movie. I'll come clean."

They had to get in her trailer. Those lines wouldn't rehearse themselves. Yet, Jorah almost smiled when he said, "I can't believe we almost fought because of Tyrion."

She laughed at his words. The knot of dread was getting bigger and bigger in her stomach; it was sitting in her gut, and she hated lying to her friends. She did. She hated lying to herself more, and it felt like all she had been doing when she kept telling herself that things would be fine was a big fat lie – the knot of dread in her stomach contradicted her. 

 


 

 

From Variety: 

 

'Lady Stoneheart' Catelyn Stark on her BAFTA and SAG leading actress nominations: "It was a powerful year for our industry. I am honoured and grateful."

 

'Lady Stoneheart' was one of the most surprising successes of the season and one of the standout British movies of the year. Catelyn Stark's performance was hailed by many critics across the board as the best performance of the year. 

The movie premiered in late autumn, after a successful run at Summer's festivals, Telluride and Toronto. 

Therefore, it was unsurprising when Lady Stoneheart scored 8 nominations at Bafta and 4 at SAG. 

Nevertheless, seeing Catelyn Stark being nominated for these awards is a welcome surprise. Despite her long career, this is her second nomination for BAFTA and her first nomination at SAG. 

As Stark tells Variety she knew about the nominations after a day of intense gardening, she is exceptionally grateful. She mentions her fellow nominees and looks forward to meeting them. 

 

Where were you, and what was your reaction when you heard you were nominated? 

 

I was home, gardening. I started getting phone calls, and my husband said, "We should check the internet". Seeing your name is a weird feeling I cannot describe. My gardening became what my children would call "obsessive". 

I am, naturally, deeply honoured to be recognised by my peers. It has been a powerful year in our industry, reflected in the names I'm honoured to be next. 

 

Have you watched the nominated movies?

 

Oh, yes. I have watched all the nominated movies! Olivia, Frances, Glenn, and Octavia: I am honoured to be beside them. They have done amazing things with their films.

I'm looking forward to meeting them all!

 

The overall response to "Lady Stoneheart" was outstanding. How was that experience from your side? 

 

 

It was a gift. From the moment I read the script – the role resonated with me. I am a mother. There is nothing I wouldn't do for my children. Shooting this movie has been a pleasure, and I have met and talked to people who told me, "I would do the same for my kids. I would do the exact same thing." I also think it's a story about love and grief. It's one of those roles you bring home with you. You can't help it. The story haunts you, and it's a character I have loved deeply.  

 


 

 

She wondered why Varys had pushed her to her role. He knew what her plan was. She genuinely didn't care about the fate of her career when she was done. She had made her peace with the consequences of her actions for a long time. Still, it was exhausting. 

She dialled Catherine Stark's number. They talked pretty often, but, for some reason, Theon was never part of their conversations. She meant to share her concerns with Theon's mother. She had a contingency plan for Theon. She needed to know which pieces they could move and when, however.

 It wouldn't be long before things were in motion, and she needed to be sure that the fallout would not include the man. Despite their relationship – or because of it. She wasn't sure. 

Catherine Stark answered right away – they had scheduled their phone call. She was on set, on a break, and her trailer was the safest spot she could think of at the moment. 

They made small talk at first. She asked about Ned; she congratulated the woman for the million awards and nominations she was gathering. 

"It was good to see you make it at SAG." She said, "Not seeing the twat there was nice too."

"And he did it all himself." Catherine Stark said. 

She knew. Cersei Lannister could be delusional enough to think her family still had any support in the industry. Tyrion had goodwill (and the Starks were helping). Still, unlike his sister and father, he had never made it a sacred duty to be a complete cunt to people in their business. She had known for months, ever since Joffrey Baratheon's tweets, that the tide had turned. 

"I'm aware." She said. 

She heard Sansa's mother sigh and then say, "During the voting period – when it matters, or he will have a filler nomination and it won't matter. And we cannot have that." 

She knew that. Timing needed to be surgical, or it would only work partially. Joffrey was going down, but the Starks wanted it to be a cautionary tale, and it would only happen if it was perfect. 

She didn't want to speak about the details, however, not that day. She had spent hours on the phon or on Facetime, with that woman to coordinate, adjust her plan, and make sure they had the same goal, and they pursued it. No, she needed something else from Sansa's mother. 

So, she asked about Theon. She told her about her plan because they had to ensure he would be safe. Even if he had said yes and was willing to participate in the fallout. 

"You are very kind to worry about him, but nothing will happen to him."

Theon's mother had an uncanny way of voicing things she was familiar with, having heard it through the years.

Did she know about Theon and her? She knew Theon had not told his family, and Sansa still had not asked questions. 

Did she approve of their relationship ( fuckbuddie s had left the building for a while, and relationship was the only word she could use to describe what she and Theon were at that point)?

Nothing would happen to Theon because he was a Stark. After all, he was successful on his own. Theon had just signed on for a big movie. It was apparently his father's suggestion. 

"Are you sure?" She asked. 

She had not questioned the Starks so far. That, however, was different. 

"We won't weather the storm. We will bring the storm, darling." Theon's mom said.  

Yes, ideally. And the people involved were all aware of the possible consequences of their actions. Theon had accepted because his sister had been hurt, and he felt responsible for her.

…and she had weaved that plan because Loras had been killed by the Lannisters. Either directly or indirectly. She had chosen knowing all the risks, she didn't give that choice to Theon. 

"What about you, darling?" Catherine Stark asked. 

"I love my job, but this is more important." She replied. It was the truth.

"You seem so confident that it will end your career, but who knows, maybe it will open doors!" Theon's mom said.

Varys didn't tell her anything. He asked he if she was sure once. He had never tried to talk her out of her plan – because, by the time that man had entered the picture, things were already in motion and had been for months. However, Varys had made sure Margaery had an acting job while the whole thing went down. Why? She had never asked him. 

"I don't really care," Margaery replied honestly. 

"How is your family?" The older woman asked. Theon's mom was a power player. She had never asked her why she was doing what she was doing. She had connected the dots on her own, and she had acted accordingly. 

"We have seen better days," Margaery replied. And she said the truth. 

Her parents were broken. Her father had numbly accepted Lady Olenna's words and was going through the motions. Her mother didn't even pretend she hadn't come undone at the seams. Her grandmother wanted revenge. 

She was – exhausted. 

"You know you have my full support. And Ned's."

"Thank you, I appreciate that." She said.

Things were ready. They had to wait now. 

"You should focus on your job – unlike you, I don't think this is the last we will see of you, Margaery."

Catherine Stark seemed so sure of herself. She sounded so confident. And Margaery couldn't help wondering whether there were things in the Starks' plans that she wasn't aware of. 

 


 

From Variety:

 

'My Beautiful Boy' Joffrey Baratheon on his BAFTA leading actor nomination: "I am deeply honoured and humbled"

 

"My Beautiful Boy" is one of the standout movies of the year. It is a touching and intense drama set in London. It was a surprise box-office success and has gathered attention from critics and awards since its release. 

 

This is Joffrey Baratheon's third BAFTA nomination, which didn't come as a surprise despite the competition. 

As Baratheon tells Variety, he was in his home in London with his siblings when nominations were announced. 

 

Where were you, and what was your reaction when you heard you were nominated? 

 

I had just come back home after weeks abroad, actually. I had just had lunch with my brother and my sister, and suddenly, my phone started going off, and I was like, "What is it now?" It didn't feel natural for hours. I was like, "This is a dream, right?"

 

Have you come to terms with it since?

 

I'm deeply honoured and humbled. To be among these fantastic actors, I'm still pinching myself, honestly!

 

After its release, the overall response to "My Beautiful Boy" was phenomenal, especially for an independent movie. How was that experience from your side? 

 

It was nothing short of amazing. I fell in love with the movie when I read the script; I have been attached to this project since its inception. I have so many amazing memories of shooting this movie. We worked hard without money, much improv, and love for this project. It is unlike anything I have ever done. I love how visceral the response to the movie has been. People from different countries with different backgrounds love this story, which resonated with them. It snowballed from screenings to distribution in the past few weeks. 

 

Anything in the pipeline you can discuss?

 

I can't really say anything, but there are some exciting things. I've been thinking about producing a few scripts I have read, but it's really early to tell. 

 


  

It was ludicrous. Tyrion knew about them, and now Dany and Jorah knew about them, too. So much for keeping a low profile and flying below the radar! And Robb knew, too. 

It wasn't that Sansa didn't want the people closest to her to know, but it was still  soon. 

Sansa had talked to Daenerys after. They were alone, sitting on their chairs, microphones off, no one around for once. "Please, don't tell anyone." She said. 

Daenerys had asked her questions, but eventually, she had said, "We do have eyes, and no one said a word. We are friends. We are not random people on the internet. You need to trust us!"

"I do –" Sansa had replied, which was the truth. Sansa trusted her castmates – Daenerys and Jorah had given her no reasons not to trust them. 

Sansa trusted Tyrion – because he had admitted he had been naïve trusting his brother and had told them he had learned his lesson. 

It wasn't about trust. It was about Jon. It was as easy as that. 

"Jon is my director." Sansa eventually said, "I am only trying to protect him."

That was the truth. Sansa would do anything to protect Jon from the Lannisters, from what their relationship could do to his reputation and his career. No one would care in a few months. Everyone still remembered Joffrey's tweets now. And Sansa would rather die than have those words return and hurt Jon. 

They were sitting on the sofa at Jon's flat in his small living room now. Ghost had been sleeping at their feet but left them and disappeared into Jon's bedroom. 

 Jon was angry because Joffrey had been nominated for a BAFTA, and there were interviews everywhere, and he looked self-assured as if he was again on top of the world. He looked insufferable. Sansa had seen the pictures that came with the interviews. She wasn't surprised. She wasn't even angry. She would never give Joffrey Baratheon the satisfaction of wasting time and thinking about him more than she needed if she could help.  

"Jon, it's fine," Sansa said. She sighed and added, "It's what my family wants anyway."

Jon furrowed his brows, and Sansa said, "I don't know the details – I don't even have the whole picture; they're keeping me in the dark. I trust my family."

It was the truth. Her family wasn't telling her anything. Her father had vowed that Joffrey would pay for what he did, and her mother told her to focus on her movie and her life and let them handle things. 

John sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "I trust you." He said, "I got angry between Baratheon and the paparazzi around again."

Sansa rested her head against his shoulders, "Ramsay Bolton is in town –" she said. The news had come in the afternoon, and none wanted to think about it. 

"Yep. ready to catch you with Naharis," Jon replied. 

Baelish was not around, but since Ramsay Bolton was in Belfast, it was clear that he still hadn't given up on his stupid idea. Baelish was still avoiding the talk to her people and Daario's. Joffrey's camp wanted to buy all the time they could until every Academy member cast their ballots. Cersei Lannister didn't care that her man had hired a psychopath to do the job. 

"Hey," Sansa said, placing a kiss on his shoulder. She hated seeing Jon like that. 

He smiled at her and said, "Hey."

Sansa smiled as well, and it was new – and yet familiar to smile like that with Jon, to be in each other's arms, to kiss him, even if he was angry because Joffrey Baratheon and Baelish were despicable human beings. 

They moved on the sofa while they kissed, and he was on top of her for a moment. The first time it happened, her breath caught in her throat, and fear made her heart stutter. Jon had moved away and held her hand. She wasn't afraid now. 

It was Jon. He would never,  ever  hurt her. 

Jon was looking at her, now,  seeing  her, because he always knew she didn't even need to speak when she wasn't comfortable. He smiled when he realised that she was perfectly fine and kissed her face and neck softly. 

It was more than  satisfactory.  She loved the feeling of Jon's lips on her skin, his weight on her, and his hands trailing on her sides under the jumper she wore. 

Jon's kisses moved to her breastbone – and why was she wearing so many clothes? Why was Jon?

"Clothes." Sansa said. 

Jon looked at her and grinned, "Yes, love?"

"We should do something about the clothes." She replied, and her voice was soft, and her heart was beating too fast. 

They were not in one of their bedrooms, in the dark. They were on his sofa, and the lights were on. 

"We should," Jon replied. But he kissed her again. 

And then they moved together, hands brushing as they helped each other out of their jumpers. 

Skin on skin. Jon knew about the scars; she didn't mind them when she was with him. Jon had told her he loved her skin. And he was showing his love with each kiss he placed on the throat while his hands cupped her breasts. She wanted to wrap her legs around his waist, but Jon moved, his lips kissing and licking the space between her breasts and then going down, kissing and lapping her stomach. 

She was still wearing her jeans and – she blushed because – was Jon going to do  that ?

Jon's lips were underneath her navel, and his fingers were on the button of her jeans. He was looking at her, he had moved and was kneeling on the floor with his torso still on the sofa. 

"Sansa –"Jon said. His voice was hoarse, and she was aware that she was blushing. Considering how sex with Joffrey had been, it was ludicrous. And yet – here she was, blushing as Jon looked at her while his fingers were on the button and the zipper of her jeans.

Sansa smiled back and nodded. 

And then Jon's mouth was on her, kissing her core through her panties first, and she let out a gasp of surprise because – she didn't know it would feel like that. No boyfriend or Joffrey had ever done that to her. 

She shivered with anticipation when Jon slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on her, lowered her panties. 

It was really happening, and she felt heat pooling between her legs, and Jon could  touch  it. And he did. His hands at her hips, his mouth kissing, his tongue lapping, caressing, brushing her folds open. 

Sansa wanted to see Jon. She also wanted to close her eyes and lose herself in the feeling and the sparks of pleasure she could feel. She carded her fingers through his hair, and he hummed against her core, and she bit her lip.

I love you  was right there, on the tip of her tongue, in her fluttering heartbeat, in the throbbing of the pleasure that was building inside of her. It was there, in that room, in the way Jon held her hips and didn't use his fingers on her because he knew she didn't like it. 

And Jon didn't seem in a rush. He made satisfied sounds as he kept on kissing, lapping, fucking  her sex. 

She didn't recognise the sounds she was making. Her body was moving, rocking, seeking friction and release, and Jon seemed happy with what he was doing. 

And Sansa could feel the orgasm starting – the pleasure making her nub swell and her inner walls quiver. Sansa could feel it on her skin, down in her belly, and she let out a moan while she kept saying Jon's name. Over and over. 

And still, Jon was there, his face buried between her legs, lapping, nibbling, stroking her with his tongue through her orgasm, and its force surprised her. It had never been like  that. 

Jon kissed his way up, leaving goosebumps and aftershocks of pleasure whenever his beard scratched against her skin. 

Jon grinned. He looked a bit smug. She loved that look on his face and that she could taste herself on his lips. She wanted him so much that her heart ached with it. 

"Alright?" Jon asked. 

Sansa nodded. She was unable to trust her voice at the moment because she would tell him that she loved him and could still feel her heart in her throat.

"Let me –" Sansa eventually trailed. 

Jon shook his head, kissed her slowly, with so much reverence that her eyes stung with tears and then said, "Let's just stay there for a little while. My girlfriend gave me a nice duvet, and she has an early call tomorrow at work,"

Girlfriend . She grinned. They were still pants at talking about their feelings, but they were together, and neither was good at casual affairs. 

"Are you sure?" Sansa asked. Because she very much wanted to reciprocate. 

"Positive," Jon replied.

The duvet was blue. She had picked it in Scotland. She could feel how much Jon still wanted her, but she would go along with his plan. Whatever it was. 

She would follow him everywhere. 


 The restaurant Jon had picked was away from the studios, the hotel and where both Sansa and he lived. They had wrapped earlier than expected that day because Jorah and Daenerys had been in a rare form, and at that point, no one wanted to wrap things late, considering the bonkers shooting schedule they had. 

And yes, they were being paranoid – meeting Daenerys and Jorah away from the hotel and driving in one car, ensuring no one was following them. Sansa was perhaps the most paranoid in their group. Sansa was adamant in wanting them to keep a low profile, and Jon indulged her, but he didn't care about what people might say or do. 

Yes, Jon was the director of the movie they were shooting, and Sansa was his leading lady, but they were just  jobs . He would have fallen for Sansa, even if she was in the costume department or the craft services. And they would not shoot that movie forever. 

Sansa had told him what it meant to her to have Paparazzi follow her every move and tabloids telling lies about her all the time. The fact that it was a side of her job didn't mean she liked it. Neither did Jon. Or Jorah and Daenerys, for that matter. That was why Jon had been driving for a while, the four of them in his car while they made small talk. He liked Daenerys and Jorah. And he liked them more because they had not said a word about what they had seen in the trailer. 

It was his fault anyway. Jon had dreamed of kissing Sansa while she was in one of Alysanne's costumes for months. 

"Only kiss me?" Sansa had asked when he had told her. They had been in her bed, and her voice had been a caress against his jaw.

Jon didn't give a proper answer to that question, but a few days later, Sansa had dragged him to the extra's make-up trailer because it was empty that day, and she had made one of his dreams come true. 

They had reserved a table in a private room. Sansa had insisted on them laying low because Ramsay Bolton was in town. They continued chatting, making small talk as they sat at their table, and a waiter gave them the menu. 

Daenerys told Sansa that Jorah and she had been invited to her parents' castle in Ireland. 

Sansa told them she hadn't been home in six months and that Robb had meant all the siblings to make a road trip home, but they hadn't coordinated their schedules yet. 

"Robb is visiting before we wrap, and if we can pry Arya away from her fencing training, we might do it."

Sansa said. 

Jon had swapped messages on social media with Sansa's sister, but he had never talked to her brother. He would visit soon, and Jon was a bit anxious about it. 

"Baelish is losing his bloody mind," Daenerys said after they had placed their orders. "This shooting schedule is ridiculous! No offence, Jon."

He shrugged, "None taken. It's insane. Tarly is living on caffeine, and we're not even started with the post."

"I've done two movies with him before. He was a bastard but never like this. Then again, my movies weren't possible Oscar vehicles."

Jon wanted to groan. His last movie had gained traction without him doing anything more than the bare minimum required in his contract to promote the film. The idea of his cast and him being treated like puppets the following year didn't sit well with him. 

"I have –"Jorah said grimly, "He never forgave me for doing Shakespeare in the middle of the Oscar campaign."

Right. Jorah had worked with Baelish in a movie that had won the Academy Award. 

"I have known him since we were kids. Cat introduced him to us. He was a snotty little bastard, but he is losing touch with reality now. Look at how hard is pushing Baratheon's movie."

He had come around and watched a screener of Joffrey Baratheon's movie. He had to sit through ninety minutes of the blonde man trying hard to emote in front of a camera. He was good, however, and in his opinion, that movie's true, unsung hero was the director who had pulled a bloody miracle because he had made Joffrey Baratheon likeable. Still, Petyr Baelish was pushing the movie as if it was a new Ordinary People, and Jon would never understand the insanity of that process. He still believed movies should be awarded according to their value, not how good marketing was at selling them during the season. 

Daenerys drank some wine and then said, "I need a holiday. Don't you need a holiday?"

They toasted to that, and then they decided who the designated driver of the evening was going to be. Jon volunteered, and they toasted again.

"Gods, yes." Sansa said, "I need a holiday too."

The four of them all agreed that they needed to go somewhere warm.

"We are thinking the Caribbean – my son has never seen the sea," Daenerys said. 

"Nice," Sansa said. She looked at him and said, "It sounds nice, doesn't it?"

Jon smiled at Sansa. He would go anywhere with her. 

"You know," Daenerys said when the appetisers arrived. "we didn't tell anyone. We won't, but rest assured that Varys knows. He always knows everything."

The mysterious Varys he had heard of for months. That man was apparently omniscient and very powerful. He had heard Daenerys and Tyrion talk about him countless times, and he still didn't understand why both Tyrion and Daenerys trusted him. 

Sansa didn't look alarmed by Daenerys' words. Then the brunette woman said, "You should talk to J'Haquen again – you should tell him, especially if Baelish keeps being an arse!"

"We don't want to go public." Jon said it because he didn't want his private life to become public and he agreed with Sansa even if he believed she erred on the safe side of caution. Jon noticed the look Sansa gave him. She clearly liked what he had said or how he had said it. Jon wanted them to be alone and feel her in his arms in his bed. 

"Talk to J'Haquen anyway. It's his job to help you with these things. Do not blindside him!" Daenerys insisted.

"Like you did with Varys with our Instagram exploit?" Sansa asked, but there was no real bite in her words.

"Do as I say, not as I do!" Daenerys said and sipped her wine. "Besides, Jorah and I did not pose like models for a Calvin Klein perfume ad!"

 Right. They had taken a picture together that night in Daenerys and Jorah's suite. Oberyn had told them it had been a smashing success online; people apparently loved the idea of Sansa and him together. 

"Seriously, though. You need to plan ahead!" Daenerys said. 

Jon looked at Sansa. Technically speaking, he had people in his management who oversaw his public image. The last time Jon had heard from them was when he told the paparazzi off. They had repeated what Oberyn had already told him: keep a blank face, don't react to whatever they say or do. 

Daenerys, however, was right. And if calling their people would finally shut Baelish up, they would. 

Rather, Sansa would. Jon could not call his people – because it would mean revealing their relationship to the world. And it killed him that he could not really protect Sansa from Baelish. 

"I will – you're right," Sansa said. 

They chatted and ate their meal after that. 

Daenerys and Jorah told them about their projects after they wrapped Good Queen Alysanne. Sansa told them she had two auditions in the coming weeks. Jon said he wanted to post-produce Good Queen Alysanne before taking on any new projects. 

Jon had been reading a script in the few free moments he had. He didn't lie to Sansa; he truly wanted to tell a story about love and friendship, something not big in scale, but until he found the right project, he had plenty to keep himself occupied. His management had told him that he was in demand and that the studios were looking forward to giving him any movie he wanted. Jon wasn't a big fan of studios at the moment, but would choose something once he was sure it was the right project. 

It was a lovely evening, Jon realised. They had not discussed what they usually did; they had barely even talked about the movie, and Jon was surprised by how much fun they had had. 

Daenerys and Jorah had told them they wouldn't even dream of telling anyone about them, and Jon had wanted to say to them that Tyrion already knew. He still hadn't punched him like he had told him he wanted to. He had sort of forgotten about it after Tyrion had shared the pictures Ellaria Sands had taken of Sansa and him. Sansa's smile when she had seen them had been bright.

Right, Tyrion was trying. And Jon was trying as well, yet he had told Daenerys, "No Lannister," because there were moments where he was furious at the man. 

It was cold when they got outside the restaurant, and they walked to his car. No one was around that he could see, and Daenerys told him that next time, they would call an Uber to all get sloshed together.

Jon smiled. Daenerys and Sansa sat behind, on the passenger's seat, and Jorah sat next to him. It felt like being back in college and having double dates with Ygritte and their friends. It felt ridiculous, and when he looked at Jorah, he thought he might be thinking the same thing. 

Jon started the car with a shake of his head, and Daenerys asked, "So, are we the only ones still at the hotel?"

"No, Brienne, Podd, and Edd are still at the hotel. Davos is from Belfast. He is going home at night, his wife is happy to see him and have him around for a change."

"You know?" Daenerys said after a moment, "We could have ordered pizzas and stayed at your place."

"Ghost doesn't like people." Jon replied. His flat was minuscule, it would have felt cramped, and his dog didn't like it when it was cramped.

"Ghost?" Daenerys asked.

"Jon's dog," Sansa replied, "and don't believe him; he's lovely!"

"He likes you!" Jon said. It was a wonderful surprise. Ghost liked Sansa straight away. 

"Oh, the elusive Ghost –"Daenerys said.

"My mum gave it to me a few months before she passed," Jon said. He blinked in surprise because he usually didn't like talking about himself and his life, not even to people as close as Daenerys and Jorah had gotten for the past few months. 

Sansa, however, knew. He had told her. Sansa also knew that one of the reasons he was still on speaking terms with Ygritte was the dog. 

Jorah said he was sorry for his loss, and so did Daenerys. He replied with a thank you. 

Silence fell among them, and it wasn't awkward; it was so comfortable that he was surprised when the lights from the motorbike flashed behind them. From the rearview mirror, he saw that Daenerys turned to look at it, then she turned, got close to them and said, "I know that motorcycle."

"What?" Sansa asked.

"How?" Jorah asked.

"Who is it?" Jon enquired. He believed Daenerys. She would never tell them unless she was sure. 

"I'm not sure," Daenerys replied, "I'm afraid it could be Ramsay Bolton."

There was fear in her voice as she said those words. 

"We weren't followed," He said. He had checked again and again. 

"No, we weren't, I paid attention," Jorah said. 

The motorbike was approaching the side of the car now. 

"Someone at the restaurant must have tipped them off." Sansa said, "It always happened with my aunt or uncle."

Jon sped up the pace slightly and cursed when a black SUV appeared in front of the car, pretty much from thin air. 

"What the fuck?" He said aloud. 

Two people were on the motorbike on their side, and the person in the backseat was snapping pictures. The car ahead them would not let him accelerate to lose the motorbike. 

No one said anything. Jon noticed that both Sansa and Daenerys looked on the verge of panicking. 

"We need to get out of here –"Sansa said. 

He saw Daenerys shake her head and say, "Let them take the fucking pictures so they'll leave us alone!"

"It doesn't look like they want to leave us alone!" Jon replied. The people in the SUV and on the motorbike weren't in any hurry to leave. They had been snapping pictures for seconds now. Weren't they satisfied?

"They have the pictures. Why aren't they leaving?" Sansa asked. 

Jon looked in his rearview mirror and noticed that both Sansa and Daenerys were shielding their faces with their purses. Jon looked at his side and saw anger on Jorah's face. They needed to lose the car and the motorbike. 

Jon could lose them. There was no traffic; it would be reckless, but he could do it. 

He had to do it. 

The motorbike accelerated, and Jon was thinking of doing the same and overtaking the SUV so they could lose them and go back home. 

Then he saw the motorbike parked sideways in the middle of the road and the man, wearing black, from his helmet to his boots, snapping pictures without even bothering to remove the helmet. 

Flashes from the car, which swayed on a side, and from the man on the road, and he had to steer away, or he would kill him and the ice on the pavement made the car slip; he couldn't control it, and the roadblock was just there, meters away from the motorbike. 

"Hold on tight!" Jon had the time to cry.

And then he hit his head against the steering wheel as the car crashed against the roadblock.

 

 


  

 Jorah came to feeling the right side of his body burning with pain. It was pain which woke him up. He heard the man outside speaking. He could listen to him  still  taking pictures. He heard him mention "999" and the words, "Should we call them?" said a woman. 

"The car is losing petrol. What if it explodes?" The woman said. 

A male voice replied, "The pictures would be priceless!"

"Your dad will kill you if they die!" The woman replied. 

Daenerys. Was she okay? Jorah felt like someone was splitting his head open. He had hit it against the window. He tried to call out his friends' names, but keeping his eyes open was too hard, and the noises were like a loud whistle in his ears. 

Darkness greeted him, and Jorah couldn't fight it.

 


 

Lyanna wore a black shirt and jeans and pulled her hair in a braid. She was scowling, her arms crossed over her chest, when she said, "The last woman he brought into this house broke our family apart. Forgive me for caring about my cousin!"

There had been words before; they were sitting in an austere living room, and the woman who was sitting on a chair next to Lyanna looked mortified; she had hugged Jorah, and her eyes had filled with tears when they had met. 

"I  love  your cousin," She had said. 

Lyanna stared at her for a long moment before she said, "He is broke, in case you didn't know. This house doesn't belong to him."

She felt Jorah tense next to her on the sofa. Jorah didn't like when people used that tone of voice with her, but she wasn't angry. 

 

Daenerys opened her eyes. She didn't remember where she was for a moment. Weren't they in Jorah's childhood home?

No. that had been weeks before. Opening her eyes had been a bad idea. The pain in her head made her want to throw up right away. Daenerys could feel blood seeping out from her nose and trailing down from her temple and forehead, where she had hit her head against the window before the airbag did its thing. 

It was dark. Why was it so dark? 

She moved. Another terrible idea. Her chest hurt, and the seatbelt was strangling her. She tried to unlock it, but it was jammed. 

She tried not to panic but to no avail.

"Guys?" She called, but no one answered. She felt her throat constricting, and breathing was  painful. 

"Jorah?" She called. And again, "Jorah? Are you okay?"

Jorah didn't answer. 

No. No, no. 

It was like in her dream, she realised. And fear exploded inside of her. 

No. Jorah had to be all right. He was fine. They had to be okay.

She closed her eyes. Yet, another terrible idea because the nausea was worse, and she was crying, and Jorah still didn't answer. She couldn't even move to make sure he was okay. 

She could not lose consciousness. She needed to know that Jorah was okay and that Sansa and Jon were too. 

Blood was on her lips now, and she wanted to throw up. Darkness surrounded her; she was a fighter but couldn't move. She couldn't even think past the fact that Jorah didn't answer. 

She was terrified as she lost consciousness. 

 


 

 The man and the woman had left. Jorah thought as he came to that time. 

"Are you all right?" He asked aloud. The pain in their head was still there, but he could think; he could talk. 

"Yes." Came the reply from all of them in a second or two. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. 

"We need to get out of here," Jon said. He looked at the man; there was blood on his face, and he looked deathly pale. He was right. They needed to get out of the car and call an ambulance. 

"I think I heard a woman talking about the car losing petrol," Jon said. 

"What? How?" Daenerys asked. There were tears in her voice, and if his right shoulder didn't hurt so much, Jorah would try and turn to look at her because he needed to look at her and make sure she was okay. 

"Aye," He said, "I heard that too."

Jon was the first to open the car's door. He noticed that his hand was shaking as he did so. 

"I'm stuck." Daenerys said, "This seatbelt thing is jammed."

Daenerys always put the seatbelt on, even for a few meters. She was careful. 

"I'm coming," Jorah said. 

"Sansa," Daenerys said, "don't lose it, babe." 

Jorah couldn't see the redhead. He didn't know what Daenerys was seeing that he wasn't. He needed to see how the two women were doing. Jorah ignored the pain that flared in his shoulder and arm when he  breathed , gritted his teeth and moved. He saw Daenerys. Blood was gushing out from her nose. The woman blinked in evident relief when they looked at each other. 

Daenerys' forehead was bruised, and there was blood trailing down from her temple on her face. 

Sansa looked so pale, with tears in her eyes and was shaking hard. 

"Sansa." Daenerys said, taking her hand in hers, "We are fine. Everything is okay. Jon is calling 999, see?"

"I can't breathe!" Sansa whispered. And it was clear that she was trying to take big gulps of air, and she wasn't succeeding. There was no blood on her, but it didn't mean anything. 

"Jon!" Daenerys cried, and then she doubled over and gritted out, "fuck, my ribs!"

Pain didn't matter. He thanked the Gods for adrenaline coursing in his system because he could get out of the car without crying out in pain. The right shoulder was sprained, if not worse. 

Jon was on the phone speaking to the emergency services. They needed to call Tyrion. Fuck, his arm too hurt – something was probably broken, but he needed to get Daenerys out of the car. They needed to understand what was wrong with Sansa.

"Get Sansa out!" He told Jon. 

"They're coming," Jon said before he opened the door from Sansa's side. He did the same with Daenerys'. 

"Good," He said. He leaned into the space inside, and Daenerys had tears on her face, but she smiled at him; she was still holding Sansa's hand as she asked, "Is the car blowing up?"

Daenerys was still smiling, but Jorah didn't like the colour of her lips. It was almost blue, and her voice was coming out hoarse. 

"It only happens in movies," Jorah told her. He had no idea whether it was the truth, but Daenerys was clearly going into shock. Her seatbelt was definitely stuck, and it was almost strangling her.

"Are you okay?" Daenerys asked. She saw him flinch when he moved and asked, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," He replied. 

"Good. You have blood on your face," She swallowed and said, "I see two of you. I hit my head, or the Pinot Grigio was really good!"

He couldn't free Daenerys.

Jon had managed to take Sansa outside the car, but the girl was still having trouble breathing.

"Jon, do we have scissors or a knife?" Jorah asked because he couldn't free Daenerys.

"I love you so much," Daenerys said, her voice quivering as she said that, and Jorah didn't like how she said those words, almost as much as he didn't like that the car was losing petrol and that she was stuck. 

Jon touched his shoulder and couldn't help flinching; Daenerys noticed because she said, "You are hurt.."

"It's nothing." He replied. "Jon, would you call Tyrion? We need him and Varys,  now !"

He didn't usually take charge like that, but he usually wasn't in a car accident. At the same time, the love of his life had almost blue lips, her teeth were chattering with shock, she saw double and complained about her ribs. 

Jon gave him a knife, and he took it.

"Gift from Tormund after Fire and Ice,"

Jorah idn't care. He could hear sirens in the distance. He truly had no idea whether cars only blew up in movies or if it happened in real life. He didn't want to find out. 

"Is Sansa alright?" Daenerys asked. 

Jorah couldn't turn around to check because it would cause him a world of pain and because he was holding a very sharp blade near Daenerys' body. 

"Jon, is Sansa alright?" He asked. He heard the sirens getting closer, and Jorah wondered how it was even possible since Jon had just called them. 

"Yes." Came Jon's reply. He didn't like that his director sounded shocked, but that was the best he could do now. Jon Snow sounded scared.

 "I can smell the petrol. Is it just me?" Daenerys asked.

"No, my love," Jorah said. They should be safe. They had hit a roadblock. But, again, he had no idea whether there was any real danger. Perhaps he had watched too many movies, but he didn't want to take any risk. He would feel much better outside the car and a few feet away. 

Jorah was good with blades but felt he needed to work faster. 

Daenerys was closing her eyes, and that was a bad idea. 

"Love, don't close your eyes." He said. 

"I'm sleepy," She replied, "and freezing. It's a co-concussion, right?"

"I'm afraid so, love – and your lips are blue."

Daenerys nodded; her teeth had stopped chattering, and he saw she was trying not to shake her body. Daenerys was smiling and looked relieved when she said, "That feeling is gone now."

"What feeling?" He asked. 

Daenerys sighed, and he didn't like the small moan that escaped her lips after she had done it. 

"That something bad was going to happen to us – to you."

"We are in a car accident," Jorah replied. 

Daenerys struggled to keep her eyes open but said, "It's been in my gut since before we left for Scotland."

There was blood on Daenerys neck. The seatbelt was cutting the side of her throat. She had not said a word about that feeling for weeks. Jorah had noticed her nightmares; he had asked her, and she had told him she was dreaming of her brother. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Jorah asked. 

"Feared it'd make it real," Daenerys replied. He didn't like how her voice sounded. She was in pain, and the seatbelt was too tight. 

"Thank God Jon is a good driver." Daenerys said, "My dad and my brother died in a car accident."

She sounded like the words had slipped out of her mouth, and he didn't like it, but he was finally managing to cut the seatbelt. 

"Can you move your legs?"

She nodded, "It's just my chest and ribs." Daenerys said.

He was almost done. "Did you call Tyrion?" He asked Jon aloud. 

"Yes, he is coming here."

Jorah didn't ask Jon how he felt; they were in the front seats. They could have died if Jon's reflexes hadn't been good. 

The seatbelt was finally cut. 

"Can you move?" He asked Daenerys. 

She was so pale, her lips were still almost blue. 

"I can try." Daenerys replied. 

"Let me-" Jorah said. 

"But you are hurt." She replied. 

"It's nothing." He shot back. There was too much adrenaline in his body at that moment. He could taste it in his mouth. He might not even feel pain. And he didn't care anyway. 

Daenerys drooped an arm around his shoulders. There were tears in her eyes, but she was still starting to lose that bluish hue in her lips. 

He had no idea whether cars had blown up on their own. Still, he moved away from it anyway, Daenerys in his arms, next to Jon and Sansa as the ambulance and a police car approached. 

She was safe. They were safe.   


 

Jorah took in her arms, like in a bloody movie, and he took her out of the car. Said car was scrunched up against the roadblock. It didn't feel real, but nothing felt like it was happening. She had hit her head, her nausea was killing her, she was still seeing double, and she was only starting now to breathe a bit better. She had stopped feeling like she was choking.  

Her chest still hurt when she breathed. 

They were going to a private hospital, or, at least, that was what she believed she had heard. The ambulance and police car were not the ones Jon had called. She had heard the words "anonymous tip" by a policeman.  

The EMTs had been working on all of them. Jon had a deep gash on his forehead; he would have x-rays at the hospital; they had set Jorah's shoulder and stitched the gash on the man's jaw. Sansa was calm now. The doctor who had visited her had given her something, and she had calmed down. She had heard something about broken ribs. 

She was wrapped in a blanket, on a gurney, waiting to go to the hospital (her head still felt like it was being split open in two) when Tyrion arrived. 

Daenerys had no idea, none whatsoever, about how long it had been since the accident or the ambulance and the police had arrived. Time had become weird. 

It must be the concussion. 

Tyrion looked angry. The man also looked worried and scared. She saw him talk to the paramedics and the police, and she didn't care. She wanted to sleep; she could barely keep her eyes open but tried not to give in. 

They were alive – and looking at Jon's car, it was a bloody miracle that they were not seriously injured or worse. 

When Tyrion got close to her, she said, "It was Ramsay Bolton. It had to be him." 

She wasn't sure she was making a lot of sense, but who else would park the motorbike in the middle of the road and cause an accident? Some paparazzi were arseholes, others were sociopaths, Ramsay Bolton was a fucking lunatic. 

Daenerys had thrown up already, but her nausea wasn't getting any better; her breathing hurt, and her head felt like it was being drilled. She searched for Jorah, who was with another paramedic and looked pale. 

She still saw double. 

"Let me handle this," Tyrion said. 

Daenerys didn't think she had ever seen him that angry. 

She could feel herself lose consciousness, and she didn't fight it; at least, that terrible feeling in her gut; that knot of dread and foreboding, had gone away. Even if it hurt, she felt like she could breathe easier.


  From Twitter:

 

@MelisandreGossip:  BREAKING Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont in a car crash outside Belfast. No details have emerged yet, but none are in critical condition. Check the site for more information. #developingstory

 

@ ScoopOnline : car crash for the stars and the director of Good Queen Alysanne, two ambulances and police on the scene. Further details are in the link below #developingstory


 

  

His car was destroyed. They had been so lucky. Jon had been visited. He literally had just a gash on his forehead and some bruising. He didn't even remember what happened after losing control of the car. 

Jorah had a dislocated shoulder and a broken arm. Daenerys had a concussion and two broken ribs. Sansa, too, had broken ribs, and they all had bruises on their chests and faces. 

He couldn't stop thinking about Ramsay Bolton, he didn't even know his face. The man had stopped the motorbike in the middle of the road and had taken pictures. He had almost killed them. 

He was with Tyrion in a private waiting room. He was holding a bag of synthetic ice against his chest; they had also given him something for the pain, even though he couldn't feel any. According to the doctors, it was the adrenaline still pumping in his system and the shock. Sansa, Daenerys and Jorah were still with their doctors, and he felt like he would scream any second now.

"What happened?" Tyrion asked. Jon knew he had talked to Daenerys before she lost consciousness, and he had seen him talking on the phone since he had been ushered into that room. Tyrion had not asked any questions until that moment. 

Jon told him – he told him everything that had happened from the moment the motorbike had started following them, and the black SUV had appeared out of nowhere. Tyrion looked angry. 

"News has spread. No pictures have been published." The man said. 

"He tried to kill us." Jon said, "He needs to be the fuck away from us!"

Sansa had panicked. Jon had been unable to get through her. He didn't remember ever being so terrified in his life. Not even when he was a kid and social services dropped by, and he feared he would be taken away from his mother. 

"I'll deal with Baelish," Tyrion said. 

"Like you have done so far?" Jon asked, and he couldn't even try to hide his anger. For all the talk of fighting his sister, Tyrion had kept a very civil relationship with Baelish so far. Tyrion had tried to rationalise Baelish's actions with them, even his stupid idea of putting Daario and Sansa together to promote the movie. 

Tyrion didn't reply to his words; he tilted his head briefly because he knew Jon had told the truth. He saw that Tyrion was about to say something when the door opened, and Theon, Margaery Tyrell and Bronn entered the room. 

Right. Tyrion must have sent Bronn to collect Sansa's brother. Jon hadn't even thought about it. He was a rubbish boyfriend. He usually saw Theon when he was at Sansa's flat, and he found excuses to leave them alone. Or, perhaps, they weren't even excuses since he usually was going to Margaery Tyrell. 

Theon and he got along. He had met him before he met Sansa, and they had had plans to work together for years. 

Jon had seen Sansa's best friend only one time, in passing. The woman looked shaken and pale; he had trouble reconciling the woman of Sansa's tales with what he saw. Margaery Tyrell looked terrified. 

"What the fuck happened?" Theon asked, "Who was driving the car?"

"I was," Jon replied. He was always careful; Ygritte used to tease him constantly about that; she used to tell him, "Gods, Jon, you drive like my grandma!"

He was careful, yet he felt guilty. He should have done more. 

Tyrion was speaking, giving him what he had already heard would become the official version of the events: the car had slipped on ice. He could see that Theon and Margaery were not buying a word of what Tyrion was telling them. 

Especially Margaery. She had narrowed her eyes and held her purse with both hands, and her knuckles were white. 

"My parents are coming." Theon said, "I called them on the way here. So, what, you just lost control of your car?"

He swallowed. It was his fault; he would take the blame. He deserved it but hated that Tyrion had lied to Sansa's brother!

Fuck it!  He thought. "Paparazzi were following us. The ice on the road will be the official version for the press."

His head throbbed. He wanted to see Sansa and know how she felt, but he could do nothing because he had no right to ask. He was officially just a bloke she was working with. 

"The Boltons," Theon said. Sansa must have told him because she was afraid of Ramsay Bolton, and she had been on edge because of the paparazzi for weeks. 

Theon looked like he was about to snap in two; his anger was coming to Jon in waves. Margaery was looking at Tyrion, and right there, he recognised the woman of Sansa's tales. She looked ferocious. 

"I'll go and ask how she is," Theon said, and Jon was grateful because no one had told him anything since they had ushered him into that room. 

"I'll come and find you!" Jon said. 

Theon nodded. He didn't say he didn't blame him for the accident, and Jon was glad. He should have done something. Anything.

Theon and Margaery left, and Jon said, "Ice on the road? Nice."

Tyrion sighed and said, "I'm sorry this happened. And I swear I will deal with it!"

"See that you do!" Jon spat, "Daenerys has a son! Sansa is your leading lady! You have known about the Boltons for weeks!"

All the anger at Tyrion he had tried so hard to conceal and ignore was filling him up now. It was making it hard to breathe. And maybe it wasn't right; perhaps he was using Tyrion as a scapegoat for his fear, guilt and because Sansa had a panic attack and a flashback to something that must have happened with Joffrey and as much as Jon had tried, he hadn't been able to calm her down. 

Tyrion had played the game to protect the movie – he was aware of that. He wanted more now. He expected more from the man. 

"You are one of the executive producers of the movie. Start acting like one!" He spat. 

Jon hated the Lannisters and what they did. Tyrion was a good man, but his good heart and naivety had blindsided him more than once. What happened that night went beyond a movie and all the bullshit surrounding awards and marketing. They might have died! 

He didn't wait for Tyrion's reply; he left the room and was shocked when, after he turned a corner, he was face to face with Petyr Baelish. 

He was still holding the ice bag in his hand, the gash on his forehead had been stitched, they had told him it would leave a scar, his heart was drumming in his chest, and he clenched his jaws when he saw the man. 

What the fuck was he doing there?

Baelish looked sombre and concerned, dressed in dark grey.

"How are you, Jon?" Baelish asked. 

Jon told him he was fine, and Baelish asked if he needed anything. Yes, he did. He needed to be with Sansa and know that she was okay. He wanted to hold her hand and tell her he was sorry. He was so sorry because he had underestimated the paparazzi. He had thought they would be assholes. He would have never thought that one of them would try to kill them.

"We are waiting for the doctors before we decide whether to shut down production for a few days," Baelish said.

Right. The movie. Three of his actors were injured. He didn't even know how they were. He didn't care about the movie shutting down production for a few days. 

"Whatever I can do to help you, please do not hesitate to ask," Baelish said.

He could start by telling him where to find Ramsay Bolton. He could continue by leaving Sansa alone. 

Baelish asked him about Daenerys, Jorah and Sansa. He told him the truth: as far as he knew, they were wounded, scared and in various states of shock, but they were okay. It could have been so much worse; he didn't believe in any Gods, but he was considering his stance on agnosticism that night. It was a miracle no one had been truly hurt. 

"You need to understand that we cannot let the truth about what happened be known," Baelish said. 

"And what is the truth?" He asked, "How do you know the truth?"

Baelish smiled. It was not his usual smarmy smile; it was almost kind, and he was sure he meant it to be self-deprecating. "It's my job to know what happens at all times, Jon."

He didn't reply to that. He didn't trust himself. He clenched his fists when Baelish said, "You saved their lives – and this is what will be said and known. You went out with friends; there was ice on the road, but you were sober and avoided a tragedy."

He felt sick to his stomach. That wasn't what had happened  at all. 

"What about Ramsay Bolton?" He only had Daenerys' words, but he trusted her – and it fit with what he had heard about the man even if he had never met him until that night. 

Baelish looked surprised. If he was pretending he was doing an exceptional job with it. "Despicable human being from what I hear." The man said. 

Jon was trying to remain calm. If he lost it in that hallway, in that hospital, that night, he wasn't sure he wouldn't kill Baelish. He didn't trust himself at the moment. Jon wanted to leave. He wanted to go to Theon and know how Sansa was doing. He wanted to see the woman he loved. 

"We need to protect Sansa, Jon." Baelish said, "She is our leading lady,"

  Jon wanted to tell Sansa that she was right, she had always been right – and he would do more than indulge her and humour her from now on. Jon would always listen to her because she knew more about their business than he did. She knew Baelish. Sansa had told him that she believed the man suspected about the two of them. She was right. How had he not seen that before?

It was clear in the man's eyes, in the tone of his voice. He knew about them. 

"I have known Sansa for a long time. I have known her parents for most of my life. I have always tried to protect her."

There was a jagged, thin scar on Sansa's shoulder blade. Sansa had yet to tell him what Joffrey did. He had told her about the bite mark, but only because he had asked. 

Sansa had panicked and was sent into the depths of a flashback by the accident. All because of Joffrey Baratheon, Baelish's golden boy. 

Baelish had tried his patience for months. And, for the past few weeks, he had barely hanged by. He didn't, now. He felt like he was on fire, and his chest hurt as he slammed the man against a wall, and his hands were on his neck, squeezing. 

Baelish had never protected Sansa. Baelish sold her to tabloids, and he did nothing to stop the Lannisters from doing whatever they wanted with her. Baelish had been treating Sansa like a prop he could place wherever he liked with his idea of a false romance with Daario. Baelish had recruited Ramsay Bolton. 

He didn't know – he wouldn't even remember whether he told the man anything later. He thought he might have hissed that he would kill him if he got near Sansa again. Or, perhaps, he had only thought those words. He wasn't sure. He had hit his head, after all. Yet, the feeling of Baelish's neck in his hands was real enough. He let go. He took a step back and walked away without looking at the man. 

They weren't on set – and his producers had already twisted the truth of what had happened that night. Fuck the consequences anyway. He needed to see Sansa.   

 


 

No one would tell him anything. Tyrion didn't know how Daenerys, Jorah and Sansa were doing. He knew no one had been critically injured, but he was worried, nonetheless. 

Tyrion had underestimated the paparazzi and the threat they posed. Perhaps he had not taken things seriously because the paparazzi didn't follow him or because, in the grand scheme of things or among all the vile stuff his sister could do, having paparazzi following his actors to distract them was not the worst that could happen. 

Until it was.

Tyrion should have listened to Daenerys when she told him she couldn't believe that his sister wasn't involved in that scheme. Perhaps he had not wanted to see. 

Tyrion had not wanted to think that his sister could really be behind hiring Ramsay Bolton. Maybe the voice of blood had made him believe that his sister could be better than that. 

Perhaps Tyrion had been too naïve because he didn't believe it could become a real war and things could escalate. 

He had been an idiot. He had been too involved with the movie and the friendships he had made with the people in it to stop and think that Ramsay Bolton was in Belfast and that everyone – even people not in the business knew that the man was insane, that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. 

Tyrion had played fair, all things considered. He had played fair with people who wouldn't know how to, even if they tried or were bound by blood to protect Cersei and the kids. 

Tyrion had ignored and underestimated too many things. It was on him. 

His friends, his cast – could have died that night. It was dumb luck, and the fact that he knew Jon was a good driver meant that they were all alive. He had seen the car – it could have been so much worse. 

Tyrion sighed when Baelish entered the room. Baelish was holding a hand to his neck, and it looked like he was thinking hard about something. 

He had called Baelish, but it had happened before he spoke to Jon. 

"Luckily, we are ahead of schedule," Baelish said. He didn't sound cocky or smarmy like he usually did. He sounded as if he was putting things together in his mind. He  knew  that tone of voice. 

"They are alive by miracle!" Tyrion said, "And because Jon Snow didn't lose his shit!"

It had been a quiet day on set, a quiet week, all things considered. He didn't know Jon, Sansa, Daenerys, and Jorah would go out that night, but he wasn't a child. He didn't feel left out. 

Jon was right; Daenerys had a child, Sansa was a girl, and Jon was a good man. If anything had happened to either, Daenerys and Jorah would have gone mad with grief. 

How the fuck did it get out of hand like that?

He had seen Ramsay Bolton on occasion; it had happened at events he had been to. The last time he had seen the man was in Venice the previous year. He was a persistent bugger. He was a creep. According to Jon Snow, he had parked his motorbike sideways in the middle of the road and kept snapping pictures of them. 

He sat in the chair beside Baelish and said, "You need to call Ramsay Bolton off."

Baelish blinked. He looked surprised at his words as if he didn't know the man and his father. As if he didn't have Roose Bolton's number on speed dial on his mobile phone. 

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Tyrion." The man said. 

He could discuss at length with Baelish, engage in a long debate and waste time and energy. Still, he felt like he had been kicked to his balls, and he honestly didn't want to dance around issues at the moment. The Starks were coming, and he wanted to give them concrete answers. He owed them to his friends as well. 

"Fine. Whoever hired him needs to call him off tonight!" Tyrion said. "It goes without saying that the same person who hired them needs to buy all the pictures he has taken tonight. Because he did, we know he did."

No picture had been published yet. He had checked, but Tyrion hated that they existed in the first place; he hated that they could be used because his friends were okay; they were not dead, and it would make for nice gossip to have pictures of the most hyped movie of the past five years right before they had their little accident. 

"Bolton is an accessory in four attempted murders. Is it attempted manslaughter or murder? I'm not a lawyer, but I am sure whoever was so dumb to hire him must know. I hope they know how much they fucked up!"

Tyrion breathed through his nose. He could  not  lose his patience with Baelish. The man needed to hear him and understand he was done playing fair. 

"Bolton needs to give those pictures up, or they will press charges. I won't try to stop them if they do, and I don't think Ramsay Bolton will be loyal to whoever hired him!"

He let the word sink. He was not bluffing; it was the best he could do now. 

"Tyrion –"Baelish trailed warningly. 

"Get the pictures back and get him away from here, away from them," Tyrion said. 

He was sure that Jon would not agree to his bargain. Jon Snow would want to press charges against the man. He also knew, however, that Baelish understood blackmail, and he understood that legal charges to a man who would sell him out in a second would look terrible during the AMPAS voting period. It would kill his movie's chances to get anything, even a lone nomination. 

"They wouldn't press charges," Baelish said. He sounded confident but could see he didn't think that. He didn't have any control over the cast. Tyrion had made sure he didn't. 

It was also stupid, showing that the man didn't know Jon Snow and his cast. At all. 

Tyrion was reasonably sure that they would accept his bargain, Jon would not like it, and neither would Jorah – but short of calling the police and pressing charge himself, that was the only thing he could do that would protect everyone and keep them safe. 

Baelish smiled and said, "Whoever hired Ramsay Bolton must have paid enormous money."

Tyrion shrugged. "And Bolton will want more to shut up. Aren't some people greedy arseholes? Speaking of, I filled out my Academy ballot yesterday. I couldn't vote for Joffrey but put My Beautiful Boy first wherever possible. The timeline is so tight this year!"

He didn't give a fuck about Joffrey and his ridiculous movie and all the money that was going around it. He believed his sister was making a mistake by trusting Joffrey's career so much, but Tyrion knew Cersei wouldn't listen to reason therefore he didn't even try to dissuade her.  

The only thing Tyrion cared about was that four friends could have died that night and that most of his cast and his director were alive by a miracle. 

"I suppose you have a point. However, I cannot imagine whoever might have hired Ramsay Bolton." Baelish said. He sounded irritated. He would need to shell out a lot of money, and he knew how much the man hated doing it. 

"We will shut down production for next week," Tyrion said, "Daenerys looked like she had fought a match with the Hulk when I saw her."

Baelish frowned and said, "Shouldn't we wait for the doctors' word?"

And that was it. He was  done!

"This is my movie, Baelish!" He said. And he felt terrible because he should have made things clear before because, given how close he had gotten to the cast and the crew letting Baelish be seen as the bad guy, the asshole producer had been convenient for him. 

The truth, however, was a bit more complicated than that. Yes, Baelish was the executive producer of the movie. Still, it was a technicality Tyrion had allowed to get more money for the movie and give Jon a better contract. 

The truth was that it  was  his movie. He had pitched it to the executives, overseen the financial aspect, only going to Cersei when a producer had backed out from financing; he had chosen the producers and the crew, he had chosen Jon Snow as a director because he had felt breathless watching Fire and Ice. He genuinely believed that he was immensely talented. 

He had been at every screen test, at every chemistry read, at every day of table reads, at every day of rehearsals; he had been on set almost every day. He had dealt with the press and the sane side of marketing for the movie. 

It was  his  movie. 

"This has never been and will never be my sister's playground," Tyrion said. 

He had been patient with Cersei because breaking a lifetime of habits and dynamics was hard. He was done. 

"That's not what we agreed on," Baelish said. The tone of his voice was cold. And he didn't care.

Baelish might be right; Tyrion had said many things to get Cersei to finance his movie. He had put everything into it. And despite his love for his friends, or maybe because of it, he couldn't let things get so out of hand again. 

Tyrion had been naïve, complacent and, deep down, scared of his sister, which was unforgivable. 

Tyrion had thought he had done the right thing when sided with Sansa. He had thought he had made a choice. He had been exceptionally good at lying to himself because he was making a choice now. The gloves were off with Cersei. 

Tyrion would no longer play fair because his sister would always think him weak and try to prevaricate him. Cersei would try to destroy everything he cared about because she could.

It occurred to him that Cersei couldn't truly sink his movie because she needed it; she had just bought the rights to distribute Joffrey's movie to the Eastern market, and he knew it hadn't been cheap. Cersei didn't have much more going for the studios; he had read the projections for the next six months, and they were a horror story. The only movie that had the potential to make money was Good Queen Alysanne because it had good hype, it had a genuine movie star in it and because his movie usually did well at the box office. 

Baelish knew that. Tyrion smiled and said, "As I said, some people are greedy arseholes."

Cersei and Baelish would retaliate once the dust settled. And he couldn't afford to live in denial any more. He needed to keep his eyes open. 

He also hoped that he would understand something, anything, really, about the Starks' plan when they came because, at that point, he had no choice but to be in. 

  

Chapter 21: Everything, Everywhere, All at Once

Summary:

The aftermath of the accident. Conversations and decisions. The Starks are here. The fans are worried.

Notes:

First of all thanks to those who read, bookmarked, and left comments and kudos on the story. We’re heading toward the end—three or maybe four more chapters. I counted how many characters were in this chapter, and I sort of couldn’t believe it. I’m not entirely satisfied with this chapter, just like the previous one. I will probably go back and edit them when I have time. Can you spot the quote from another fandom? The chapter’s title is a little inside joke with a friend of mine because while I was mapping out this chapter, I was like, “I have basically all the characters of the story in this chapter. Whelp!” and she kept saying, “EEAAO!” so, this is me being silly. Lovely movie, by the way. I keep making notes as I write because I’m having fun. The next chapter is coming soon. I'm working on it:)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa was fine. She was okay – and so were her friends. Margaery Tyrell felt just about ready to pass out for the relief she was feeling and for how much it had hurt when she had not known anything. She was far from being a wilting flower, but the truth was that the phone call from Tyrion Lannister had uncovered all the wounds left by Loras' death. They were not closed; they were still there – she had just gotten very good at pretending they were healing. 

She was usually excellent at not showing weakness and how close she felt to sobbing at any second to the world. 

 Theon had noticed. They had known each other for too long, and Theon was a good and caring person. So, he took her by the arm and said, "Let's go get some air. Sansa still has to have some tests done, and the air here is too dry."

"Theon –"Margaery trailed. 

"She is fine – you heard the doctor. It's you I'm worried about. Come –"

Theon could be kind and sweet. He often was with her, even before they got together.

She realised as she linked her arm with Theon's that she was shaking, and she honestly felt like shit. 

There was a park outside the private hospital, and the freezing air came as a shock to her body when they got outside. She was glad for that, however. She hated being inside hospitals. 

"Tyrion should make sure that paparazzi don't swarm this place." She said, looking around. It was only a matter of time before paparazzi would find out where the cast and the director of a very hyped movie had been taken. The very last thing she wanted for Sansa was for her to worry about the paparazzi in that place. She would need to rest and focus on getting better. 

"You are right," Theon said. 

They walked, and as they did, she unlinked her arm, and Theon took her hand in his. She felt she could breathe better, and her eyes weren't stinging with tears any more. She could think, and perhaps she would not have a meltdown. No one needed that.  She  didn't need that. 

She realised that it was also the first time Theon and her walked anywhere together, hand in hand. It was insane! They spent so much time together. They had for months. And it wasn't just about sex; that ship had long sailed. They talked and watched telly and commented on the news; they worked – they sometimes went out for dinner. And yet, that was the first time Theon had taken her hand in his, and she liked it. 

She sighed, "My father called me – that night." she said. The words had been sitting on her chest all evening, and she had felt close to breaking down and starting sobbing because her body felt like it had been thrust back in time. 

"They didn't tell us anything. We didn't know what to think. It was a busy night. Eventually, some doctor came and told us that he was dead. He didn't make it to the hospital."    

The tears were again stinging in her eyes, but saying the words helped her breathe better. She hadn't told anyone – and there were still nights when she saw the four of them sitting and waiting and crying in that hospital.

They stopped walking, and Theon hugged her; she could feel him kissing her hair as he held her for a moment. She let the tears fall. 

Sansa was fine. Her best friend was okay. That was the most important thing – or she would fly to London and kill Cersei Lannister with her bare hands—the hell with revenge plans!

"Let's sit down," Theon said in a hoarse voice. 

She looked at the man, and she saw tears in his eyes. She squeezed his hand as they sat down and said, "It brought back memories, but I'm fine, Theon. I am." She smiled and said, "Jon must be looking for you. Don't be mad at him, love. He looked so worried back there."

Theon drooped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to him, and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't even think – I just asked you to come with me."

"As you should," Margaery said. She kissed him and said, "It's your sister, she is my best friend. I'm fine. Everything is fine. Go back inside and talk to Jon. It was not his fault."

"I know. Sorry. I was an arse to him. Fucking Ramsay Bolton!"

They had been in Theon and Sansa's flat. She had a night shoot, Theon had been working most of the afternoon, and she had rehearsed lines. They had just had dinner when the phone call had arrived. 

"You are a good man, Theon Greyjoy." She said, squeezing his hand in hers. It was the truth, and Theon deserved to hear it. He still felt guilty about Joffrey Baratheon. He still felt guilty because he had hurt his parents growing up. He was a good son, a good brother and a terrific boyfriend. 

"And you are amazing," Theon said. 

She shook her head. Theon didn't have to make it about her. She wasn't amazing.

"You are." Theon said, "I'm sure he would be proud of you."

That made her chuckle. She rested her head against his shoulder for a moment and said, "He would think I am completely insane."

Loras would tell her she was crazy, that fighting the system was one thing, but going kamikaze on it was another. Even though – he had paid with his life for the questions and the digging he had done. 

"We need to tell Sansa," Theon said, "about us and your plan."

Theon was right on both counts. Her heart faltered. Her throat became suddenly tight. Sansa could have died in the accident. Gods – if Jon Snow hadn't been there, she might have lost her closest friend. 

"You're right." She said. "She won't like my plan." It was one of the reasons why she still hadn't told her. She knew Sansa, and she knew that she would get mad at her. Her plan would make them fight. 

"No – I don't believe she will, but she will have a choice. We need to tell her."

"Good thing she doesn't hate us – being together," Margaery replied. 

"She doesn't ask any questions." Theon smiled, "But she doesn't hate it."

"She is your sister." Margaery said, "This has to come first for you. Sansa comes before the plan."

Theon looked at her. He didn't know that she was trying her best to protect him, but he knew her. They had had similar conversations in the past weeks. Theon didn't seem to care about the fallout of their actions. It was everything she could think about. 

"I will always stand by my sister, but I'm not afraid."

Well, she was. And she was also in love with Theon and terrified of the consequences of her plans for his life and career. 

She didn't reply at first, but when she did, she softly said, "Go back inside and talk to Jon. I'm fine. I swear to you!"

"Are you sure, love?" Theon asked. 

"Positive." She replied with a smile and then said, "I will be back shortly. I don't want to turn into a popsicle."

Theon grinned; he kissed her hair again as he stood up. He let go of her hand, and she heard him whisper, "I love you." against her hair.

What?  She was flabbergasted. Things had changed between them for the past few weeks. And true, she was the first who had uttered the word  love  as a term of endearment. They had never said  I love you  so far. As Theon walked back inside, new tears welled up in her eyes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Theon and she had fallen in love right before she unleashed hell on the Lannisters, and they would retaliate. 


 Tyrion needed to get some air. The phone was hot in his hands, and the air in the room was dry and too warm. He stepped out of the waiting room and walked outside. He had been in contact with his friends' people, with Oberyn, and he was waiting for the doctors to give him the prognosis before officially shutting down production. 

Baelish had left – nothing was left to say after he was done talking. He was waiting for a message where the man would tell him that he had dealt with the Boltons. Or they would have a problem. 

Oberyn had told him that he had people checking the internet and social media because Tyrion didn't trust Baelish, and he sure as hell didn't trust the Boltons. 

Tyrion walked in the garden outside the hospital; he thought about the fact that they had to keep that location a secret and that they would probably need more security, just in case the paparazzi found out where they were. Which he fervently hoped they wouldn't. 

Oberyn had also told him that the reactions to the accident online mainly were of love and support for his cast and director. People genuinely loved Sansa, Daenerys, Jorah and Jon. And they were worried about them. 

He was worried, too. He had talked to one of the doctors; his friends were okay, but there would be an official prognosis in a little while. He was glad – he would never forgive himself if something happened to them. 

He was so lost in thought that, at first, he didn't even notice the woman sitting on a bench, and when he did, he saw that she was wiping away tears from her face. It was Margaery Tyrell, Sansa’s friend. He felt his heart in his throat, surprised by the fear he felt cursing through his veins. 

"Did something happen?" He asked, stepping closer to the woman. 

The woman looked at him, confused for a moment, then cleared her throat and said, "Sansa is fine. She was having an MRI scan when I left."

He sighed in relief and nodded at the woman. He had heard a lot about the woman from Sansa – and, weirdly enough, from Varys once. The man had told him, "She is a clever girl, that one." And Tyrion took another step toward the bench. It was a freezing cold night. 

"Sansa is fine." Margaery repeated, "You didn't lose your leading lady."

Her tone was sweet, but the look in her eyes was hard, and her words were harsh and unfair. 

"She is a friend. I care about her." Tyrion said. 

The woman tilted an eyebrow up at his words. She moved on the bench and gave him a look, silently inviting him to sit down next to her. 

"So, Sansa says," Margaery said. 

Tyrion sat down next to the woman, and neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then Margaery said, "We met once, you know?"

"Did we?" Tyrion asked. 

Margaery chuckled and said, "I didn't make an impression, evidently. I screen-tested for Alysanne!"

Tyrion smiled, but he honestly didn't remember her. He looked at the woman: she had clearly been crying, and he remembered the way she had looked at him when she had come to the hospital. 

"In my defence, we truly saw a lot of actresses," Tyrion said with a small smile. 

"I don't mind. " The woman said with a hand wave, "And Sansa is perfect for the role," Margaery replied, and that were possibly the first words she had said to him that weren't laced with something dark in them: either hatred or contempt. 

"How long have you known each other?" He asked, trying to make small talk because Sansa clearly loved that woman. And he loved Sansa. 

"Ages! We were children – Arya was a toddler. Our dads became friends as well." She said. 

That was an interesting tidbit: he didn't know the Starks and the Tyrells were friends. Talk about having powerful friends!

"We even stayed in contact while she was engaged to your nephew," Margaery said evenly. There weren't any traces of tears in her eyes and contempt on her face. It was blank. Almost scarily so as she said those words. 

The thing was that Tyrion had read the woman's comments after Joffrey's tweets; he had noticed that Margaery had been among the first people to help their response video spread online. She had consistently retweeted and liked their pictures. Her support to Team GQA had been there since the very beginning, yet, for some reason, his instincts were telling him that the woman could not be trusted. 

"Good thing you are here in Belfast, then." He said. 

"Lucky coincidence," Margaery said, "She has been so worried about paparazzi lately. I mean – what happened tonight is crazy. Ramsay Bolton is a disgrace."

Her voice was light; nevertheless, Tyrion could hear accusation in it. Or, perhaps, he was feeling guilty and was projecting his own feelings. He wasn't sure, and he didn't like that uncertainty. It wasn't like him. 

"No one will bother her anymore," Tyrion said. 

"Really, Mr.  Lannister ?" Margaery asked, and Tyrion didn't miss how she emphasised his surname. It wasn't the first time he had heard it like that. Oberyn was a friend, but he had listened to the same venom in his voice, saying his surname many times. 

He thought that perhaps being the pariah of his family had done him some good. He had been forced to build his own network from scratch; he had had to make friends despite his name, not because of it. 

He had had no help in his career because his father didn't care for screenwriters, and his sister was the same. He had built his career on his own, helped by his name only because people tended not to overlook Lannisters. 

He usually cared that people knew he wasn't his father, sister, or, God forbid, his nephew. But that night, with that woman, Tyrion could only say, "Really, Ms. Tyrell. As I said, Sansa is a friend, and so are her castmates and her director."

Margaery looked at him for a moment, and Tyrion wasn't sure whether she believed him or if she thought he was just a Lannister being a liar. 

Eventually, the woman said, "You must excuse my manners. It's been – your phone call brought back terrible memories."

She didn't sound apologetic in the least. For some reason, she sounded like she wanted Tyrion to know about his phone call and its effect on her. Or was it the fact that it brought back bad memories? He couldn't tell for sure. It was frustrating! 

"I'm sorry to hear that," He said, "and you have nothing to apologise for."

Margaery sighed and said, "I do. It's not your fault if your nephew is an arsehole. I should have remembered that."

She was good. But Tyrion didn't buy it. He wouldn't have survived in his family without honing his instinct. The woman could not be trusted, regardless of how sincere she sounded. 

She had not lied – Joffrey was an arsehole, and it wasn't his fault. He thought about Varys calling her "a clever girl.". How did Varys even know about her? Tyrion knew from experience that Varys did not make casual acquaintances and never gave his opinion on people lightly. His words always had a weight. 

Margaery got up, and he saw that she was wearing jeans, sneakers and a jumper under her coat. Was she with Theon Greyjoy when Bronn went to pick Sansa's brother up?

"I want to see Sansa. Will you come?"

"In a moment." He said. 

"Sansa really cares about you. She loves her castmates. It's so good to see her happy again." Margaery said. There was honesty in her voice now. 

He agreed with her. Joffrey and his sister had made sure that she was alone and lonely so that they could do whatever they wanted with her. 

"But she has  us  – her family," Margaery said. 

He was aware that Sansa had people who loved her. He was one of them. Why did it feel like Margaery was threatening him?

The woman looked at him and said, "I guess we'll see each other later." She waved her goodbye and went away, her pace quick and elegant. 

Tyrion checked his mobile. He had just got the draft of the joint statement Sansa, Dany, Jorah and Jon's people had put together and sent to Oberyn, according to whom the situation was under control. 

He sent a message to Varys anyway because he wanted to know in which way Margaery Tyrell was a "clever girl". 

He didn't wait for Varys' reply. He dialled a number on his phone. 

"Shae, love?" When the woman picked up right away, he said, "No, I wasn't with them. They are fine."

He needed to hear Shae's voice. He needed to hear from someone who loved him, who didn't blame him, who would remind him that even if his surname was Lannister, he wasn't a monster – and that he was doing the right thing. 

"I've been an idiot." He said. He sighed, shivering from the cold. He told her everything that happened that night. And before, when he had played fair with his sister, dumbly believing that she would ever do the same. 

 


 

 

They had given her something for the pain. Her chest was purple with bruises; her face was swollen; there were cuts on her neck; the gash on her temple had been stitched up; breathing was painful, and her head still hurt, but it could have been so much worse. Daenerys felt fine, all things considered. And she wanted to see Jorah, Sansa and Jon. 

Her mind was foggy, which, given the drugs and the concussion, was to be expected. She had a few clear memories of the events that had occurred that night. 

Daenerys remembered Jorah taking her in his arms and bringing her out of that car. That moment was one of the few that had felt real. Even if it had felt like a scene in a movie, Jorah sounded scared and in pain. She remembered that. 

Daenerys had blabbed her mouth about her father and her brother – and she had been mostly relieved that the knot of dread in her stomach had finally gone. 

It had been still there – however, after they hit the roadblock. She didn't know, however, if it was a dream or if she really had woken up in the dark, in the middle of the road and had called Jorah's name without getting an answer. It might have been a nightmare. She wanted to believe it had been a nightmare.

 Jorah was alive. He was fine, all things considered. Yet, there were still tendrils of the fear she had felt when she had called Jorah's name, and the man didn't answer her. So, maybe it had really happened. A nightmare come true. 

The doctors told her that she didn't have to move too much because of the broken ribs and the concussion. They should have thought of it before putting Jorah and her into two separate rooms! There was no way in which she would not get up from that bed and go check on the man she loved. 

It didn't even hurt much when she managed to sit on the bed and get up. Daenerys swayed a little, not caring much about what they had given her to wear, which was paper thin. She was careful with the IV as she walked out of the room. 

Daenerys could walk, and she didn't see double anymore, but the light hurt her eyes, and her head throbbed, but she was in the hallway – and she needed to find Jorah. She didn't even care that she must look like a mad woman. Priorities. Find Jorah – then ask about Sansa and Jon. Then, she needed to talk to Missandei. She didn't have her mobile phone. It was in her purse, and she had no idea where it was. Her friend must have already called Tyrion. Gods. The thought of her son stopped in her tracks. What if it had happened while Rhaego was with her? Why didn't she tell anyone about that motorbike and that SUV?

She walked. She would need to call Missandei as soon as she got her phone back. She wanted to hear her son's voice. Hopefully, Missandei hadn't told Rhaego. 

She breathed. It hurt, but she felt better, less close to a panic attack and more herself. Jorah was three rooms before hers. And she would need to make clear that they had to be in the same room. If it made her codependent, she didn't care. 

There was a doctor with Jorah. The man looked at her disapprovingly when she got into the room. 

"Daenerys?" Jorah said, genuinely surprised. She looked at him: he had some scratches on his forehead and neck, there was a stitched gash on his jaw, a large bruise on his forehead, he had a splint covering his right arm and his shoulder was bandaged. 

"You shouldn't be here." The doctor said, "You should be in bed."

Daenerys ignored the doctor and looked at Jorah before saying, "So you were fine?"

Jorah tilted his head to a side, and there was amusement in his eyes when he said, "Adrenaline. I couldn't feel a thing."

Daenerys rolled her eyes, which was more painful than she expected. She didn't let on. 

"Men," She said aloud.

The doctor sighed and told Daenerys she couldn't stay in the room. 

Oh, sweet child of Summer!  She thought. 

"We were in the car together. He is my partner." She said. 

It was the first time that she had said those words to a stranger. They had lived the last few months of their lives in a bubble where everyone knew about Jorah and her, and either didn't care, or they were supportive. It was the first time she told about Jorah, someone she had never met. 

The doctor didn't seem fazed; he said, "You shouldn't be up. You said it yourself. You were in a car accident!"

"Five minutes!" Daenerys said, but she ignored him and sat on the chair next to Jorah's bed. It wasn't her best idea. It hurt –  everywhere.  She looked at Jorah, who sounded almost angry when he said, "I'll call the nurse. You need to be in bed, my love."

She took his hand in hers – it took a little manoeuvring with the IV, but she managed and said, "I'm fine, Jorah – what the hell happened?"

Jorah looked at her worriedly and asked, "What do you remember?"

"Everything, but nothing feels real – it feels like a dream. A very fucked up dream. How are Sansa and Jon?"

"Fine, as far as I know," Jorah replied, squeezing her hand. 

"So, did it happen or –" She meant to say Ramsay Bolton's name, and she meant the stunt he had pulled, but she trailed. Daenerys wasn't sure what the official version would be, so she erred on caution, but thankfully, Jorah got it right away. 

"It did. How did you know it was  him ?" Jorah asked. 

"Because I saw that motorbike and that SUV in Edinburgh and Belfast and because I've heard that he always wears leather."

Jorah looked furious now, but he was there, holding her hand. He looked and felt genuine. 

She felt close to tears for a moment, and her voice came out nasal when she said, "I think I woke up – I called your name, and you didn't answer."

She was aware that she sounded and probably looked pathetic, but the fear she had felt had been staggering. She couldn't think of going through that ever again. She would go crazy if she lost Jorah.

Jorah squeezed her hand tighter and said, "I was so relieved when I heard your voice."

She tried to blink back tears; she really did, but they came anyway when she told him, "When I looked at you, I stopped being afraid."

Jorah smiled, and she couldn't help smiling back at him. She knew, at that moment, with a certainty she had never felt so strongly in her life that there would not be anyone else for her. There couldn't be. Jorah was everything to her.  

"Your arm –"Daenerys trailed. 

"And shoulder – but it's nothing, really. It could have been so much worse. Jon saved us."

"I told Tyrion about –" She trailed because the doctor was still there. 

"We will talk to him. I asked Jon to get Varys. I wasn't thinking straight."

"You freed me," Daenerys said. She remembered Jorah holding a blade and freeing her from the stuck seatbelt. She couldn't help it if he was her hero at that moment. 

"Aye. And you should be in bed, my love. I am fine – and I am not going anywhere." Jorah said. 

"Ever?" Daenerys asked. She didn't think she was usually so needy, but being rational wasn't precisely her top priority. 

"Ever." Jorah said solemnly, "I promise."

She deflated. The tendrils of fear were vanishing, and her heartbeat was not as crazy as it had been since the accident. She also needed to talk to Tyrion because there was no way she wasn't sharing the room with Jorah. 

"I'm calling the nurse," Jorah said, but he was still holding her hand.

"I'm going," Daenerys said, but she didn't move. 

She had never been religious, but she was reconsidering things that night. They were alive. They were fine. She had been given Jorah. That was a miracle. 


 

Sansa was in her room with Theon and Margaery. She had a concussion, so they were keeping her under observation. The doctor said she had three broken ribs and a sprained knee. She had bruises all over her body, and she was lucky to be alive. Mostly, she felt exhausted. 

"You shouldn't have called mum and dad." She said. Her voice sounded weird to her own ears. Was it normal?

Theon, who was sitting on the chair next to the bed, took her hand in his and said, "You scared the crap out of me, Sansa – and what are you talking about? Did you want them to know from the Internet?"

Sansa blinked and said, "It got out?"

Theon nodded, and Sansa sighed. "How are the others?" she asked. "I can't remember anything!"

She was so embarrassed. She didn't remember anything from the moment they got in the car to go back to Belfast, but she recalled every single detail of the flashback she had had. Joffrey and how he crashed her car while she was driving in his park. It had never happened to her. Sure, she had had panic attacks in cars before. But it had never been like  that.  She had genuinely thought she was doing better. 

She couldn't remember anything – and it was bothering her. 

"They are fine – you guys were lucky," Margaery said. Sansa looked at her friend. She felt terrible for Margaery. Loras had not been lucky, and it had broken her friend's heart when he died. 

"Oh, my Gods, are you all right?" She asked. 

Margaery sat on the chair's armrest, right next to Theon and said, "I'm fine, honey. I'm just happy that you are okay."

"She looks like she lost a match with the Winter Soldier," Theon said.

She saw Margaery playfully slap the back of Theon's head, and then she said, "Don't listen to him! Jon told us about the Paparazzi."

"You saw Jon?" She asked. She tried to move, but both Theon and Margaery stopped her while she said, "How is he? Where is he?"

There was a black hole where her memories were supposed to be. The doctor had told her it was not uncommon – but she was worried about the others. And she wanted to see Jon. 

"He is fine – just some bruises. They aren't even keeping him under observation. He said there was a motorbike and a SUV." Margaery said. 

Sansa shook her head. She didn't remember a thing. "When are mum and dad coming?"

"Soon." Theon said, "Robb is coming as soon as he can, Arya is in Moscow, or she would be already here. She said she would call later."

"The fencing tournament?" She asked. Her head was so foggy, and it hurt to think. 

"Theon, Jon must be going crazy – bring him here, please?" Margaery said. 

Yes. She needed to see Jon. She wanted to know how Daenerys and Jorah were doing. 

"Don't  ever  do that again, sister!" Theon said, squeezing her hand tight. He got up and let go of her hand, following Margaery's suggestion. 

"I'm sorry." Sansa said, "I didn't mean to scare you guys!"

She looked at Theon and Margaery, who, at that moment, weren't even pretending they weren't together like they usually tried to do when they were all together. When they were alone, Sansa said, "You look cute together, but I'm not ready for the conversation with both of you."

"Saved by the concussion!" Margaery said and smirked when she said, "You didn't even tell me you were going out with Jon tonight."

"And Dany and Jorah. He has next week off." Sansa said. 

Margaery rolled her eyes, "Honey, you're pants at lying right now,"

Sansa sighed, which was painful, but she tried not to let on. She didn't want Margaery to learn about Jon and her like that. She had meant to tell her when she wrapped the movie. 

"Sansa, how long have we known each other?" Margaery asked.

"Forever?" Sansa replied. 

"Exactly," Margaery said, "I guess we're even? Me not telling you about Theon and all."

She loved Margaery with all her heart. She did. She was her best friend and one of the few people she trusted implicitly. Yet she couldn't help saying in a low voice, "Don't break Theon's heart, please."

Margaery let out a tremulous sigh, and Sansa noticed that her lips quivered, as always when she tried not to cry. 

"I love him, Sansa." Margaery said after a moment, "And believe me when I say that I didn't see it coming."

She did. She also knew how easy it was to love Theon. And she also knew that her friend had not lied. She could usually tell when Margaery lied. She knew her tells. 

"He loves you, you know?" Sansa said, "You are making him happy."

Margaery blinked at her words, and she saw two tears trail down her cheeks. 

"Bloody hell!" Margaery said, and since Sansa had been in a car accident, she was exhausted and felt raw after her very vivid flashback of that time Joffrey had almost killed them both in a car. She felt tears trailing down her cheeks, too. 

When they looked at each other, they couldn't help giggling. It felt good. It felt like when they were kids and giggled about boys. 

The door opened, and Sansa saw Jon and Theon getting in. 

Margaery squeezed her hand for a moment, then she got up and said, "C'mon, Greyjoy, we need some tea!"

Theon sighed, looking at her and Jon for a moment and then said, "All right. I guess I will call Robb. He has sent me a million texts. My battery is fucked!"

"Good thing I have a charger in my purse then! Come on, off we pop!" Margaery said, ushering him outside and leaving with a smirk and a wink. 

Her friend could be very subtle when she wanted. She definitely didn't want to in that case. 

Jon looked pale. He had a stitched gash on his forehead and a bruise on his face, and he looked exhausted. Yet, he smiled as he got close to her bed. 

"How are you?" Sansa asked. Jon sat down and immediately took her hand, "I'm good. It's just a scratch!"

Sansa was relieved to hear that. She was relieved to be holding his hand. She hesitated a moment before she asked, "What happened?"

Jon sighed and asked, "What do you remember?"

"My other accident – the one with Joffrey. He made me crash the car, and the windshield shattered – hence the scars on my collarbone. I remember nothing past us getting in the car outside the restaurant."

There was nothing. Sansa had been trying to remember – she had vague recollections of the paramedics, and then she had woken up at the hospital. 

"Ramsay Bolton – or so Daenerys said." Jon said, "The bastard parked his motorbike sideways in the middle of the road. I lost control because of the ice on the road. I'm so sorry, Sansa!"

She kissed his hand. It was warm and soft – and she mumbled against the back of his hand, "Whatever for? I think you saved our lives. You are always a careful driver!"

"Perhaps I shouldn't have been careful," Jon said. 

Sansa let go of Jon's hand and brushed his face with her fingers. "And he might have done worse – please, love, don't beat yourself up about this."

She might not remember the accident, but she knew Jon. The man she loved would find ways to feel guilty for what happened. She should remember. She should do something to help him because it wasn't Jon's fault. 

"I almost choked Baelish earlier," Jon said, leaning into her caress. 

She smiled, "Now, this I would have liked to see. Did you talk to Tyrion?"

Jon retook her hand, they intertwined fingers, and the man said, "I might have been an arse to him."

"Jon, love, listen to me: do not beat yourself up about any of this," Sansa said. She cared about Tyrion, but she was sure the man would understand. And she couldn't bring herself to care either way. 

"I didn't know what to do." Jon said, "You couldn't hear me. I couldn't reach you. You kept saying that you couldn't breathe."

Jon sounded pained. And it broke her heart to watch him like that. She had never seen him like that. Unlike her, Jon remembered everything, and it was upsetting him. 

"I am so sorry." She said, "I don't know what happened. I thought I was there –"She shook her head, "I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon shook his head, "Remember?" He said, "We agreed to stop apologising to each other."

"We both should, then." She said, and she smiled, "You should get some rest. You look like hell!"

"Nope. Not going anywhere." Jon said, "Besides, someone needs to protect doctors and nurses from Daenerys. She went into Jorah's room."

"How is she?" Sansa asked. 

Jon grimaced and said, "Dany has broken ribs, bruises and scrapes. She has a concussion, like you. She won't leave Jorah's side."

"Is he okay?" Sansa asked. 

"Broken arm and a badly dislocated shoulder. But you know Dany."

She did. Daenerys would not leave Jorah's side, and she was sure that it would be the same if the opposite had happened. 

"Next time, we'll order in!" Sansa said, "My brother told me the news broke."

Jon nodded, "I got a phone call from Tormund, Ellaria, and Daario also called. Brienne wanted to come here. Davos will be here in the morning. I think Brienne will tag along."

"Are there any pictures?" She asked. If Ramsay Bolton had followed them and had caused the accident – there had to be pictures. 

"No, there aren't. Tyrion told me he would deal with it. I know our people have made a joint statement; I have the draft on my phone, but I didn't look at it. It's all lies anyway."

"What is the official version of the story?" Sansa asked.

"Ice on the road. Four friends out for dinner, and a tragedy was avoided because I was sober." Jon said, his voice ripe with disgust. 

Jon was a strong man – he was also honest to a fault. It hurt to hear that tone of voice. It hurt to watch him so torn up about what happened. 

"Read it to me. We might as well know what our people came up with."

“Sansa –“ Jon trailed.

"What options do we have? They have already decided for us. And we are fine. We are going to be okay." She said. She hated that she wasn't that upset at the lies their people would come up with, but the truth would not help anyone. And besides, she didn't remember the truth. 

"Later." Jon said, "And you're right. I hate that Bolton will get away scot-free."

"Me too. And I'm not a big fan of myself right now because I understand their logic."

"Don't." Jon said, "I'm just not rational right now."

She wanted to hold him. She wanted, needed to tell him so badly that he was a good person, way better than her. She was afraid that he would see it one day, that he would see that the Lannisters had damaged her so much because the game made sense to her.

"You are tired. It's been a rough evening. But, love, we are all alive. It's a miracle."

"I couldn't help you. I could just – watch."

"But you did!" Sansa said. It hurt to raise her voice, but she didn't care, "And you have! My Gods, Jon – you saved me every day since we've met!" It was the truth. She might be damaged, but Jon was saving her. And she should have told him sooner. 

"I should have –"Jon trailed.

"We are a team, aren't we?" She asked, "A couple, lovers, friends, the director and his leading lady, a team of the two of us,"

"Yes, of course," Jon said, and he saw the tension leaving his shoulders at her words. 

"Then it's fine. You saved me, and you were so handsome tonight." She smiled. She would not stand by and watch the man blaming himself for her fucked up mind and for the fucked up people that were in their lives. She couldn't remember, but that wouldn't stop her from talking to Jon. 

Jon got close to her and brushed her lips with his. "I love you." He murmured against her lips. 

Her heart was drumming against her ribcage. It sort of hurt, but she didn't care. Jon Snow had just told her he loved her. Sansa hugged him with her IV-free arm, and Jon was so careful and mindful of her injuries that it almost brought tears to her eyes. She believed Jon's words because he showed her all the time, and the very last thing she wanted was to hurt him, and she couldn't believe that he loved  her. 

"I love you." She said. It was the most surreal night of her life. Perhaps their timing was all shot to hell, but it was also the truth: she loved Jon Snow with everything she was. 


Melisandre Gossip: Celebrity Gossip, News, Photos Rumours

 

Earlier last night, Daenerys Stormborn, Jorah Mormont, Sansa Stark and Jon Snow were involved in a car crash outside Belfast. Their joint statement, released to the press half an hour ago, assured fans that everyone is all right and is expected to make a full recovery. We have reached out to their representatives, who confirmed to us that they are indeed fine, and they are all very thankful and moved by the outpouring of support and love they have received since the news of the accident broke. 

While the dynamics of the accident are still under investigation, sources confirmed to us that Jon Snow was driving the car and he was sober at the time of the accident. 

"Jon Snow has saved his friends' lives tonight." our source tells us. 

Representatives for Jon Snow declined to comment on this statement but said, "Jon is glad that his friends are okay and that the car crash didn't have dramatic consequences."

Our sources blame the ice on the road for the accident. 

Stay tuned, as this is still a developing story. 

 


 

From Twitter: 

Group chat: #jonsa

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar : I'm still freaking out. 

 

sansastarkGQA : me too. But their joint statement has stopped making me fear the worst. 

 

snowismyfire:  the barafreaks are surprisingly civil about this. (things you don't see coming: a. the fucking accident b. Baratheon's stans not being shits)

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  my sources know zip. All I know is that they were afraid too and surprised because Jon is a cautious driver.

 

Fireandice456:  Man, it's been a few crazy hours. I noped out of the main feed because they were being so fucking morbid over there!

 

jornaerysownme:  ikr? It was driving me nuts – people were talking as if they were dead!

 

snowismyfire:  aaaand the itk answered my DM. It was short, and I didn't even notice when they were online. And don't judge, but I'm crying rn.

Copy/paste, then I'll send the screenshot later:

 

They are fine. Some broken bones and lots of bruises, from what I hear. They are okay. They didn't lie in their statement about their health. 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  thank Gods! We have an official word and also the ITK. Still, how the fuck did it happen? Ice on the road? What?

 

Khaleesiandqueen:  I don't know. I can't stop thinking about Dany. Her father and brother died in a car accident. I can't imagine the fear. 

 

jornaerysownme:  @ khaleesiandqueen  Yeah, I kept thinking about that, too. Also, people on my feed call it tragic irony and shit like this. Fucking vultures. 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  how is your side of the fandom coping? 

 

Jornaerysownme:  freaking out, scared and worried. Copy/paste the articles so as not to give them clicks. Sadly, we have experience with dealing with tabloids exploiting one of them. There are no pictures – and even if they were to appear, we won't share them. But still, from what I saw, very worried. 

 

Fireandice456:  no one – cast and crew of GQA I follow on social media has said a word. None of the people close to them has written anything. I was going crazy with worry. And I don't even know these people!

 

  jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  my sources were extremely worried because there was radio silence. My blood pressure is still through the roof. It's a good thing it's Friday (make it Saturday now); I'm drinking wine right now. Cheers. 

 

sansastarkGQA:  lol, me too. I poured myself a stiff one as soon as I read the statement. 

 

fireandice456:  do you think they will shut down production? I'm checking, but still no news. 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  idk. They might? The itks talked about broken bones. They are ahead of schedule anyway.

 

jornaerysownme:  Okay, now that we know they are going to be fine, can I be  that  person? Don't @ me. But Daenerys, Jorah, Sansa and Jon were together last night. For reasons? *cough* double date *cough* too soon?

 

snowismyfire:  I don't know, bb. Maybe – but I've been thinking the same. 

 

sansastarkGQA:  so, tabloids are trying to sell that Sansa and Daario are a thing. Meanwhile, Jon and Sansa were out with Dany and Jorah. 

 

Khaleesiandqueen:  they might be just friends out for drinks. 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  in one car. Away from Belfast. I feel horrible for saying this because of the accident, but it very much reads like a double date to me. 

 

jornaerysownme:  with no Naharis in sight. 

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  And Melisandre, Scoop and the other tabloids did not even remark on this. Like,  no one.  Are we delusional?

 

Fireandice456: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar  bb, that ship has long sailed, I'm afraid. * Shines tinfoil hat * they had a joint statement – and it was the four of them. I suppose they might be good friends – who are spending all their time together and decide to hang out with a  couple  in their spare time? On Friday night, using just one car? Sure, Jan. Like, there is a limit to my suspension of disbelief!

 

khalessiandqueen:  I'm just glad that they are okay, tbh. 

 

jornaerysownme:  Same, it's food for thought,  but  had it been Daario in that car and not Jon, I might have started to sort of believe tabloids. As it is….* grabs tinfoil hat*

 

jonsnowdeservedanoscar:  but it wasn't. It was Jon. With Sansa. And Dany and Jorah, who are a couple. And my sources still don't know anything. Wait and see, I guess? Gods, I'm so glad they're okay. 

 


Sansa was asleep. He would check on her in a little while, but she had found a position she was more or less comfortable with, and she had been exhausted. He thought that there might be some truth in the saying that money was power because Tyrion Lannister had spared no money and had made sure that they all had accommodations they were okay with for the night. He wasn't strictly speaking a patient, but he had a bed next to Sansa, and he knew that Dany and Jorah had been moved into a room together. 

Sansa had been in pain, and he could still read it in the lines around her mouth. She had been in pain but in a good mood, even after he had finally read her their "joint statement". He had decided not to go online. He was rereading their statement because he still didn't like it. Jon still didn't like the idea that Ramsay Bolton was free to do whatever he wanted to some poor other sod. He still hadn't talked to Daenerys and Jorah, even if they had texted because someone had given them their personal effects. They had a tentative plan to regroup in Daenerys and Jorah's room later because Tyrion wanted to talk to them.

 He couldn't sleep – he was too wired to even try. Despite Sansa's words, he still felt guilty about the accident; he still believed he should have done something – anything differently. The fact that no one was seriously injured didn't absolve him. 

He heard knocking on the door. Sansa, who was a light sleeper, opened her eyes and beamed at him when she looked at him. 

He could have lost her – and he couldn't protect her from her flashback. Still, he smiled at her because it wasn't fair to dump those feelings on the woman. 

"Come in," Sansa said. 

Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully got into the room.

"Mum, Daddy!" Sansa said. Her voice was calm, but Jon saw that Sansa was trying to hide her pain in front of her parents.

He had seen their movies – they were two of the best actors of their generation, they were Hollywood royalty, and he had adored Lady Stoneheart. He had also thought about the moment when he would meet Sansa's parents, and never, not even in his wildest dream, he thought it would happen like that, not like that. 

"Sweetheart!" Catelyn Tully said, carefully hugging her daughter. She didn't cry, but Jon hadn't missed her red-rimmed eyes. She must have cried before. 

"Sansa," Ned Stark breathed. He looked like he was about to snap in two. He took his daughter's hand and held it as if he was hanging on a lifeline. 

They were a striking couple, even if they were wearing jeans and jumpers under their coats. 

“I am fine, really.” Sansa said. 

"The doctor said you need to take it easy. Broken ribs are a pain in the arse!" Ned said. 

Because, of course, Jon thought, Ned Stark would know. 

"Did they give you ice?" Sansa's mother asked. 

Sansa nodded and repeated, "I'm fine."

The Starks looked around and noticed his presence in the room. Catelyn was the first to get close to him and extended her hand. "I'm Jon Snow." He said. He felt like an idiot. 

"I'm Catherine, Sansa's mum. How do you feel, dear?" She asked. Jon was surprised by her question, and the kindness in her voice was unsettling for some reason. 

"Tired," Jon said. Yes, he was bruised, and his head hurt, but there was nothing wrong with him. "I'm sorry about what happened."

Ned Stark got close to him, Jon spied Sansa looking at the scene with some apprehension and asked, "For what? My son told us what happened."

Ned Stark's gaze was piercing, and he felt embarrassed. "I should have –"

"You did the right thing, Jon; may I call you Jon? I'm Ned." The man said. 

Jon nodded; he didn't trust his voice. He felt fraying around the edges; it had been a long night, and his mind kept going back to what happened, to all the things he could have done to prevent it. 

"You did the right thing. And you saved my daughter's life."

Jon didn't answer. He looked at Sansa, who was looking at him, not trying to hide what she felt. What was even the point? Her parents had come into the shared room, and he wasn't even injured. 

"Thank you, sir." Jon eventually said. Ned turned, and the man and the woman focused on Sansa. And Jon didn't know what to make of the fact that they hadn't even remarked about his presence in the room. 

"I will go and talk to Theon. He left when Sansa fell asleep."

"Margaery has a night shoot. He left with her and will be back with some clothes for Sansa." Catelyn said. 

"But mum!" Sansa said, "that – isn't necessary. I will be home in a couple of days anyway."

Sansa was wearing a gown and a long-sleeved nightgown the nurses had given her after she had asked because she had known her parents were coming, and she didn't want them to see the scars on her arms. 

Jon saw Sansa's mother caressing her hair and how her father looked at her. His hatred for the Lannisters went up a few notches because they managed, somehow, to make Sansa believe that she was alone. 

"You have no idea how good the things I'm hearing about you, Jon," Catelyn said, and he blinked his eyes in confusion and surprise. 

What was she talking about?

"I'm hearing you are doing amazing things with your movie." Catelyn specified. 

He smiled, "I do have an extraordinary leading lady." He said. 

Sansa rolled her eyes at his words, but Jon didn't miss the looks Sansa's parents exchanged. They were having a conversation – with just looks and tilts of their heads. 

Ned Stark nodded and said, "I will go and check on Mormont, Jon. Would you mind coming with me?"

Did he mind being alone with his girlfriend's father? Sort of. Did he have a choice? Not really. 

"Let's leave the girls alone," Ned said with a smile. Sansa tilted an eyebrow up at her father's words. They had decided to keep a low profile, but the accident had sort of derailed their plans. They were Sansa's parents, however, not some strangers. 

"Sure," Jon said. 

"Let me comb your hair, sweetheart, may I?" Catelyn said. 

Sansa looked confused, "Sure – "

"I'll be careful. I know you hit your head, baby." The woman said. 

He got out of the room with Sansa's father, and he saw that Ned wasn't smiling any more. 

"Are you sure it was Ramsay Bolton?" Ned asked. 

Jon sighed, then said, "Daenerys is – I have never met the man before." He ran a hand through his hair and hissed, "the fucker kept taking pictures even after I crashed the car!"

Ned Stark was a big man; he had short, ash-blonde hair and a beard, and he could clearly see anger in his features. 

"I have seen the paparazzi pictures of the past few weeks." 

Jon nodded his head. He had seen the bloody pictures, he had been in some of them, and he had done nothing. "I have underestimated the threat – and I'm sorry." He said.

"Don't apologise, Jon. They are arseholes, they don't usually try to kill people!" Ned said he looked at him for a moment and added, "Sansa never liked paparazzi – she used to be scared of them when she was a child. Why do you think we live in my family's home? It was too much for my kids after what happened with my brother and then with my sister-in-law."

They kept walking in silence after those words, and Jon thought about the man's words. Sansa had told him she hated paparazzi. She had never told him about her childhood fear of them. They turned a corner, and he heard Ned say, "You care about her."

Jon nodded. He had done a rubbish job hiding his feelings for Sansa since the first day. He wasn't about to lie to her father's face. 

"Good." Ned Stark said, "You are a good man."

From the stories Jorah had shared of Ned Stark, Jon knew Sansa's father was stingy with praise, especially to people in the business. He didn't know what to think of the man's words. Was it a blessing? Was Ned just sharing his opinion of him?  

"I won't let anything happen to her." He said, and they were near Jorah and Daenerys' room now. 

"That makes it two of us, Jon." Ned said, "You have all been playing fair with the Lannisters. We are done  playing."

"Baelish hired Ramsay Bolton," Jon said. For some reason, he trusted Oberyn Martell's words. The man would never lie to protect a Lannister. Not that it made a difference to Jon. He despised all of them. 

"I have known him for a long time. We haven't even started with him." Ned said and then knocked on the door. 

He looked at him for a moment. His eyes showed honesty when he said, "Sansa looks happy. I don't remember ever seeing that look on her face."

Jon's heart drummed in his ribcage. He lived for Sansa's smiles. He loved being the reason for them. 

"See that she keeps it, and we will never have a problem," Ned said. 

Ned Stark threatened him – but he felt he had sort of given them his blessings at the same time. He had questions for the man because Sansa slept in his arms most nights, and he had witnessed her nightmares, touched her scars, and held her as she fell deeper and deeper in a flashback that night. Where the hell were Sansa's parents while Joffrey hurt her? What did they have in mind? What was their plan? Because whatever it was, he was in. 

 


 

From Tumblr

 

mrandmrsMuir:

 

Anon wrote: Now that we know Daenerys and Jorah are fine, and she has posted on her Instagram to tell us that they are okay, we can all sigh in relief. Let's play a game, shall we? Name your top three moments between Dany and Jorah: sightings, pictures or social media interactions. 

I'll start!

Number 3: Jorah and Daenerys singing together for ten seconds in that video. Honestly, all their interactions in those videos were adorable, but that one just melted my heart.

Number 2: the behind-the-scenes video of the photoshoot when they hugged. I mean, I saw TGAMM live, and they hugged at the end, but that was so different! Dany, wearing that beautiful black dress, her naked back (how didn't she freeze?), Jorah with his dark blue suit, how she fits in his arms. My feels. All my fucking feels!

Aaand Number 1: I shared this, so me being anon is kind of a moot point. Anyway. Stage door in New York. It was the last week of the run of the play. They were tired but were all smiles with fans and chatted with us, signed things and posed for pictures. They are something else together in real life. Yes, they were both married to other people, but I swear they had the silent communication thing down to an art! And Jorah Mormont is a handsome man. Gods, those eyes! And what was even personal space between them? They never heard of her. 

So, what about you?

 

Hey, bb! Why anon? With me, of all people?

They are fine. Thank God. 

Let me tell you something first: I love our fandom! We were there for each other here and on Twitter tonight. We were scared, worried – and I can't even imagine what it must have been like for their families and friends. Anyway, leaving aside all the parasocial aspects of the whole thing, I'm proud of us right now. And also, let me give a big, big shout-out to @jonsnowandsansastak and @jonsnowfireandice because they were terrific with me while I was completely losing my shit on a Friday night. Make it a fraturday!

So, a top three? Really? Are you asking  me  for a top three?

Okay, I'll play, let me think …

Number 3: my experience at the stage door in London – not for any particular interaction they had, but as a frame of reference for everything that came after for me. It sort of shaped how I viewed their interactions. Yes, I'm ready to hear all about actors being actors, even at stage doors. Look, it turned out I was right, in this case, okay?

Also, hard agree on Mr. Mormont. He's tall and lean, and his eyes are mesmerising. Daenerys is a lucky girl!

Number 2: Man – the quote from 'inside sources' that came under the picture of Jorah and Dany posing with the Starks. "He loves her, and she loves him." It broke me. It reshaped my brain's chemistry. I have not been the same ever since. And you know that because we discussed it!

Number 1: the hug. I cannot get over it. Sorry, I'm trying to, but the screen capture of that hug is currently my laptop's wallpaper. I've been told I read too much into things – and believe it or not, I have mostly kept quiet about what I think, but Gods, that picture is everything.  One day, when I don't feel like a zombie, and I can think straight, I will share what I believe. I'm not ready. 

Honourable mention : Daenerys and Jorah flirting on Instagram for a whole day after Tweetgate's video was published on Jorah's Instagram. They've done the romantic play; they're shooting the historical-gothic movie. I want a rom-com. When? 

Honourable mention 2:  Daenerys wearing that necklace. I will never, ever get over it. 

 

They are fine. That's what really matters. 

 

#Daenerys Stormborn #Jorah Mormont #otp: can I keep him though #otp: he loves her, and she loves him #the parasocial aspect of this whole night will keep me awake …

 

48.000 notes


 

 

It was very late – or very early in the morning when Tyrion, Sansa and Jon (Sansa in a wheelchair was something she would rather never think about again as long as she lived) came into their room. Daenerys had no idea where Sansa's parents were, and she was honestly in too much pain to care. Jon looked about ready to pass out from exhaustion. Tyrion wasn't that far behind. Neither of them had left the hospital, and Daenerys was moved. Pain, she had found out, made her weepy. 

Daenerys was sitting in bed – laying down was pretty much out of the question at the moment – Jorah was in his bed, and Jon and Tyrion sat on two chairs in the room. 

Tyrion looked sad and angry. He apologised. She didn't blame him. She never did. Had he been naïve? Yes. Tyrion was a good man, however. It wasn't his fault his sister was – whatever the hell she was. 

"I got a text from Baelish. He called Bolton off and bought all the pictures he took. He will give them to me. We can have a bonfire together on set." Tyrion said, he sighed and added, "In exchange, the official version won't change. Jon's car slipped on the ice. That was the best I could do. I know it's not enough, and I know Bolton will need to be dealt with, but that man is unpredictable, and I feared he would publish pictures and start hell on his tabloids!"

She and Jorah had suspected as much as soon as they read the joint statement made by their people. Varys had told her to trust Tyrion, and Jorah was not happy with the man's choices. But what could they do, really? Pressing charges against Ramsay Bolton, whom none of them had even concrete proof had been there that evening, was the right thing to do, but it would open Pandora's box in a way she wasn't sure she wanted to live through. They were fine. They were going to be okay. 

"How sure are you that Baelish will listen to you?" Sansa asked. 

"Pretty sure." Tyrion said, "The last thing Baelish needs, the last thing my sister needs, is bad press right now. Nominations for Academy Awards will be announced in a few weeks."

"You said it before." Jon said, "Look how it turned out."

"I made a mistake." Tyrion said, "Don't think for a moment I'm not aware of that!"

“Jon –“ Sansa trailed. 

Jon had been snappish toward Tyrion for a while, but there was real anger in their director's voice now. Daenerys looked at Jorah; he hadn't said a word so far. Jorah was angry, and Daenerys was not surprised when he spoke. 

"Make it very clear that there will be consequences if that man, or anyone, comes near us again." Jorah said, "Baelish needs to give us the pictures he has of Dany and I, and they were following Daario. This stops now!"

"It stopped. Baelish is many things, but he is not stupid." Tyrion said. 

"I'm not happy about any of this," Jon said, "but I'll accept the terms. Let's make it clear, Tyrion. Another stunt like this, and I walk."

"Me too." Jorah said, "They crossed a line. No job is worth this."

Daenerys heard the vehemence in Jorah's voice, and she knew he was not bluffing. Neither was Jon. 

"If he walks, I walk too." Daenerys added, "I love my job, but last night was madness."

"I love this movie, Tyrion. I do. But I'm with them." Sansa said. 

Tyrion didn't look surprised by their words. He seemed genuinely sorry and very tired. 

"For what it is worth, I am very sorry this happened." The man said, "I think blackmail will work with Baelish. I love this movie, but I care about you more."

Daenerys remembered what Drogo's father had told her about Baelish and Cersei. Power was power. Their only power was in presenting a united front and being vocal on social media. It wasn't much, but it was all they had.

"The studios are waiting for my word. We are shutting down production until you girls are better." Tyrion said. 

No. Fuck. No! Margaery had dropped by for a few minutes and had reminded her that they had a timeline. Margaery had reminded her that whether the movie was wrapped or not, they would strike against Joffrey. They were ahead of schedule; they needed to wrap the film – if they were still shooting when Margaery hit, it would be a bloodbath. 

Except that Tyrion didn't know that, and Sansa didn't either. 

"We need to wrap the movie!" She said. She looked at Sansa. They had gotten good at silent communication. They had to, and she hoped it worked because she silently communicated to her to back her up that it was necessary. 

It worked! Sansa said, “Daario is fine, Edd is fine. Dany and I will be better in a few days. We can shoot around Jorah and me. And he has next week off anyway." 

"You can CGI our faces to your heart's content if the make up isn't enough!" Daenerys said. 

Tyrion looked between the two of them, clearly confused by their words. Daenerys was in a lot of pain at that moment, and the doctor had told her it would take weeks to get better. She would have to soldier on. They needed to finish the movie.

"We are ahead of schedule. And I think the show must go on is rubbish." Tyrion said. 

Daenerys had had time to think – and she kept reliving what happened. It had stopped feeling unreal. She knew it had indeed happened; she kept seeing the man in black snapping pictures as Jon lost control of the car. 

Daenerys kept thinking about waking up in the car, surrounded by a deafening silence as she called Jorah's name, and the man didn't answer. How lost she had felt. How terrified she had been. 

She had been made aware of Margaery's plan, and she knew the Starks had something in mind, and she wanted them to succeed. She wanted them to take down the Lannisters because, after all, Drogo's father had been right: she had just swapped masters. She wanted to break the wheel, but that night, the wheel might have broken them. 

Daenerys had even stopped feeling guilty for not telling Tyrion. She would – because Jorah wanted her to. That was, however, the last act of mercy she would ever show to the Lannisters. 

"Are you sure? I need to check with the insurance. They might want to shut down production anyway."

She was – and she would make clear to Tyrion that they needed to finish the movie. She looked around at the other people in the room. They were onboard.

Their small victories on social media and against Cersei weren't enough, however. What happened that night changed things. They could have died. They could have been seriously injured. 

She thought she had lost Jorah, and it still took her breath away. 

It wasn't a tiny conspiracy among friends. It was real. And the next time, they might not be lucky. 

The Lannisters, Baelish and the Boltons needed to be taken care of – or they would never be safe. 

"This will make my sister happy," Tyrion said, sounding almost disappointed.

Daenerys smiled, "Fair enough." She said, "Who knows what might happen down the line?"

"That doesn't sound ominous at all, Dany," Tyrion said. The tone of his voice had been light, but she caught genuine worry at her words in his eyes. 

Daenerys looked at Jorah and saw understanding and support in the man's eyes and then at Sansa – who still didn't know about Margaery's plan. She smiled and said, "Well, it's the truth! Being in a car crash with my partner and my mates from work was not on my bingo card, yet here I am! And sometimes you reap what you sow."

Tyrion Lannister was not a stupid man – and they had known each other for a long time. He must surely feel that there was something he was missing, something he didn't know. She had two broken ribs and a concussion, and her chest was purple with bruises. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, the man dressed in black was there, with his motorbike parked sideways on the road as he took pictures. For a moment, she called Jorah's name, and the man didn't answer. 

"You reap what you saw." She repeated.

Hopefully, soon enough. 

 


 

The Starks found him in the waiting room. He had gone back there after he had talked to his friends. He had to make a million phone calls, and he was still waiting for word from the insurance company. 

They knocked on his door, and he let them in. He knew both Ned and Catherine. 

Tyrion had worked with both of them, as their writer, on different projects and had met them socially at events through the years. 

Ned Stark was angry, and his stoic demeanour had left the building. He looked ready to punch walls. Catherine Stark was cold, and Tyrion had the feeling that the woman would gladly tear him from limb to limb if she could. 

The Starks were like a pack of wolves. Didn't Varys tell him once? He could see it now. And his sister had forgotten entirely that their father and her husband had known how to deal with them. 

Hollywood didn't have kings or queens. If there were any royalty, the Lannisters would be there, sure. But the Starks would come first. And the Tullys? They would be right there as well. 

"Sansa thinks you're different from your family," Ned said. 

No small talk. They were there to talk shop. Good. Finally!

What could Tyrion answer to that, anyway? He was not an abject monster like Cersei and her son. Tommen, Myrcella and Jaime (often enough) were good people. He was not sure what he was. 

After all, Tyrion had convinced his friends to accept a bargain to keep the movie going. He had ensured that there was an official version of the events and that a joint statement from their representatives was crafted long before he had talked to them. What did it say about him?

"She is a good friend to me," Tyrion said, deciding to settle on that. Up until that night, it had been the truth. Would it still be from now on? He couldn't say. 

"Then why was Roose Bolton's son here in the first place?" Catherine asked. 

"I made a mistake," Tyrion said, repeating what he had already told Sansa and the others. It was the truth. He needed to face it. 

"Evidently." Catherine Stark said, "Or maybe you thought you could have your cake and eat it too!"

That was true. And the woman's stare was piercing. It looked like she was reading right through him. And Tyrion realised that his sister could not win against the Starks. It couldn't happen. Cersei could only hope that they would make a mistake. 

"I'm afraid you are right," Tyrion admitted. 

Tyrion had understood that he had been playing both sides in reality, only that night while talking to Baelish. He wondered how long Sansa's mother had thought that. 

Ned Stark was tall, he had broad shoulders, and he was notoriously gruff. He was also known as a good and fair person. He looked at him and said, "There are no innocents in this room, Lannister! My daughter has spent the past year and a half blaming herself for what happened with your nephew, but we are to blame. We knew who she was dealing with, but we got complacent, and we thought that her name would keep her safe."

Crazy. What the fuck was wrong with them? How could anyone be safe with his sister?

He didn't talk, however. 

"My children warned me. My daughter-in-law tried to tell me – but we didn't want to see." Catherine Stark said. The Starks were owning their mistakes and were telling him. Why? Why him?

"Sansa told us she believed we would be ashamed of her. That we would be disappointed." The woman continued. 

"So, you, see? No innocents in this room. We wronged our daughter, but we are here now!" Ned said. 

"And you must choose Tyrion. You cannot have it both ways. Either you are a Lannister, or you are the producer of my daughter's movie. Your sister made her priorities clear. We are still unsure about yours."

He loved his nephew and niece. They were good, gentle kids. He didn't know who they had taken after, but they were not like them. He loved his brother. Jaime was – a good man who did terrible things for his family and for the woman he loved, but he knew him; he had a good heart. And the thing was that Tyrion couldn't even stay mad at him. Jaime was the only one who had always been there for him. 

Cersei, Joffrey – his family's studios and everything they stood for, were not him, however. They had never been.

"Is there a way to spare the kids?" Tyrion asked. Blood was indeed thicker than water. 

"We are not your sister. We would never harm innocent kids." Ned said, outrage in his voice.

"Should it happen, it would be your sister's fault. No one else's." Catherine Stark said, and she didn't sound outraged. She sounded as if she would be sorry for the kids, but it would not stop her because his sister and her son had hurt her daughter. 

"Deal with the mess with the Boltons. You are the fucking executive producer of the movie!" Ned said. 

"I did. He is gone." Tyrion said. 

"Make sure he stays gone. Make sure you are paying attention. You cannot afford to fly blind right now. Or knowing things and not being an utter cunt will not be enough to save you!" Catherine Stark said. 

Whatever the Starks had in mind, and being with them had not made it clear in the least, they didn't seem to mind that he might tell Jaime. The Starks were all in. There was guilt behind whatever they had in mind. 

Revenge and guilt. It was a terrible combination. How could things not end up horribly?

You reap what you sow.  Daenerys had told him when they spoke. So, either Daenerys knew something that she didn't tell him, or she expected something to happen. Either way, Tyrion couldn't blame her for not trusting him entirely and telling him. 

Tyrion needed to talk to Varys. He needed to find out what was going on. Tyrion needed to be ready to defend himself – he needed to be prepared to protect his friends and his movie, and if he could, he needed to try and save Jaime from the Starks. 

Tyrion was also choosing to be the movie's executive producer. He was picking a side. For real, that time. 

 

Notes:

This is not the last we hear from Ramsay Bolton. And Tyrion is finally all in.

Chapter 22: Recovery, Texts, and Revelations

Summary:

Truths are unveiled, Robb comes to Belfast, lots of texts are exchanged, Joffrey attends the Golden Globes awards.

Notes:

Author’s notes: hi! I’m not dead. This chapter has been an absolute nightmare to write. I binned it twice, I got stuck for over two weeks and then I proceeded to finish it. I’m not entirely satisfied with it, but we are getting close to the end!
I will start mapping out and outlining the second part of this fic this week, as I write the next chapter.
Did you guys guess what Margaery’s plan is? What is the Starks?
Thank you to the people who read the story, who left kudos, comments and bookmarked it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Tyrion wasn’t sure he had had much sleep for the past couple of days (to be honest, it had been months since he had last got some decent sleep, but honestly, who was counting?). He had spent the night between Friday and Saturday at the hospital, in that big waiting room, trying to navigate the potential storm the accident could cause. 

They had to move carefully, and while Oberyn had once more proved to be a  great spin doctor, he couldn’t have done it without Varys’ help. 

Oberyn had planted the right seeds for the official narrative surrounding the accident. Still, Varys had controlled the press, even the Boltons. Therefore, no one had hinted at anything even remotely amiss with the accident's circumstances. No one knew Ramsay Bolton had been there. No one had made unwanted connections. It had been just four friends out for dinner, too much ice on the road, and a very sober director who had been a hero, saving everyone and preventing a tragedy. 

He didn’t like it, and no one did, but the alternative was pretty much out of the question, so he had done his best to protect his friends and his movie. 

After Tyrion finally went home on Saturday, after he had had a shower and copious amounts of wine, he was finally able to talk to Varys. 

He didn’t think he had been drunk enough to have that conversation with Varys, but needs must, he had coped. He had an agreement with Varys; it had been in place for a long time, and they had perfected over the years: they exchanged information and helped each other out. 

Varys’ help usually came with conditions. The man would never, under no circumstance, betray his clients’ confidence. Still, he was willing to dance around the lines of the NDAs he  always  signed, provided that Tyrion could read between said lines and never put Varys’ clients at risk. After all, Varys’ loyalty to his clients was why Tyrion had called the man about Daenerys months before. And Tyrion still didn’t fully believe that his words had convinced Varys to help Daenerys. 

 Tyrion was aware that Varys would omit information or that he would keep him in the dark, and it was fine. He did the same. They had an understanding. 

Therefore, Tyrion had asked Varys about Margaery Tyrell, and he had been surprised when the man told him that the woman was his client. Tyrion was even more shocked when Varys told him the woman’s grandmother had employed him. He still hadn’t gotten an answer as to why Margaery Tyrell was a clever girl. Varys had been charitable enough to answer him to another question he had: did the Tyrells hate his family?

Varys had answered his question with a resounding yes. 

At that point, he had asked, “How much am I fucked?” mainly because he had still been thinking about the Starks and their words. 

He had  heard the man’s eye-roll at his words, but Varys had replied, “Your only saving grace is the movie you are shooting right now—and the fact that Sansa Stark doesn’t hate you. Of course, should the movie flop, your career would be over. Why your sister and you insist on putting all your eggs in only one basket is beyond me. Your father would be appalled.”

Varys had never liked his father (apparently no one did), but Tyrion knew the man had respected his intelligence. 

 “Speaking of –“Tyrion had replied, not answering Varys’ question because he had a point, “How fucked is my family?”

“Irrevocably.” Varys replied, “They were the moment the Starks decided to intervene.”

Tyrion sighed at Varys’ words and said, “If I remember correctly,  you  asked them to intervene!”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Varys had said, “I merely nudged them.”

“And why did you?” Tyrion had asked.

“Why, to protect Daenerys, of course. She was already a client of mine,” Varys replied. Tyrion had not been sure whether it was the truth, but he had let it slide. He knew it would be useless to try and learn more from Varys when he was like that.  

Tyrion knew he was still missing vital information. He believed so as he waited for his sister to join the conference call, one she had wanted. 

He honestly didn’t have time for Cersei’s tantrums or her schemes! 

They would resume shooting on Tuesday. The hospital doctors and the insurance had been adamant about giving Sansa and Daenerys at least seventy-two hours of complete rest before they could get back to work. Early the following morning, he had a meeting with Jon, Davos, their production designer, Baeric, and Brienne. And he had a long day full of meetings with heads of departments and rewrites ahead of him. 

Cersei finally decided to join the conference call. He looked at his sister for a moment: she used to have long hair and blonde locks that framed her face and brushed her shoulders and back, but for the past few years, she had worn it short, cropped in a way that made her look harsher. Cersei wore a black shirt, jacket, trousers, a golden necklace, and a watch. She looked perfect, as usual. She was in her office, at the studios. Cersei was smiling, and he was entirely familiar with how she tilted her head. As she did so, it meant she was angry and that she would be an absolute nightmare to deal with. 

“Brother,” Cersei greeted him. 

“Sister,” He replied in kind. 

“My movie?” Cersei asked, quirking an eyebrow, “Really, Tyrion?” 

There would be no small talk, then, no pleasantries. She might ask about his actors and director afterwards, but he wouldn’t hold his breath over it. 

 “I wrote it. I am the executive producer on set since Baelish couldn’t be bothered. I got most of the financing.” Tyrion said. 

“And when one of your producers backed out, you came to me,” Cersei said. 

“I should have gone to A24 or Neon.” Tyrion sighed. 

“But you decided not to. You didn’t get out of your comfort zone. And you also know the others couldn’t give you what we gave you,” Cersei replied. So far, she has been almost reasonable. 

It was true. 

“I also remember what I gave you in exchange when I signed the contract. I never needed Baelish on set!” Tyrion replied. That, too, was the truth. 

“I beg to differ,” Cersei said.

Reasonable had just fucked off. Tyrion looked at his sister and said, “Baelish made a mess of things.”

His sister might be behind Baelish’s decision to call the Boltons, but the man had brought Ramsay Bolton near his cast. He was not lying to Cersei. 

“Don’t be dramatic! They are fine! I heard Mormont didn’t cancel his London appointments this week.” Cersei said with a dismissive handwave. 

The discussion about Jorah going to London had been ongoing the last time he had seen Daenerys and Jorah the previous day. He wasn’t surprised that his sister knew. She might have lost Varys, but she had always surrounded herself with spies. 

And apparently, she honestly didn’t care about the accident. At that moment, Tyrion almost envied her. 

“Then, you must know it’s a bloody miracle no one got killed in that accident!” Tyrion said. 

Cersei shrugged and commented, “We would have worked something out. I trust your writing talent, and the money would have been nice!”

She meant every word. Tyrion knew that. She didn’t care about the Boltons, she didn’t care that Baelish had done her bidding, she didn’t care that four good people might have died. He suspected that the fact that they were his friends would have made it even better for Cersei.

“We know we only need Baelish for awards, and he is busy right now; this is not the first movie I've produced, sister,” Tyrion said. 

Part of him wanted to warn Cersei despite everything. He couldn’t help it. He hated himself for that, for that voice in his head told him to warn his sister, protect his nephew and niece, and protect his brother. 

He chose to stay silent, and a part of him hated himself for that. 

“Baelish will be back on set after the Globes,” Cersei said. 

That would be marvellous.  Tyrion suspected Jon would love that! And Cersei would love to hear that his cast and director had threatened to leave the movie if Baelish tried anything. He was fucked!

“What for? Oscar nominations are close. Shouldn’t he supervise that right now? Has Joffrey been in Hong Kong yet?” Tyrion asked. He would be thrice damned before he let it go without a fight. 

“After the Globes,” she said. She didn’t volunteer any marketing strategy, although Tyrion knew how Baelish usually promoted his movies. "There is no way he is not producing this movie,” she continued.

“Because he’s so clever, and his last movies didn’t miserably flop?” Tyrion asked. 

“Because I want to keep our agreement,” Cersei said. 

She would get his residuals as a movie producer, a share of the profits, and never relinquish her control. His sister would never change. She was being petty just for the sake of it, and Tyrion knew that making her change her mind was nearly impossible. It was too bad he didn’t trust Jaime, or he would ask his brother to make her see the reason. He was the only one who could.

“You should take the win, Cersei.” He said. 

“We haven’t won anything yet,” Cersei replied, and the look in her eyes became hard. 

“Joffrey’s career was over two months ago. He has a BAFTA nomination now and will attend the Globes as a nominee on Sunday. People have forgiven and forgotten what he did.”

“People remember and feel what we tell them to! This isn’t a victory,” Cersei replied. Their father would be proud of her—or not. In their father’s eyes, they were all disappointments anyway. 

He could tell from the tone of her voice and the way she was clenching her fingers around her cup of tea that she was worried.  Did she know about the Starks? She had to. He suspected his sister knew more than him. 

“Whether Baelish is on set or not, I still signed on the dotted line. It won’t change what you’ll get.” Tyrion said. “We don’t need Baelish on set now,” 

Cersei observed him for a moment. “You will destroy our family, Tyrion. You know that?” she asked. For a moment, she sounded tired, almost sad.

“No, I won’t.” He replied. 

He sounded like all the times he had said words after she accused him of killing their mother when he was born. He didn’t kill his mother; it wasn’t his fault, and he would not take responsibility for what the Starks would do to his family.

Yet he felt guilty for both. 

“You sided against your family,” Cersei sneered.

 “I’ve been trying to protect this family! I talked to you, remember?” Tyrion said. How could she blame him when he had tried to appeal to her?  

“You think you are so clever, little brother,” Cersei said, “but you aren’t as clever as you think you are.   ” 

Still makes me more clever than you.  Tyrion thought. But he couldn’t afford an open war with Cersei, not while he was, as the Starks put it, flying blind. 

“Neither is Baelish. He loves bringing chaos into my actors’ lives.” Tyrion replied. 

“They won’t be bothered again. It was an unfortunate circumstance.” Cersei said. 

The last time he had seen Sansa, she was very pale. Sitting on the bed had been a chore for her, and the girl still didn’t remember most of what had happened. Daenerys looked only slightly better, but her face still had bruises, and she had told him the wound on her temple would leave a scar. Jon’s gash on his forehead would leave a scar, too. Jorah looked exhausted and worried. 

"Unfortunate circumstance" was the mother of all understatements! 

“I don’t want him on set. He should stay with Joffrey and make sure he does things the right way.”

“Joffrey is a professional,” Cersei replied.

He’s a cunt. And an idiot. 

“Who is endorsing Joffrey’s nomination at the Academy? Are any big stars throwing dinners or parties for him?” he asked. Or are they all flocking to Cooper’s and Malek’s events?”

He knew he had hit a sore spot. Baelish could make his movies receive many nominations, but finding support for Joffrey Baratheon must be hard—even for the man. 

“You’d be surprised,” Cersei replied after a moment. 

“I guess I really would,” Tyrion said with a shrug. 

 Cersei’s eyes were still worried, and the woman said, “We won’t just stand there and take it from the Starks.”

“I have no clue what you are talking about, sister,” Tyrion said, which wasn’t a complete lie. He knew the Starks were plotting something, but he had no idea what it was. 

Cersei shook her head, “Of course you don’t.”

“Truly, sister. I don’t know.” Tyrion replied. 

“Then you are a fool,” Cersei said, disconnecting the call. 

Baelish would eventually be back on set, and Cersei knew he knew nothing about Stark’s plan. He had no idea whether she knew more. She was worried, however, and that was never good.

 


 

 Daenerys and Jorah had talked about whether to reschedule his work commitments in London for the week. Jorah didn’t want to leave Belfast at first, but Daenerys insisted that he needed to go, telling him how important it was for his career to shoot the new miniseries and how they needed to show the world that they were fine and strong. It was one of Varys’ suggestions, and it was also part and parcel of their jobs. 

The show must go on, regardless of their personal feelings. Neither of them liked it, but Daenerys was right. It didn’t make him feel any better. 

“The show must go on. It is not just a cool song; you always say that.” Daenerys had said when he had protested. She was still in too much pain, and she wasn’t sleeping well. He felt like an absolute prick for leaving her. He cared about his career, loved his job, and knew that Daenerys was right (she seldom wasn’t). He hated the idea of leaving her while she was still in the hospital, however.  

In the end, however, he had relented, and now they were in their shared room at the hospital, and he couldn’t even hold the woman he loved because it would cause her pain. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Jorah said, “but I will spend some time with Rhaego.”

Daenerys smiled and said, “I wish I could be there with you. But it’s just for a few days. You won’t get rid of me so easily after!”

“You make it sound like a threat, but it will be my pleasure,” Jorah said with a smile. 

He also loved Daenerys’ son, a sweet, happy child who loved playing and hearing stories and looked at him with his mother’s eyes. 

And Jorah thought it was ridiculous: they couldn’t even touch each other, his shoulder was still very sore, and his arm was broken, yet they scooted closer to each other on his bed. 

“A work week apart. Has it happened since we started shooting the movie?” Daenerys asked. Jorah thought about it and said, “Not that long, my love.”

“We will text. And talk on the phone. And the days will flow by.” Daenerys said, but she looked on edge. 

Daenerys’ words when they first saw each other at the hospital came back to his mind. She had sounded so afraid, and he hated being the cause of that fear. 

“I will always answer when you call.” He said, “And I will always be by your side!”

Daenerys nodded, “This is our job –we need to get used to it.”

Jorah wanted to object that it was different, that he could still see her in the car, with the seatbelt almost choking her, and how scared he had been. But he didn’t because Daenerys was not wrong about their job. Ned had told him that it was good that Daenerys and he had already signed contracts for their next projects and that they wished Sansa would, too. 

He focused on the woman next to him; her voice was laced with pain. She looked pale and tired, and with his free hand, he cupped her face and said, “We will. It doesn’t mean I like it. That doesn’t mean I won’t miss you terribly. And I will worry. Listen to doctors, and don’t overtax yourself!”

Daenerys smiled, “I won’t! I’ll keep you updated.”

They stayed close for a moment, hand in hand, “Promise you’ll be careful, my love.”

Daenerys nodded, “I will. I swear!”

“I wish I could hold you,” Jorah said after a moment. 

“Me too.” She said. 

They were holding hands, however, and Daenerys was smiling. 

“We could give sexting a try…” Daenerys said with a smirk after a moment. 

He chuckled, “Whatever you wish, my love.”

Daenerys sighed, “I wish we could go back to set tomorrow. We are losing a day.”

“We are still ahead of schedule, and Jon is good. We will wrap in time.”

“We will need to talk to Varys about Margaery’s plan because he will have to navigate us out of the mess. We will be far away from the madness when it happens.”

“Just the three of us,” Jorah said. He loved the idea of being a family with Daenerys and her son. 

Daenerys’ eyes welled with tears. She had told him pain made her weepy, but he truly meant his words. Daenerys’ son was so easy to love. 

“I’d like that.” She said. 

After that, they remained silent. He still didn’t like the idea of going to London and leaving Daenerys while she was still in so much pain, but she was right—and it would only be for a few days. 


 

Jon had spent most of the day meeting with the crew, Brienne, and Baeric to work on the new shooting schedule. Sansa and Daenerys were fortunate because their prognosis was not severe. They would be in pain for weeks, but they would need to take it easy on set only for ten days, which meant two shooting weeks. They also would have to work around Jorah’s injury; therefore, they had to work on practical aspects of the shooting while they waited for Tyrion’s rewrites. 

He had a meeting with Tyrion the following day, and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to that. But now, as he headed to Sansa’s room, he wanted to forget his long day of meetings. 

He knocked on the door of Sansa’s room and smiled when she said, “Come in.”

Sansa’s parents were in the room. Sansa was wearing her dressing gown and nightgown Theon had brought for home; her hair was braided, and she didn’t look as pale as she had looked in the morning. 

“Mum, seriously, it’s fine. You should go!” Sansa said. 

“I don’t care. You need to have someone here.” Catherine Stark replied. 

“But it’s the Globes! You are the frontrunner, and what about your plans?” Sansa asked. 

To that, Ned Stark raised an eyebrow. 

“It would look terrible if I were there knowing you were in a car crash.” Sansa’s mother said. 

“But I will be on set on Tuesday! Dany and I will do something on Instagram before we go home tomorrow. Really, where would you even sleep?”

“Theon’s room.” Sansa’s mother replied. 

Sansa sighed, “I’m fine. And mum, you don’t want to be in Theon’s room. He is such a slob!”

“Sweetheart, you can’t even lie down,” Ned said.

“I’ll be fine. They gave me Ibuprofen, and the knee doesn’t even hurt any more.” Sansa said. 

“Sansa –“Catherine trailed. 

“You need to be there. Joffrey needs to see you taking that award and have his terrible poker face on live television.” Sansa protested. 

Ned chuckled at her words, then looked at Jon and said, “Good evening, Jon. How was work?”

“Good, thank you, sir,” Jon replied.

“I’m trying to convince mum to leave. She must be in Los Angeles to do press before the Globes.”

“Ah,” Jon said. He still didn’t know why Award season was so important for the Starks, but he believed Ned when he said they were done playing. 

“And I told my daughter she is more important than that silly award show.”

“And I told them that I will be fine. Theon is still here, and I’m feeling better.”

Sansa had also told him when they were alone that it wasn’t even the first time she had broken ribs. Joffrey had seen to that. She was not sharing that information with her parents, however. 

“Perhaps we should trust Sansa, my dear,” Ned said, looking at his wife. 

The woman sighed and sat on a chair. “Robb will come. I need to know that she is safe.”

“She is,” Jon said. “We will have a whole medical team on set, and she will be looked after.”

Sansa hid her face in her hands for a moment, and Jon realised that he hadn’t moved a step since entering the room and getting closer to the bed. 

“I’m in the room!” Sansa said, “I hate it when people talk about me as if I wasn’t there. I went through years of that with Cersei and Joffrey, can you not?”

Sansa was tired and in pain, or she would have never voiced those thoughts aloud in front of her parents. 

She looked at him, and Jon tilted his head to his side and looked at her. “Do you think I’m like them? Like Joffrey?”

Sansa looked at him, and her look softened when she said, “No. Of course not. You are as far from Joffrey as anyone I’ve ever met.”

He stepped closer and took her hand in his. Sansa looked at her mother and said, “And you are not Cersei, but I need you to trust me. I’m fine. And you must be there. We all know that. Even if I don’t know  why .”

He could feel the Starks looking at him. He would side with Sansa, even if he believed that having her mother there with her couldn’t hurt her. 

“I need some coffee.” Ned said, “My dear, would you mind coming with me? Jon, do you need anything?”

“No, sir. I’m good.” Jon said with a small smile. 

Catherine Stark sighed and got up from her chair. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” she said. 

“No, I’m sorry.” Sansa said, “That was petty of me!”

Sansa’s mother smiled and leaned over to kiss her daughter’s forehead before she left the room with her husband. 

“They are trying to help,” Jon said. 

“I know. I  know.  But Jon—I am fine,” Sansa said. Jon hated that she was used to pain and that she felt she had to be strong, even with her parents and even with him. 

“Your mother is worried. I am worried.” Jon said. 

Sansa smiled sadly at his words and said, “I missed you today. How were things on set?”

“Good. I have a meeting with Tyrion tomorrow. I think he’s deep in rewrites. No corsets for you this week and the next.”

“Small mercies.” Sansa grinned. “And I know that you guys care. But whatever their plan is, I know that my parents need to be in Los Angeles for the Globes.”

“They still haven’t told you anything?” Jon asked. He didn’t like that Sansa was kept in the dark. The Lannisters would try to retaliate, and Sansa needed to be safe— she couldn’t be if she didn’t know what was going to happen. He didn’t understand Sansa’s parents and still wondered about the time she had been with Joffrey. 

“No – but, to be fair, I didn’t ask this time,” Sansa replied. 

The bruises on Sansa’s face were fading, and she looked less pale than she had in the morning. 

“How was your day?” He asked.

“Cleared from the concussion, my knee is better. The swelling is decreasing. Theon was there in the morning, Margaery in the afternoon, mum and dad have been here all day. I talked to Arya, and Robb is coming. He apologised for not being here, but his wife is pregnant, and I told him he shouldn’t leave her.”

“He is your brother,” Jon said.

“Yes. My older brother – and I love and miss him, but I hate that people put their lives on hold for me.”

“Granted, I’m not an expert, but isn’t it what families are for?” Jon asked. 

“You’re right. If it were one of them, I would drop everything to be with them.” Sansa said. “Still, I think I will go crazy if Mum, Dad and Theon will fuss over me.”

“Let them spoil you a little,” Jon said.

“I used to be spoiled,” Sansa said, “then Joffrey happened.”

Did Sansa tell her parents these things? Did they know just how much the Lannisters had hurt their daughter? What did they see at the time? What did they see now?

“He cannot and will never hurt you anymore. No one will. I promise.”

Sansa squeezed his hand. “I told you once –“

“Nope,” Jon said, shaking his head, “you need to believe me!”

Sansa had once told him that no one could protect her. He hadn’t been able to avoid the accident; he hadn’t been able to bring her back from her panic-induced flashback. This didn’t mean Jon would stop trying. He would always protect Sansa Stark. 

“And I do.” Sansa said, “With all my heart.”

The look on Sansa’s face was earnest, but her eyes were sad. She believed in him, but she also thought that no one could protect her. 

He would have to show her that she was wrong. He let the subject drop, and they stayed silent for a moment before saying, “Let your parents see you home. Theon will be there – and  I  will be there.” Jon said. 

Sansa smiled, “All right. I will. But Jon, I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” Jon admitted.

 He wasn’t okay. In his dreams, when he had been able to sleep, he lost control of the car, and his friends died. He held Sansa’s body in his arms, and there was blood everywhere. In his dreams, the man clad in black laughed and snapped pictures. When he took off the helmet, it was Joffrey Baratheon. 

“What can I do?” Sansa asked. 

You are there, alive.  Jon thought. “It will pass.” He said. 

“I will be there. I’m not going anywhere.” Sansa said. 

He believed her. He did. He would have to learn to live with his nightmares until they faded until he was sure no one would harm Sansa. 

 


 

He had never been alone with Sansa’s mother. They were usually with Sansa, or Ned Stark was there with them. However, her doctor was visiting Sansa, and her father had said he wanted to talk to Daenerys, so he dragged himself to the canteen for a cup of coffee when she spotted Sansa’s mother sitting alone at a table.

The woman looked tired, but she smiled when their eyes met. She gestured for him to sit opposite her, and Jon noticed she was drinking tea.

Despite looking tired, Catherine Stark was a striking woman – he could see where Sansa had taken after her.

“You look tired, Jon.” Sansa’s mother said. 

Jon smiled a little, “I am tired,” he admitted. There was no point in telling Sansa’s mother about his nightmares; she had enough to worry about.

“Sansa was right – earlier in her room,” Catherine admitted.

Jon didn’t talk. Sansa had been angry when she had compared them to Joffrey and Cersei, but was she wrong?

Catherine Stark kept drinking her tea, looking more tired by the second.

“All due respect, Ms. Stark, but I think Sansa needs to know.” Jon looked at his cup of coffee, trying to find the right words. He sighed and trailed, “She –”

Sansa was strong, but a part of her was still scared of Joffrey and his mother. She hated not knowing what her parents were plotting. 

“We didn't mean to make her scared. All we want is to protect her.”

“And she thinks no one can protect her—and not knowing what you plan for her is hard on her. Your silence is not making her feel safe.”

After he spoke those words, silence fell between them. Catherine Stark's very expressive eyes were soft and worried when she looked at him.

“You care for her.” The woman said. 

I love her.  he thought, but they weren’t talking about his feelings for Sansa. He needed to try to get the woman to speak with her daughter so that she could be safe.

“Aye.” He said. 

Catherine sighed and then said, “We will. We never intended to make her feel unsafe. Quite the opposite.”

“Mrs. Stark.” Jon said, “Sansa is – a remarkable woman. She is not a child.”

“She is my baby girl.” The woman said, “And that  man  and his mother –“

“Didn’t destroy her. She is here with her family,” Jon said,  with me,  he thought. “Please don’t leave her out. She needs to be ready, and we need to be ready.”

“You’ll keep her safe, Jon Snow?” The woman asked. 

I will try my best,  he thought but nodded his head. “And she wouldn’t like to know about this conversation,” he added.

Sansa’s mother smiled, “I know, and I’ll think about your words. Sansa deserves better from me.”

She deserves better from all of us.

“But you make her happy.” Catherine took his hand and said, “I’m glad you two met.”

The woman sighed and said, “I will speak to my daughter when I return. I will tell her everything,”

Jon blinked. Didn’t the woman know that Sansa would keep worrying until then? Why wait so long?

Catherine smiled, “We have not been idle. And the only thing Sansa needs to know, now, is that Joffrey Baratheon will regret ever laying a finger on my daughter.”

Jon nodded. He would do more if given the chance. There would be blood. 


Texts between Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont

 

Daenerys:  I’m at the hotel. I’m good. Pain is not too bad, and I’m stealing all your pillows. How’s the arm? How are things at home?

 

Jorah:  I’m fine. Missandei will be in Belfast tonight; the nanny sends her love. Rhaego is with his uncles; they will bring him home tomorrow morning. Did you know? The arm is fine. I still believe I shouldn’t have left. 

 

Daenerys:  yes, I did. I forgot to mention it, didn’t I? Sorry, love. What time is Missandei coming? Gods, I’m glad she will be here. I know it sucks, but you know they couldn’t reschedule ADR for your movie. And you make for a ruggedly handsome hero for your new show. The director and the producer will be impressed! I know I am 😍❤️

 

Jorah:  Ruggedly, what? That’s it. You need sleep, love. Did they send you the shooting schedule? Missandei is coming around six p.m., I think. 

 

Daenerys:  Not yet. As of right now, I still have the old call sheet. If Jon doesn't kill Tyrion, Tyrion and Jon are supposed to work on it right now. Things are still frosty between them. 

 

Jorah:  he won’t. Possibly. 

 

Daenerys:  that’s encouraging. Why aren’t we talking on the phone like ordinary people? It hurts to text! I’m calling you. 

 

Jorah : I was wondering. 

 


 

Jon wasn’t late to the meeting. Tyrion had already had dozens of meetings for the past two days; they had to discuss the shooting schedule and the script’s rewrites. Only Davos, their P.D., Brienne and Baeric would be in attendance. Afterwards, they would meet with the make-up department and the VFX people. 

Jon was still not sleeping enough, and since her parents had left that night, he would sleep at Sansa’s. He knew Sansa wasn’t getting much sleep either; at least they would be together.

Jorah was in London, and Daenerys looked miserable the last time he saw her before Bronn drove her to her hotel. 

It was crazy that they were resuming the shooting. Still, Jon had trouble saying no to Daenerys and Sansa when they talked to Tyrion. 

He sighed, spotting Davos chatting with Brienne and Baeric. 

“Hey, Jon,” Davos said; the man looked at him, there was concern in his eyes, and Jon knew he must look like shit. He couldn’t help it. 

“How is Sansa?” Davos asked. 

“Bit better, she is home now,” he replied. Any hope of keeping a low profile on set had been dashed the minute the news of the accident had spread. There was nothing Sansa and he could do about it except keep things professional on set. It was a good thing that he trusted Davos and knew the man would protect him as much as he could. 

“Good. Brienne and Baeric have been working on the shooting schedule, and I’ve got some ideas I want to share with Tyrion and you.”

Good. Jon loved Davos’ ideas. 

They walked to Tyrion’s office.

He was immensely proud of the people he worked with. They had worked nonstop since the accident to make sure Sansa and Daenerys would be comfortable and could do their job. 

He knocked on the door, and Tyrion told them to come in. Their P.D. Thoros Myr was already there, and he looked up from his tablet and greeted them. 

Tyrion didn’t look much better than him. Was he sleeping at all?

“Oh, there you are!” Tyrion greeted him, trying to sound cheerful but mostly failing. 

He sat down, Davos next to him. Baeric and Brienne sat at the far end of the conference table and immediately got to work. 

 “ Tyrion,” Jon said. 

They got to work immediately after that. Tyrion told him the results of his meetings with the departments; he told them he was almost done with the rewrites and that they would talk about it when they were alone. 

Both Davos and Myr explained their ideas to Tyrion and Jon, and he agreed with most of them. One of the reasons why they were ahead of schedule was that Tyrion had put together the best crew in the business. Everyone he worked with was highly talented and at the top of their game. 

Tyrion was taking notes on what was being said and made approving sounds. They discussed some of the changes in the scripts they had already got, and Tyrion updated him on what each department had told him. 

Daenerys and Sansa could shoot around their injuries as long as they did not overtax themselves. The costume department had already found a solution to Sansa's lack of a corset and also worked something out for Daenerys. 

Daario Naharis would have to work his arse off for the following two weeks, and Tyrion had told them he had found a way to adjust the scenes that he was satisfied with. Daenerys already had a lighter schedule that week; she was supposed to be just in some of Sansa’s scenes. However, if it came down to that, it would become a voiceover in postproduction. 

Sansa, however, was the title character. She would need to be in the scenes, even if Daario would end up doing most of the talking and Sansa would stand in for most of the walking. 

If he knew Tyrion, and he did, he knew he must be wondering why Daenerys had wanted to resume shooting immediately. Sansa had told him she had caught Daenerys’ signal boost and trusted her. 

“So far, she hasn’t given me any reason not to trust her judgement and instinct.” Sansa had told him. 

He trusted Sansa as much as Jorah trusted Daenerys, so he hadn’t objected to them returning so soon on set, even if he would rather have Sansa rest for a few more days. 

Eventually, Brienne cleared her throat and said, “We did it. We’re sending the schedule to you right now. Check it out.”

He placed the binder on his legs and took his mobile from his pocket. He checked the shooting schedule Brienne and Baeric had sent. It was very light for Daenerys, absolutely abysmal for Daario—who had said he wanted to be of use, so his wish had been granted—and still pretty tough for Sansa. Still, there wasn’t much they could do about it. 

“Seems good.” Tyrion said, “What do you guys think?” 

“It might work. Still pretty rough on Sansa, though.” Davos commented. 

Thoros sighed and said, “She is our lead.”

“It works, I think,” Jon said. 

“That's good, so Jon and I should discuss a few scenes, Brienne, Baeric. Thank you!”

“We’ll send the schedule to everyone then,” Baeric said. 

“Go ahead,” Tyrion said. He pinched the bridge of his nose and drank some coffee while Davos and Myr took it as their cue to leave and did so. They would get a detailed email later, and most of the scenes Tyrion had rewritten were dialogue-heavy anyway, with adjustments made for Sansa. 

Baeric and Brienne left, too. Brienne said she needed to check with the props department, and Baeric needed to be on set to check on the progress made with the early rewrites. 

Jon rolled his shoulders and adjusted the glasses against his face before looking at the notes he had taken. 

 “So, how are we doing this?” Tyrion asked.

“What do you mean?” Jon replied.

Tyrion shared what he had in mind for the scenes he still needed to rewrite. Jon nodded, scribbling down furiously. 

“Why do they want to get back to work? We are ahead of schedule.” Tyrion asked after a moment of silence. 

“Sansa told me she trusted Daenerys,” Jon replied. He still didn’t completely trust Tyrion, but he wouldn’t lie to him.  

“I care about them, Jon.” Tyrion said, “I care about all of you.” 

 Perhaps they should focus on the bloody movie; it would surely keep things civil between them, but Jon knew that Tyrion and he would need to work closely together for the following months after they wrapped the movie with postproduction. They needed to clear the air, or it would be a nightmare for both of them. 

Jon looked at him, sighed and said, “I know you do, Tyrion.”

“But?” Tyrion prompted him. 

There was not a but coming. Besides, what could he tell him that he hadn’t already told him?  But he was a Lannister?  But he had done nothing to protect Sansa while she was with Joffrey?  But he had let Baelish play his games? He was too tired to fight Tyrion, who was a good man whom he cared about despite everything. 

Jon shook his head, “But nothing. I was an arse to you at the hospital!” 

It was the truth. Jon had been an arse to Tyrion at the hospital and even after that. He had not lied to him. Jon would walk if Baelish tried anything else. But he couldn’t blame Tyrion for things that he had underestimated. It wasn’t fair. 

“You weren’t wrong.” Tyrion replied, “When I went to Cersei – I told her Baelish could be our E.P. I did it because I knew she wouldn’t fund the movie otherwise, and we couldn’t start production. We were so close to being green-lit and starting pre-production that I gambled with my sister. I was a fool, I know.”

“And you let Baelish be an arse to us,” Jon said. He should have stopped that, and he hadn’t, but he hadn’t put his foot down either. 

“I tried to rein him in when I could. But I fucked up with the Boltons. I know.”

“To be fair, I fucked up, too,” Jon admitted.  

Tyrion blinked in surprise. Jon didn’t feel as if he wanted to punch Tyrion. He was tired and wanted to stop seeing terrible things whenever he closed his eyes. He would also like to beat the shit out of Ramsay Bolton, but he knew he had anger issues.  

“How?” Tyrion asked, “I mean it, Jon. Your support to the cast has been unwavering from our first day.”

 Jon shook his head. Just because he didn’t want to punch Tyrion didn’t mean he was ready to share his nightmares and doubts with the man. 

“You did nothing wrong, Jon,” Tyrion said, and he sounded absolutely sincere. 

“I should have listened to Sansa—she was worried about this,” Jon said. Sansa had told him when he had mentioned it to her that he had listened and that he shouldn’t blame himself. 

“So were Daenerys and Jorah. And Daario, too.” Tyrion said. 

How could they predict what Ramsay Bolton had done, anyway? He had been going in circles around that for days, but the truth was that he couldn’t have predicted what happened, not even in his wildest dreams. 

“So, did Baelish do what you asked him to?” Jon asked after a moment. Jon needed to stop thinking about what he did not do and what he could have done differently, or he would go insane. 

“Yep. I’m afraid Baelish kept a copy of the pictures, but he sent them to me.” Tyrion replied. 

Jon clenched his jaw at his words. “Did you look at them?” he asked. 

Tyrion nodded, “Cursory glanced to check – wasn’t really in the mood to look at all of them. Told you at the hospital, we can have a bonfire and burn them,”

Daenerys had been right all along. Not that he had doubted the woman’s word for a moment. Ramsay Bolton had tried to kill them on Friday. 

 Baelish had paparazzi on speed dial to spy on his actors. 

He was having nightmares, his girlfriend couldn’t lie down and was in pain, his actors – his friends had been injured because his producer was an arsehole. 

He sighed, he needed to focus on the movie, or he would be an arse again to Tyrion, and the man didn’t deserve it. 

Jon started to talk about the movie and the changes he had in mind for the scenes that Tyrion had rewritten. When he and Tyrion worked together, they were often on the same page, swapping and pitching ideas together. It was familiar; they had done it since Jon had agreed to direct the movie. 

They had been friends , but they were also an excellent creative team. He relaxed a little as they talked and saw that Tyrion took notes for his rewrites. Another reason they were within budget and ahead of schedule was that Tyrion and he worked very well together. It had been a natural, almost effortless meeting of minds between them. He almost had fun while discussing the movie with Tyrion. It felt good not thinking about the accident and what might have happened. 

He felt that Tyrion was having fun, too, but he sensed immediately when the man wanted to change the subject. 

“I had a chat with Sansa’s parents a few days ago,” Tyrion said, breaking another brief silence between them. 

“Did you?” Jon asked. He wasn’t surprised; Sansa’s father had asked him where Tyrion was hiding.  

“I have no idea what they are planning. You? Anything?”

Jon shook his head, “Not a clue, mate. And they’re keeping Sansa in the dark as well.”

“They are trying to protect her,” Tyrion said. 

“Doesn’t mean I like it.” Jon admitted, “We need to be ready.” 

“They were right on one thing, and you were right too. I’m the executive producer of this movie, and I’ll act like one from now on.”

Jon nodded. That was good to hear. There might be some hope for the man, after all.   

“Good to know. I’m still pissed off at you, but I’m trying. There cannot be cracks among us, or your sister will –“ Jon trailed. Before Jon shot that movie, he had never met Cersei Lannister; he had no idea, none whatsoever, what kind of monster she was and what monster he had shaken hands with at the Golden Globes the previous year. 

“She will lose to the Starks,” Tyrion said.

“Will it stop her from trying to hurt Sansa? or Daenerys?” Jon asked. 

Tyrion looked lost in thought for a moment, then he mumbled, “fuck it,” and said, “My sister will try to hurt you to hurt Sansa. She will try to do the same with Daenerys and Jorah.” Tyrion said.

It didn’t surprise Jon in the least. He wasn’t afraid of Cersei Lannister. Or her son. He was scared for Sansa, however. 

 “Does she know about Sansa and me?”

“We have to assume she does at this point. I haven’t looked at the pictures, but with Varys’ help, I have controlled the narrative surrounding the accident.”

Jon opened his mouth, tempted to tell Tyrion that it had not been an accident, but decided against it. 

Focus, you git.

Jon shook his head and mumbled, “The narrative.”   

“Can we pretend that we’re in a shitty business where appearances are everything for a moment? You were out with your girlfriend on Friday, driving in one car with two actors who recently stepped out together as a couple. Not a single outlet has remarked or hinted at your relationship. It was not a coincidence.”

“Sansa noticed,” Jon said. “And before that, she was willing to go through what Baelish had in mind.”

Tyrion nodded, “I know. And I wish that I found it repulsing, but that’s just the game, Jon.” He sighed and added, “The good news is that you don’t have skeletons in the closet, there is a lot of buzz around you, and you have a good contract. You’re welcome, by the way!”

Jon smiled. Tyrion was being a condescending arse, but he didn’t seem ready to pass out from exhaustion like when he had got into the office. And he still didn’t feel like he wanted to punch him. 

“What is the bad news?” Jon asked.

“I don’t have a clue about what my sister is thinking. I talked to her, and she only accused me of siding against the family, which is true, but it would be better if I knew what to look out for. She knows something is coming, and she will choose violence. She always does.”

“You didn’t see the Boltons coming either.”

“No, because I didn’t think she would be that stupid. But after what happened with Daenerys’ father-in-law, I should have.” Tyrion remarked. He took another sip of coffee. 

“When you put it like that, we all should have,” Jon said. 

“Dany did,” Tyrion commented. 

“True. And we didn’t listen.” Jon said.

Tyrion nodded. “Cersei isn’t the only one whose plans I can’t figure out.” He admitted and added, “We are all keeping each other in the dark about something, aren’t we?”   

Jon shrugged but didn’t answer. 

“You are right. We need to present a united front, both now and when the movie is released—provided it gets released by my sister,” Tyrion said. 

“What do you mean?” Jon asked. 

“That – and believe me, I hate to say it, I  don’t know what will happen. But there is so much buzz around this movie that even if the worst happens to Cersei and her studios, we might be able to shop the movie around and get it released anyway.”

Jon didn’t like what he had just said. They all loved that movie. It was their movie, and it might be delayed because Tyrion’s sister was a monster, and Sansa’s family would not stand by that. 

Tyrion forced a smile on his lips and said, “Shall we get back to work?”

Jon nodded, “Absolutely,” he said. Tyrion was right. They needed to be more forthcoming with each other, or they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Lannisters when they tried to defend themselves.  

Things were still tense with Tyrion, and there were things he doubted he would ever truly forgive him. However, they were an excellent creative team and liked working together. 

Jon had stopped calling Tyrion “Lannister.” He didn’t want to punch him any more. If anything, he wished the man would get the information he so desperately needed.  

Jon was starting to think he hadn’t lost a friend and that they would need to chat with others soon. 

 

 


 

Texts between Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont

 

Daenerys : Bronn is a saint. He almost managed not to make me cry on the way to the set—it was a very slow and safe drive. Sansa is almost on set, too. She texted me that she regretted saying no to Oxi at the hospital. By the way, Ibuprofen is my new best friend.

 

Jorah : glad to hear that Bronn is driving slowly and safely. I wish I could have been there to see it. 

 

Daenerys:  oh, ye of little faith!

 

By the way, Rhaego and you look adorable in the photo you sent me earlier. Did I mention it? Also, I’m dictating on my phone on set (Sansa gave me the idea). The welcome on set was something 🥰 Missandei took the video I’m attaching. Oh, and I need to send you pictures of the chair! Sansa’s, too!!

 

 [description of video sent by Daenerys: Sansa and Daenerys walk on set, crew and Brienne, Davos, Baeric, Jon, Daario, Dolores Edd and Tyrion clap at them. Sansa is neither in costume nor Daenerys; both women look surprised and smile. Daenerys seems close to tears. Pod gets close to them with bags of ice, and Sansa and Daenerys smile and exchange a look. ]

 

Jorah:  You look well, my love. Sansa looks better. Ah, yes, you told me.  

Your son is a small ball of energy. He was outside with the nanny when I left. I will call when I get back from work. I'm about to start doing ADR. I got a text from the movie's director; they might have edited things to give my character more space, but I’m unsure. I’ll find out soon. 

 

Daenerys:  That’s good. Call me later to tell me more. I’m about to put on my costume. Wish me luck. Getting dressed this morning was fun 😨😨.

 

Jorah : Be careful, my love. 

 

Daenerys : We need to wrap up the movie; we have no other choice. I miss you, love. 

 

Jorah:  I miss you too.

 


   

 

Twelfth week of shooting

 

 

The day had been quiet so far. Daario and her stand-in had done most of the job so far. She was happy to be back at work. The pain was bad, but it wasn’t even the worst Sansa had ever had. She was happy to be out of the house and didn’t regret backing Daenerys up. 

Sansa needed some answers, however. They had never been alone while at the hospital, and they had both been in a lot of pain. And having her parents with her put pressure on her. She didn’t want them to worry, not after everything that happened. 

Sansa loved them with everything she was, but she was glad they had left. She didn’t have to pretend with Theon, Margaery and Jon. 

Jon told her about Baelish and the pictures—she didn’t want to see them. She wasn’t sure she wanted to remember what had happened. She had hazy recollections of the four of them in the car, and they sent her heart racing. 

Jon had been watching her like a hawk for hours, and so had Tyrion. She was glad to see that the two were getting along; she hated to be the cause of their rift. 

She had backed up Dany because she trusted her. The woman had been on her side since they had not known each other, and minding her own business would have been wiser. 

They were setting up the lights for the next shot. Sansa was sitting on one of the two chairs they had explicitly provided for Daenerys and her. They even had their names behind them. They were as comfortable as possible; she still didn’t know who had thought of that.

Daenerys looked pale underneath the heavy makeup she was wearing, and Tyrion had told her that they had a contingency plan in case shooting would prove too difficult for her co-star. 

Their microphones were off, Jon and Tyrion were away, and no one was around. 

“Why?” She asked. 

Daenerys shot an eyebrow high and looked at her in confusion. Gods, she looked like she was still in pain. 

“Why what?” Daenerys shot back.  

“Why didn’t we make them shut down production?” Sansa asked. And bloody hell, it hurt to speak!

“Ah,” Daenerys said. She looked at her and said, “Something is happening soon. You should ask your friend Margaery.”

What? she thought. Margaery had repeatedly told her that she had a plan, that Joffrey would go down. Still, she had never divulged more information than that. How and what did Daenerys know? Why did the people close to her keep in the dark about their plans against the Lannisters? She wanted to know; she needed to know. How could she even try to defend herself (and Jon) if she had no idea what was going to happen?

Why did no one ask for her input? They didn’t know Cersei, not like she did. Only Tyrion did. Did they believe that Cersei wouldn’t strike back and fight? Did they think it would be fair and easy?

“I see,” Sansa said. She felt anger rising at her co-star, her friend, and her parents, but she could not let it rule her head. She needed to know more. “And how long have you known?”

“A while,” Daenerys admitted, looking genuinely sorry that she had kept things from her. Daenerys drew in a breath. She gritted her teeth in pain and said, “Margaery begged me not to tell you. It feels so high school now that I’m saying this aloud -”

Sansa smiled despite herself. “It does, a bit.”

“I see that she hasn’t told you yet,” Daenerys said. 

Sansa shook her head no. 

“I don’t like keeping things from the people I care about, and I don’t like you being in the dark. But it’s not my story to tell,” Daenerys said. 

Sansa nodded. She was angry, but it would have to wait. 

“We cannot keep things like this from each other. We need to be a united front.” Sansa said. They could not afford to let Cersei divide and conquer them by making stupid mistakes. 

“When Jorah gets back, we need to talk. We all need to come clean and be on the same page. Because Oscar nominations are in a few weeks, and your family and Margaery will strike,” Dany said.

“I will talk to Margaery tonight,” Sansa said. 

Two p.a. approached them. She hated that she needed help, that there was a doctor on set, and that after each scene, they needed to put ice on their ribs, but the alternative would be to shoot while her family and Margaery hit, and she didn’t want that, especially because she didn’t know what they would do!

Jon was waiting for her. He still looked tired, but he had slept a bit better the last night. They had spent most of the night watching TV because neither of them could sleep much, but he didn’t look as tired as he had the day before. 

Everyone on set knew about Jon and her, but she didn’t care. Tyrion had ensured that the news would not get out. J’Haquen had reassured her, and she believed them. She had no choice but to. 

Cersei must know about Jon and her and hoped she would be too busy with her family to do anything to try and hurt them. 

Jon smiled and asked her how she was feeling. She was okay. The pain was under control, and she wanted to work. 

She smiled, and she told him she was ready. She was. 

 


Texts between Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont

 

Daenerys: and so, I told Sansa. Feeling very much like a high school girl. 

 

Jorah: I’m glad she knows. How did she take it?

 

Daenerys:  not happy about it, but we were on set. We agreed that we need to chat when you return because we cannot keep things like these from each other, which made me think about Varys and his loyalties. 

 

Jorah: Varys is only loyal to himself. 

 

Daenerys: I know. My sleepless night will be fantastic. 

 

Jorah: still can’t sleep?

 

Daenerys: I am exhausted today, so that should help, unlike thinking about Varys. 

 

Jorah: he is loyal to his clients, my love. That’s how he became what he is. And Tyrion told us that he didn’t like Joffrey very much. 

 

Daenerys: still not calm. I’m not the most rational person, but Margaery’s idea is wild. 

 

Jorah: but it can work. I trust Ned and Cat about this. 

 

Daenerys: We need to be in the Caribbean when it happens. There will be no reception; Varys will deal with the mess.

 

Jorah: hotel and flights are booked. We just need to go. 

 

Daenerys: this I like. Tell me more. Call me, Mr ADR. I need to listen to your voice…

 


 

 

When Margaery finished talking, the silence was thick in the room. They had dinner, and the four of them were Theon, Margaery, Jon, and her. Her friend looked surprised when she saw Jon, but Sansa made it very clear: it was not just about her or her family; whatever Margaery had in mind would involve Jon, too. 

The last thing she wanted was to fight with her closest friend and her brother, so she had warned them beforehand. She wanted them to talk like adults. None of them could afford to be childish. She had asked for the truth, and Margaery had given it to her. 

“Are you insane?” She asked, looking at both her brother and her friend. 

 She looked at Jon, who seemed deep in thought. 

“Sansa – it will work!” Margaery said. 

In theory, if Margaery’s plan worked, Joffrey would be destroyed. However, many things could go wrong. 

“How?” Sansa asked, “If Cersei finds out before your deadline, we will be fucked! And he will be protected! Theon, do Mum and Dad think this can work?”

“They are doing everything they can so that it can,” Theon said.

“What if it doesn’t matter?” Sansa asked, “What if they just bury it? You know they can.”

“The internet is forever, honey.” Margaery said, “Once it’s out there, they cannot take it down. And we’ll provide proof. They cannot bury it once it’s out.” 

Sansa scoffed, “You’d be surprised by how much they can bury.”

“I really wouldn’t, Sansa. I know what they have buried. My brother died for it!” Margaery said, her voice cold. 

Right. Margaery had told her about Loras – and nothing was making sense. 

She couldn’t breathe. Her loose clothes felt too tight, and she felt like she might be sick.  She couldn’t even take a proper breath without hurting, and she felt blood rushing to her head. 

“Sansa—honey, breathe!” Margaery said. Sansa couldn’t look at her, and she couldn’t look at anyone. 

She heard chairs scraping on the floor and felt someone—she couldn’t even say who—touch her thigh. 

“Sansa, honey, I’ve been working on this for a long time. It will work. We will bury Joffrey Baratheon right after the Academy Awards nominations are announced!”

Sansa shook her head. Her vision was blurred. Was it tears? She needed to breathe. 

“Sansa –“ Jon called her name. 

She heard him. Jon had told her he hadn’t been able to reach her after the accident. He had told her she didn’t even hear him. She did, now. She wouldn't lose it if she could focus on Jon’s voice and her breathing. She couldn’t lose it. Not again. She was supposed to be better; she had felt better lately. What the hell was her problem? 

“I’m here.” She said. Breathe. She needed to breathe. 

“Sansa, there are people who have been working on this for months.” Theon said, “It’s not just Margaery, dad, mum and me.”

She blinked, feeling the tears trailing down on her face. Damn! 

“You didn’t tell me about Loras,” Sansa said, focusing her gaze on her friend, kneeling to her right. “Why?”

“My grandmother asked us not to tell anyone,” Margaery said, and she looked genuinely sorry and, for a moment, devastated. How did she not see it before?

“I had broken up with Joffrey. You know you could tell me,” Sansa said. There were so many things wrong with what her friend and her brother had told her, and she had no idea why she was so upset about that. And it wasn’t even that she was angry at Margaery. She wasn’t. She wished she could have been there for her. 

“Sansa, I couldn’t,” Margaery said.

Margaery could have told her that, at the time, she was going to pieces (which was absolutely true), that she had barely picked up her phone when people called her, and that it was none of her bloody business anyway. Margaery, however, was telling her the truth. 

She nodded and said, “I’m so sorry.” 

She believed Margaery about Loras because she knew Cersei, Joffrey and Jaime, unlike her. 

“We need to tell Tyrion.” She said. 

“What? Why?” Margaery asked. 

“We do.” Speaking for the first time, Jon said, “We are shooting a movie Cersei is producing. He needs to protect the movie.” 

“He needs to protect himself,” Sansa said. Tyrion had made mistakes, but she had no doubts his heart was in the right place. 

“We can’t. Tyrion would tell his brother.” Margaery said, “We have chosen Joffrey because of your movie. It was the only way your family agreed to help me. We chose him because he won’t destroy your movie!”

“Tyrion is fighting not to have Baelish again on set, and his sister isn’t budging. How do you think she will take this?” Jon asked. 

“Tyrion still has the right to shop the movie around if it comes down to it. I know it’s in his contract.” Margaery said.

“How would you know Tyrion’s contract?” Sansa asked. 

Margaery shook her head. “I can’t tell you. But I do. When it happens, you, Jon, Daenerys, Jorah and Tyrion need to be off the grid. Let your people deal with the fallout.”

The fallout. 

Gods. 

“Theon –“ Sansa said, “they will blacklist you!” 

Theon shrugged, “I have a trust fund. I’ll work for American producers. I have already started. Cersei won’t have much sway when Mum and Dad are done.”

“What if they fail?” Sansa asked. So far, she had trusted her parents and the people in her life, but things could go wrong. What would happen if they did?

“I’m not worried,” Theon said.

“Of course you aren’t,” Sansa said, shaking her head. Theon was too proud and impulsive to be scared. But Margaery should have known better. She looked at Margaery, who had sat on a chair and asked, “Did you think about what will happen to Theon?”

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about lately. Don’t look at me like that, Greyjoy!” She said, turning to look at Theon, who looked almost offended by her words. 

“And?  Any genius plan?” Sansa asked. Her voice was harsh and frosty, but she didn’t care. 

“Sort of. Not genius, but it should work.” Margaery said. 

“So reassuring,” Sansa mumbled.

“Still in the room!” Theon said, “And as I said, I’m not worried. Everyone despises Joffrey Baratheon.”

“It doesn’t look like that based on the papers, awards, and nominations he is getting,” Jon said. 

Theon smiled, “That’s my parents. I don’t know why they are doing it, but I know they are behind this.”

Her temples throbbed. It was starting to make sense, but there were still too many things that could go wrong. Cersei might not have Varys working for her anymore, but she had lots of people who would do anything to gain her favour. She had seen it with her own eyes. She had been like that once. 

“You should have told me before,” Sansa said, “what happens if people start wondering? What happens if they connect the dots and start asking me questions?”

There was a reason if she had talked about Joffrey only to a handful of people. There were things she didn’t want to share about her relationship with Cersei’s son. And she had a right to keep what happened to herself. Even if part of her knew it was wrong. 

She didn’t tell Margaery what happened but knew her friend wasn’t stupid. She must have connected the dots, or Theon might have told her something.

Margaery didn’t speak for a moment, but Sansa said, “You know he is a monster. Do you think he was nice to me? He wasn’t!”

Margaery looked at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t imagine at first. And I wish you had told me—but I’m not sorry about taking him down. I am not!”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Margaery. What happens if – if they start dissecting my relationship with Joffrey? What happens if they ask me questions about it? About him? I don’t want to be connected in any way to that man anymore. I’m his only public girlfriend. I was engaged to him, and the tabloids blamed me when I broke up with him! I was in a car accident because of paparazzi a few days ago. Did you stop and think about me?”

Margaery held her gaze. She looked uncomfortable, and Sansa wondered whether the woman had not thought about it or if she had not cared. She didn’t know which was worse. She didn’t even want to think about it, or she would never be able to forgive Margaery. 

“Let’s say it succeeds.” Sansa said, surprised by the calm in her voice, “People will come forward. He is a monster. They will ask me. I don’t want to talk about him publicly, and I don’t want to be his accomplice and lie! You are putting me in a terrible situation!” 

The truth was that she still felt ashamed because she should have run away from Joffrey after the first time he hit her. She didn’t want people to armchair analyse her or makeup lies about her! She didn’t want to be considered a victim and didn’t want anyone to ask her about Joffrey!

“Sansa – “Margaery trailed.

“You don’t know what he did to me!” Sansa said, “And I don’t want to talk about it! I don’t want this to become a caption,  a footnote, or some whisper that will follow me for the rest of my life! I don’t want Good Queen Alysanne to be associated with this, but I will be his accomplice if I don’t say anything! It’s unfair to the others!”

There must have been other women Joffrey had hurt, maybe not his current public girlfriend. That looked like a showmance for the cameras, but what about all the others? 

Would she have to lie and defend Joffrey? How could Margaery do that to her?

“You don’t have to answer any questions. We can make sure no one will ask you any!” Margaery said. 

“How? Are you trusting Varys? He didn’t do a thing to stop the Boltons, but he knew about them! 

“You will have power over Joffrey!” Margaery said. 

Sansa shook her head, “I don’t care!”

It was the truth. Sansa didn’t care. 

“She won’t get a choice, will she?” Jon asked. “People will ask, and even if they won’t, she’ll either be considered one of his victims or an enabler. How fair is that?” 

It was the most Jon had said so far, and Sansa realized it was also the most he had talked to her best friend since they had met. The very last thing she wanted was for Jon and Margaery not to be friendly with each other. But Jon was right. And the idea of helping Joffrey by being silent twisted her stomach. 

“We can control the narrative, Sansa-“Margaery said. 

“But I will know,” Sansa said, feeling close to tears for a moment. How did she not see how much her friend was hurting? It was so clear on Margaery’s face now, and it was making her friend blind because the truth was that she would know if she didn’t say a word and ended up helping Joffrey, and she would always hate herself for that. 

She would have to live with herself if she didn’t say a word. If she said anything, she would be criticised, followed around, and bullied, even if it was the truth. The Lannisters would try to belittle her; they would try to twist her two years with Joffrey until nothing of the truth would remain, and she would be again a spoiled socialite who was now using her family name and sleeping with her director. She would be once again a bitch, a whore, a slut, and all the other things that have been said to her and about her after she had broken up with Joffrey. 

They would tear Jon to pieces. It didn’t matter that he had no skeletons in his closet or that he was a good, honest man. 

They would tear everything to pieces. That story would taint Good Queen Alysanne. 

“On the other hand, you can negotiate your movie’s future with this,” Margaery said. “You will own Cersei Baratheon.”

“A bargaining chip?” Jon asked. 

He had not said much. Sansa told Jon some of what had happened. He had seen and touched the scars, but she hadn’t told him everything. 

“For the movie. Sansa’s silence in exchange for – the freedom to shop it around, or not delaying its distribution!” Margaery said.

Sansa almost laughed at her friend’s words. “You don’t know Cersei. She will have me killed before relenting.”

“She won’t. I will not allow her to touch anyone else I love!” Margaery said. 

After a moment, Theon said, “She will not touch you. Mum and Dad will not allow it!”

“Like they did before?” Sansa said. It wasn’t fair. She knew that. It wasn’t fair to her parents, but nothing she had heard so far was fair. 

“It’s not the same, Sansa –“ Theon said. 

“No, you’re right; this is worse,” Sansa said softly.

She could taste bile in the back of her throat, and she knew, from experience, that throwing up with a broken rib would wrack her with pain. Yet, Margaery’s words threatened to make her sick. She didn’t want to ever speak to Cersei again. She hated the idea of being an accomplice to the Lannisters. 

She looked at Theon and said, “You are putting me in a terrible position. How could you not think about it?”

“I’m doing this for you!” Theon said. He looked stunned for a second. Did he not think things through? Theon, better than anyone, even Jon, knew how deeply the Lannisters had hurt her. Did he honestly believe that she would be okay with that?

“Are you?” She asked. 

She couldn’t even storm out of the room because it would hurt her, and she needed help getting up. 

Theon looked hurt by her words. Margaery looked at Theon, and Jon carefully avoided looking at her brother and her friend. 

“Who is involved in this?” she asked, breaking the silence because she wanted to scream but couldn’t. It would hurt, and no one would understand. 

Perhaps they thought she would be okay with having the worst moments of her life dissected by strangers or that she would be fine dealing with Cersei. 

 Margaery said, “I cannot tell you. I’m sorry, Sansa. I know what you must think right now. But I never intended to hurt you or cause you any trouble. And it’s too late to back out of this now. If we do, Joffrey will get his filler Oscar nomination, and the minute award season is over, he will be out for blood.”

“My blood?” Jon asked, “I’ve been told.”

Sansa blinked her eyes. Joffrey could do nothing to hurt Jon – still, it felt like something cold and jagged was twisting in her stomach.

“Who told you?” Sansa asked. And why didn’t Jon tell her? 

“Ygritte. She says she heard some rumours.”

“She is involved in this,” Margaery said. 

“My brother, my best friend, and my boyfriend’s ex are on this. The Lannisters will love this. I can already see the Boltons’ title: Stark bitter revenge against her ex-fiancé fails. All the details in the article.” Sansa said. 

“We won’t fail. We have contingency plans; we are bringing Joffrey down!” Margaery said. 

Sansa grabbed the armrest of her chair. Jon noticed, but she nodded, “I hope you’re right. At least I won’t be shooting when all of this goes down. And I can instruct my people.”

“I would keep quiet for now.” Margaery said, “It’s not just us taking risks.”

Sansa stilled. She had not thought about Margaery. “You know that they will do everything they can to destroy you once they find out it’s you?” She asked. 

“I’m not afraid.” Her friend replied. 

Margaery was telling the truth. She wasn’t afraid, and it didn’t look like she cared about what the Lannisters could do. 

“I cannot afford to be afraid, Sansa. They killed my brother.” Margaery said. 

“Would he want this? Any of this?” Sansa asked. Loras was a good man, and she recalled how protective of his sister he had been.

“No. Loras would agree with you.” Margaery said.

 She blinked back tears. Margaery’s voice, small and broken as she said those words, did her in. 

“I’m so angry at the both of you right now,” Sansa said.

“We will tear him down, Sansa, I promise,” Margaery said. 

“I didn’t ask you any of this. Please don’t pretend that you are doing it for me. You are using me!” Sansa said. It hurt because she had known Margaery for most of her life. Sure, she had kept a few things from her, but she would never use her to get her revenge.

It felt like everyone except Jon was hiding things from her or keeping her in the dark to protect her or because she was not important enough. Margaery didn’t even deny her words. She was using what Joffrey had done to her, the fact that he was an utter shit, to avenge her brother. 

“You should have told me – from the beginning. When you told me you had a plan, you should have told me what it was.”

“This is not about –“ Margaery trailed.

“Me? Clearly, but they will involve me anyway. Cersei will love dragging me down with her!” Sansa said. She slowly got up from her chair. It hurt, but she didn’t even care at that point. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you –“ Theon said. 

She believed him. She did. It didn’t change the truth, however. 

“I’m going to bed.” Sansa still felt sick to her stomach, but she needed to be in her room because she didn’t want the others to see her cry—not even Jon. 

“Sansa.” Margaery trailed. 

“It was a shit move, Margaery. All of it. I pray that you are right, but the truth is that you don’t know them.”

Margaery opened her mouth to protest; her big doe eyes were bright with unshed tears. 

“Good night.” She said.

She would forgive Margaery and Theon eventually. Not that night, however. 

And she wouldn’t even know what to tell Jon. She didn’t look in his direction as she went to her bedroom. Tears were coming, and she was stifling a sob because she was not better; she wasn’t even close. She was going to pieces, and she was terrified. 

She had thought she wasn’t alone, not like with the Lannisters. It turned out, however, that her parents had kept her in the dark, and her best friend and her brother were playing the game and would use her as a pawn. Again. 

And Jon was the only person who sounded like he understood what was going through her head. 

She didn’t wait for him, however. She went to her bathroom and closed the door behind her. Only then, in the dark, she let the tears come and didn’t try to stifle the sobs. It would hurt, but it wasn’t the first time she sobbed with a broken rib. She had survived then. She would survive now.

 


 

 

Texts between Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn

 

Jorah: I’m not sure, but I think I saw a paparazzi on my way to the meeting. I’m in the cab right now. I cannot be 100% sure, however.

 

Daenerys: What? Are you sure? Was it Bolton?

 

Good luck, love. 

 

Jorah: No, I don’t think it was. They were not there for me. I happened to be in someone else's way. 

 

Daenerys: That's good. Tyrion is waiting for you to come back to have our bonfire, even if it’s just an SD card. I saw it. 

Sansa looks like absolute crap today. I feel so bad for telling her, but what else could I do? She needed to know. 

 

Jorah: It wasn’t fair to either of you. Margaery Tyrell’s plan can work, but the Starks will deliver the final blow. 

 

Daenerys: hopefully, it will be enough. 

 

Jorah: It will. Rhaego and I will go to the zoo tomorrow. He wants to see the bears. 

 

Daenerys: did you tell him about your house and the Bear Island thing?

 

Jorah: yep. Last night, after you talked to him. And you told him about Lyanna!

 

Daenerys: because your cousin kicks ass! And she sent that stuffed bear to Rhaego. Maybe she doesn’t hate me after all. 

 

Jorah: She doesn’t. She smiled at you, which was more than she had done with me for most of the evening when we went there. 

 

Daenerys: what if we invite her to London when the dust settles? Maybe when school ends?

 

Jorah: I’d be happy to if you are sure, but we need to check our schedules first. What would she do? I’m there. We’ll talk later. Love you. 

 

Daenerys: love you. She is a teenager in London; I’m sure she might find ways to entertain herself. 

 


 

From the website Blind Gossip: The #1 Blind Item Site in The World. 

 

This actor/actress is having the time of their life. 

 

They have been everywhere lately, promoting the latest project, the first successful one in a while. They have polished their image and been impeccable during promotion for their latest project. Not only do they want to be nominated for Awards, but they also need them to save their careers. 

Flops would not be overtly concerning, as Hollywood tends to forgive them, but their appalling behaviour has made them too many enemies through the years. 

Some say the time of their reckoning is coming. 

 

And their powerful family can do nothing to avoid it. 

 

Actor/Actress:

 


 

Jon was aware that he was in a mood. Brienne and Tyrion had been looking at him for most of the morning, and Daenerys raised her eyebrows a lot when she heard the curt tone of her voice.

The previous night had been a disaster: Margaery Tyrell’s plan, Theon’s involvement and the repercussions they could have on Sansa had hovered over them even after Sansa had left the living room. 

Theon told him he would spend the night at Margaery’s hotel room.

“I’m not picking my girlfriend over my sister,” Theon had said, “But Sansa needs space.” Theon had also asked him if he would spend the night at the flat, and he looked relieved when he said he would. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Theon said. 

Jon believed the man, but the facts were that he had hurt Sansa.

Sansa had pretended to sleep, and he had pretended to believe her. He had given her space. He felt that she would not want to speak about what had happened, and he didn’t want to stoke the fire of her anger, even if he was angry on her behalf. 

They had left the flat early in the morning. Sansa was feeling betrayed by the people closest to her – and maybe she was right, or maybe Sansa’s parents truly meant to protect their daughter. He didn’t know. He hated that there was nothing he could do. 

 He had spent another sleepless night thinking of what could go wrong with Margaery’s plan, wishing the Starks had talked to her daughter because he had seen the slump in her shoulders that morning and the sorrow in her eyes. Sansa was feeling betrayed by the people closest to her—and maybe she was right, or maybe Sansa’s parents truly meant to protect their daughter. He didn’t know. He hated that there was nothing he could do.

So, yes, he was in a mood on set – and Sansa had not even commented on it. 

Daario was carrying the scenes they were shooting, Sansa’s stand-in was doing her part, and Sansa was – excellent. She had shed her personal feelings and had become Alysanne once more. 

Both Daenerys and Sansa were sitting on the chairs the doctors had provided as they waited for the next shot. The doctors were satisfied with the solutions they had found to prevent the two women from overworking themselves. 

He was angry and worried. He wanted Sansa to talk to him, but he didn’t like the woman’s silence or the cold mask of professionalism she wore. What was his point if he couldn’t help the woman he loved? 

There was some commotion at the entrance of the soundstage, which distracted Jon from his musings. 

Security people and a brown-haired man were approaching him.

Sansa noticed, and he saw her eyes fill with surprise as the man got close. 

“Robb,” she breathed. 

Of course, Robb Stark had decided to drop on set announced that day! He had a civil, even warm relationship with Sansa’s parents. Theon had been a friend even before Jon met Sansa. He had interacted with Arya Stark on social media but never met Robb Stark. 

Sansa slowly got up from her chair. She was surprised to see her brother on set, and part of the anger he had spotted on her face since the previous night was fading.

Good. 

“What the hell are you doing here? How did they let you in?” She said, but she didn’t move a step toward him. There was joy in her voice. Despite her previous protests, she looked happy to see her brother.

“I can be charming!” Robb said with a grin. 

“Idiot. You should have told me,” Sansa said. "Mum said you were coming!”

Her voice expressed Anger and bitterness in how Sansa said the word mother. She was happy to see her brother, however. The man stepped forward, and Jon thought it was clear he wanted to hug his little sister but was hesitant to. He could relate. He missed holding Sansa in his arms. 

Robb hesitated for a moment more. Then, he gently and carefully pulled Sansa in a hug. He saw some of the tension in Sansa’s body deflate as she let her brother hug her. 

And then Sansa asked, “Did Theon send you here?”

Robb shook his head. The blue of his eyes was similar to Sansa’s; the man gently broke the embrace with her sister and said, “Nope, I came here all on my own; I’m sorry I couldn’t come before!”

Sansa didn’t believe him about Theon, but she let it slide. She smiled at her brother and said, “Well, you already know Dany, and this is Jon Snow, our director!”

Robb looked at him, and Jon held his gaze.

Robb was there for Sansa. As a brother, he might know about his parents’ plans, and Sansa desperately needed to trust her family and not be kept in the dark. 

Robb shook his hand and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sorry to disrupt things on set!”

“No problem,” Jon said, “will you stay and watch the scene with me?”

Robb nodded. Pod, Brienne’s p.a., had joined them to tell them that the lights were set and blocking had been made. They were waiting for Sansa and Daenerys since Daario was already hitting his mark. 

“Is she in much pain?” Robb asked as they settled in front of the monitors. Someone gave Robb headphones. 

Jon didn’t answer the man’s questions. Yes, Sansa was still in pain. However, her physical pain was not as bad as her heartbreak over Margaery’s plan and her parents’ omissions. 

“She is strong,” Jon said. He didn’t even look at the man as he called action. That was one of the few scenes Sansa would play standing and talking from Anne’s mind. Sansa was wearing looser clothing, and no one would ever tell the pain in her body and the turmoil in her heart from how she acted. The movements needed to be controlled. Daario did most of the talking while Daenerys was a silent witness to Jhaerys and Alysanne unifying the realm.

That scene highlighted the tension between Daario and Sansa, and Tyrion had rewritten it to highlight it. It was romantic; it was about a realm for which both sovereigns had fought and bled.

Sansa’s issues in real life were slowly seeping into the scene—her mood was melancholy, and anger was in her eyes and body. 

She was perfect. She was nailing the scene, and Daario was helping her set the bar very high.

“She is so good,” Robb whispered, and Jon nodded. 

As long as they were working, he wouldn’t need to make small talk to the man. Possibly, there wouldn’t be questions about Sansa, their relationship, or what had happened the previous night in her flat. 

“Dad should see her…” Robb commented, “She almost doesn’t even look like Sansa.”

It was a ringing endorsement from Robb, an accomplished actor. 

“Silver screen is not tempting you?” He asked. 

Robb shook her head. On the screens, a close-up of Daario was shown as Jhaerys soulfully talked to his wife.

“Didn’t expect him to be that good,” Robb said when the man finished his monologue.

Daenerys was witnessing that conversation, sitting on a chair next to the two people talking: not uttering a sound, not even blinking, still as a statue. 

“I need to speak with my sister. I think she won’t want to hear what I’ve got to say.” Robb said. 

“Can you blame her?” Jon asked. He thought they still needed to shoot Dany and Sansa’s scene coverage. They were in for a long morning of shooting. 

“She will listen if you are there,” Robb said. 

Jon wanted to ask him what made him so sure he wouldn’t side with Sansa and make matters worse. 

“She is my little sister, and she is hurt,” Robb said right after Jon called cut to reset the scene. 

“So,” he said, “Theon sent you here.”

“He didn’t need to – and she needs to know what’s happened for the past few months.”

“You know – and she doesn’t,” Jon said.

Robb shook his head, “I asked -and I was told. Mum and Dad – none of this has been easy on them.”

“Try to imagine what it was for your sister,” Jon said.

Robb nodded and said, “It’s all I’ve been doing.”

They were resetting the scene. Robb had not asked questions about his relationship with Sansa; he hadn’t made teasing remarks.

He was worried about his sister and had asked him for his help. 

Help Sansa. 

The woman looked at them quizzically. She hadn’t told him anything the previous night; she had pretended to sleep, and it must have been because she had not been ready to talk. The wounds were still too fresh.

Would she talk to her brother Robb? 

Would he be allowed to have that conversation? 

How could he help Sansa? Would she want his help anyway?

Sansa walked toward them and smiled when Robb told her how amazing she had been in the scene, but she didn’t beam at his words. 

“Tonight – my hotel room,” Robb told Sansa.

“I’m not sure I want to hear it!” Sansa replied.

Robb shrugged. “You’re right; it should be Mum and Dad. Margaery should apologise, and so should Theon. I will tell everything that I know.”

“Margaery –“ Sansa trailed.

“She’s been your best friend since you were children.” Robb said, “But Loras was her brother.”

 “So that makes it alright then…” Sansa said.

Robb shook his head, “No, sweet sister. We will talk tonight. Won’t we?”

“Do not make excuses for them. For any of them!” Sansa said.

“I won’t. Just the facts, I promise!” Robb said.

“How long are you staying?” Sansa asked.

“Couple of days, I also need to talk to Theon.” Robb explained.

“Did mum and dad send you?” Sansa asked.

“In part. But I wanted to see you. And you should sit down and sleep. You look like shit, sister.” Robb said. He sounded a bit like his father, but the look in his eyes reminded Jon of Sansa when she was determined. 

Sansa sighed. She looked tired, and Jon suspected that she was in pain. Could Robb see?

 “I know how I look!” Sansa said, “Mum, Dad, Margaery, and Theon kept me in the dark. I’m not a child! And none of you know those people like I do!”

“I will tell you everything I know, I promise!” Robb said. 

It would not lessen the hurt Sansa had felt the previous night or his anger, but it was something. 

 


 

Phone call between Daenerys Stormborn and Jorah Mormont

 

Daenerys: Robb Stark is on set. It was unexpected.

Jorah: I’m not surprised. They were thick as thieves when they were children.

Daenerys: it was awkward. Sansa is angry. 

Jorah: Did she talk to Margaery Tyrell?

Daenerys: yep. And as soon as you get back, she’ll tell Tyrion everything. 

 Jorah: we need to. Tyrion cannot win this if he’s in the dark about what’s coming. 

Daenerys: I heard that Sansa and Robb are going to talk as well. *She sighs.* How is your arm?

Jorah: Fine, my shoulder isn’t even sore any more. How are you?

Daenerys: Tired and in pain, and I miss you. 

Jorah: I miss you too. Do you know why Oberyn Martell would want to speak with me? 

Daenerys: I don’t know – the accident? Something else we don’t know about? I’ll see what Sansa shares with me and tell you. 

Jorah: so, should I meet Oberyn? 

Daenerys: do you want to?

Jorah: Not particularly, no. But I owe him. 

Daenerys: *sighs* I know. I have to go back on set. There is a scene with Sansa that looked cool in the storyboard and in the script. Even with the rewrites, it is something special. 

Jorah: go on then. I’ll be back in Belfast before you know it. 

Daenerys: how is Rhaego? 

Jorah: he is okay. He loved the visit to the zoo.

Daenerys: Gotta go. I love you

Jorah: and I you

 


 

Robb’s hotel room was small and cosy. Sansa had accepted to be there but hoped she had made it clear that she wanted the truth and nothing but the truth. She was done being kept in the dark. 

Robb – loved her. And so did her parents. Margaery and Theon loved her too – but it had not been enough, and it was something she would have to live with. 

Theon and Margaery were also there, pretending they were just friends and partners in that reckless and dangerous plan. Sansa didn’t understand why they wanted to hide their relationship from Robb; she doubted her mother had noticed the shift in their dynamics, and she always told Robb everything. Still, she decided that she would not say anything. 

She didn’t even ask why they were there. Robb wanted them to clear the air. That much was clear. She was still angry, but her feelings would have to wait. 

Robb, however, should be with his pregnant wife, not fixing their messes! 

“Sansa, sweetheart, you still look like crap,” Robb said. 

“I didn’t sleep last night, and I’ve been working all day,” Sansa replied. 

They sat around a table; she ignored Margaery and Theon, and her only comfort came from Jon. 

“We should talk,” Robb said. 

“So, start talking.” Sansa said, “Because I don’t know anything. The first question is why am I in the dark?”

“Mum and Dad are trying to protect you,”

“From the Lannisters?” Sansa asked.

Robb shook his head, “From the fallout – and yes, from the Lannisters as well-“

“They don’t know them. They knew Tywin and Robert Baratheon. They don’t know Cersei, her twin and Joffrey.”

“But we do.” Margaery said, “My brother was thorough. At first, I wanted to bring down Cersei, but she is producing your movie, so I focused on Joffrey. He has no support in the industry.”

“That's all very fair, but I’m asking you again: What if your plan is not enough? What if it doesn’t matter?”

“Mum and Dad happen, Sansa. They have been moving things for months. Answer me this: when has our mother ever cared about awards?”

Never, not as long as she remembered.

“I don’t understand the connection,” Jon said. 

So, Robb started to speak about what the Starks had in mind, about what they had helped Margaery to do. 

“It could work – but it could also go pear-shaped, leaving Sansa vulnerable,” Jon said. 

“She won’t be. Because if the Lannister ever as much as breath Sansa’s name, we will start on the Twins.” Margaery said. 

“No, you won’t.” Robb said, “Cersei is producing Sansa’s movie. You can’t. And I know my mother and my father told you that.”

Robb looked at Sansa and said, “You have excellent people in your management. They will know what to do.”

“So, you admit they will try to drag me into this!” Sansa said.

Margaery sighed and said, “I hired Varys – and I told him he had to make sure you were not to be involved.”

“And what did he reply?” Sansa asked. 

“It can be done. You might have enough ammunition against the Lannisters to make them behave,” Margaery replied. 

“But I would still know – I would still be involved,” Sansa said. 

“Yes, possibly, but I told you, you could own Cersei and Joffrey,” Margaery said. 

“And I told you that you put me in a terrible position!” Sansa replied without anger in her words. She was too tired to be angry. 

“I’m sorry. I thought you would want –“ Margaery trailed. 

“What, Margaery? Seek revenge against them?” Sansa said. She could feel the anger now. Sansa was so angry that she almost took her jumper off to show them the scars Joffrey had left on her. Despite them, she didn’t seek revenge. She wanted to live and stay as far away from those people as possible. Why was it so hard to understand?

In the end, she didn’t move. She didn’t do anything because the pain was still there—and Robb didn’t deserve that, and neither did Jon.  

“How would you do it differently?” Robb asked. 

“I would have asked the person who was their hostage for two years! Who listened to their conversation and knew –“

“I know –“ Margaery said.

“No, Maeg, you don’t. You read your brother’s files; trust me, it’s not the same!” Sansa said. She was so sorry for Margaery and Loras, but her friend needed to know that it didn’t matter what she read or what her brother had found; she knew firsthand how dangerous those people were. 

“Mum and Dad’s plan will work. I’m sure of it. He will be attacked on many fronts.” Robb said. 

“Can you all guarantee that he will be destroyed? That Cersei will be powerless?” Jon asked. 

They all nodded, but Sansa said, “You need to think of a backup plan,”

“We have contingency plans!” Margaery said.

“This late in the game? How does it protect my family? Or you? Or Jon? We need to tell Tyrion.” Sansa said. 

“I don’t trust him,” Margaery said. 

“Tough. I do! Tyrion needs to know because he needs to save the movie – and because his insight might prove valuable.” Sansa said.

“You’d trust him over me?” Margaery asked.

Sansa shook her head. “You left me out. Now, I need to protect myself. I will not be Joffrey’s accomplice, nor do I want to be seen as a victim!”

“You are a survivor!” Robb said. 

“It doesn’t matter! Don’t think for a moment that the Lannister will play fair! They’ll paint me again as the socialite who got bored with parties and slept with a director to get Alysanne!” Sansa said. And Robb must see that it was the truth. Didn’t he remember what happened after she broke up with Joffrey? How angry had he been at what the Tabloids said?

“We need to control the narrative.” Jon said, “That’s why we need Tyrion.’”

“I will fight for the movie – but I won’t give Cersei anything,” Sansa said

 Sansa looked at Theon and asked, “Is it at least good?”

“It is – and we have proof of what we claim-“ Theon replied. 

“Mum, Dad—you. You shouldn’t have kept me in the dark. I trusted you!” Sansa said. 

“Mum and Dad wanted to spare you, to protect you,” Robb said.

“I’m not a child!” Sansa snapped. 

“You are their child, and the truth of what happened hurt them. But they had you in mind the whole time!” Robb said, as if it explained everything as if it made it less painful for her. 

“Jon?” she asked. 

“It’s too late to go back now. I’m sure your parents, your people, Margaery and her people will do everything possible to protect you. Won’t they?” Jon said. 

“I didn’t ask for this, for any of this.” Sansa drew a breath and then said, “I’m in, but I need you to be honest with me. You cannot hide anything else from me.”

She turned to Margaery and said, “You told Daenerys, but not me. Why?”

“It was Varys’ suggestion,” Margaery said. 

Sansa nodded. She looked at her brother and said, “I’m not a child anymore. Joffrey Baratheon saw to that; Mum and Dad need to remember that. She sighed again and said, “Tell me again how this will play out. Without omissions!”

 


 

The texts from Oberyn Martell had been insistent. Jorah knew the man, and he knew that he was relentless. He would not stop texting him. He also knew that he had helped control the narrative after the accident and that he had spun the whole thing into a tale of heroism and camaraderie among them. 

It was all fine and good, but he didn’t understand why he was texting him and asking to meet for brunch, lunch, or dinner. In the end, he had talked to Daenerys about it. He wanted to go back to Belfast. He was almost done with his commitments in London. He would miss Rhaego. The child was so easy to love, but he wanted to go back to Daenerys and away from meetings with his new producers and director and the ADR sessions. 

Therefore, he had told Oberyn that he could come to the house, Danerys’, theirs

His study/office was a large room. A large bookshelf covered a whole wall, filled with his books, scripts, the awards he had won in his career and some framed photographs. There was a large desk, an antique lamp, two chairs, and even a sofa on the other wall. The room had been a gift from Daenerys, a way to make him feel at home, and she had succeeded. He felt home in the bedroom, where Daenerys’ presence lingered, in the kitchen with the bright utensils and kettle, and in the garden, which she had told him had been her favourite place to be. 

Daenerys had a housekeeper and a nanny for Rhaego. The nanny had been there in a minor capacity since Rhaego was born, but she had become more active in the child’s life only since Daenerys started shooting the movie; that was why Missandei spent so much time there. Daenerys wanted Rhaego to be surrounded by people he knew, loved, and was familiar with. 

 He looked at the clock on the wall and was not surprised when he heard the doorbell ring. It must be Oberyn. The man, Tyrion’s friend, was always on time, he thought as he went out of the room and downstairs to greet the man. Rhaego was with the nanny. He knew Daenerys didn’t want her son anywhere near Oberyn Martell. It didn’t matter that the man had saved what was left of his reputation and career; she had been adamant about it.

The living room he was in at the moment was bright and cheery. It was the room of a woman who had a child, and it was a bit messy, but Jorah loved it. 

Daenerys’ housekeeper had answered the door and had invited Oberyn inside. 

The last time he saw the man was in Scotland for the photoshoot, and afterwards, he sent them the pictures and videos of them he didn’t want the studio to see through Tyrion. 

He offered Oberyn tea or coffee, but the man refused. 

“Shall we talk outside in the garden?” Oberyn asked. 

“My stepson is outside, and his mother doesn’t like strangers looking at him,” Jorah replied, and if there was some pride in the way he said the word stepson, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Am I a stranger?” Oberyn asked. He sounded mock hurt by his words, but his brown eyes were ripe with amusement. 

“Fine,” Oberyn said when he didn’t reply, sitting on an armchair.

Jorah sat on a chair beside the table and asked, “Why did you want to talk to me?”

“Oh, let’s see – you were in a car accident – I heard Jon’s car was destroyed in it, and yet you, Daenerys, Sansa and Jon went back to work immediately. This stuff is gold!”

“Are you aware of the circumstances of the accident?” Jorah asked. 

“Yep.” Oberyn said, nodding, “Which makes it even better.”

Better? 

Daenerys still couldn’t sleep a whole night because of the pain; she sounded hoarse and looked exhausted. 

He was in London with a broken arm, miles away from the woman he loved for stupid meetings that he could and should have postponed.

Sansa Stark and Jon Snow were not okay, according to Daenerys. 

How was any of it better?

“The movie – is hyped, it won’t probably even matter if it’s not a masterpiece. I’ll tell you the truth, at this stage, it won’t even matter if it’s utter crap! And you, general you, are beloved right now. People were genuinely worried about you guys.”

He didn’t reply to Oberyn’s words. He was grateful for the fans’ support, but it still didn’t explain the man’s presence in the house.

“Is there a point to any of this?” He asked.

“Several, my friend. What you decided to do will make for a nice narrative during award season—and before that, during press junkets. As I said, people love you. And your peers will not forget what happened—we won’t let them forget.” 

“The movie won’t be released for months.”

“Did you see the Instagram stories your girlfriend made from the hospital with Sansa Stark? She is a smart woman, Daenerys.”

Yes, she was. But she didn’t make those videos thinking about award season. She made them to make sure Cersei Lannister knew she was there and wasn’t going anywhere, regardless of the stunt she had pulled. 

“All I’m saying is that I’ve been spinning the accident in your favour – and I planted seeds that you might sow next year if you play your cards right.”

“A psychopath almost killed us, Martell! This is what you have been spinning.” Jorah said. 

“I’m aware, and I’m here to tell you that there is a lot of goodwill toward you and the others. Now, don’t give me the ‘I don’t care about awards’ bullshit! Nominations and awards mean more clout and more power. They mean more money and more roles. Why do you think otherwise sensible people put themselves through that?”

“I never did,” Jorah said.

“And look at what happened with your wife. She bled you dry and dragged you through the mud. Look at what they did to Daenerys. Look at what Baratheon did to Sansa Stark even after they broke up. It’s a circus, my friend, but one that makes you stronger at the end.”

“Why are you here?” Jorah asked. Nothing Oberyn had said was untrue, but what did the man want?

“I want to warn you that Baelish will return to set, from what I hear. But I’m also hearing other things.”

“Are you?” Jorah asked.

“Cersei Lannister expects to be hit, but she doesn’t know where it will come from or in what form.”

He merely raised an eyebrow at Oberyn’s words. 

“When Baelish returns, don’t forget that his fuck up made you stronger. Don’t forget that people love you, and those in the business are watching. Finish your movie. Take a holiday, shoot your miniseries – and other offers will arrive. If you play it well, you might have a career again in a few months. Daenerys will have her own come back, Sansa Stark her big break and Jon Snow will have the movie that defines his career.”

“What’s the catch?” Jorah asked because there was always a catch.  

“Baelish. And Cersei Lannister.” Oberyn said. 

As far as he knew, Oberyn Martell despised the Lannister, with Tyrion being the only exception. 

“What about Tyrion?” He asked.

“He wasn’t involved in the accident, and he has everything to gain by you guys playing the game when time comes.”

Things could go south very soon. Did Oberyn know? Did he suspect?

“Baelish wanted to put a leash on you with paparazzi. Cersei wanted you distracted, but their plan backfired. I’m here to tell you to use what happened to let them choke on the leash they wanted to put on you. I’ve already spun the narrative; we can only do better now.”

“Why are you talking to me?” Jorah said.

“Because they will listen to you. Daenerys, Sansa, Jon. Jon hates the game, but he’s already in it whether he wants it or not. And who knows what might happen – life is so fucking unpredictable.”

Perhaps Oberyn Martell knew something. He wondered why he had not told Tyrion. 

“What about you?” He asked.

“What about me?”

“What’s in it for you?” Jorah said. 

“I just really love my job. I could say I owe you, but I don’t because you were a bullheaded bastard who didn’t let me do my job properly. I could say that I like Sansa Stark, and I do. And your girlfriend got a bad deal when her husband died. The truth? I accepted this job because Tyrion is my friend, despite his surname. I’ll spin everything that comes your way, but I need you to play your part.”

“And what is our part?” Jorah asked.

“The heroes and troopers who went back to work after an accident. The co-stars who are a bit codependent and make the people on the internet ship you, defend you, pray for you, cheer for you and look forward to watching your movie. I need you to stay strong and trust me. Can you do that?”

“You still haven’t told me what’s in it for you,” Jorah said. 

“The satisfaction of a job well done?” Oberyn said.

“The truth,” Jorah said. 

“Not yet. But nothing I said is a lie, just so you know.” Oberyn said, “Allow yourselves to be helped.”

“And if no nominations or awards come?”

Oberyn shrugged, “Then nothing will change for you. You will still be loved and more visible than you have ever been. But if they do, everything might.”

He wanted to ask about Daenerys because she had hired Varys and kept provoking Cersei Lannister.  

“What about—“he started, but Oberyn stopped and said, “Daenerys has Varys. Don’t think for one moment that he will let what happened with the Boltons slide. You should know the lengths he would go to protect his clients.”

He did know. He would never trust the man, but he knew what he would do for his clients. 

“So,” Oberyn said, “what do you say?”

“I don’t understand why this didn’t come through Tyrion,” Jorah admitted. 

“Because you were closer and because he wasn’t in that accident. You were.” Oberyn replied, but Jorah wasn’t sure he believed him. 

He nodded at the man but said, “You know I will tell him, don’t you?”

“I’m not plotting against Tyrion, Mormont. This will protect him as well.” Oberyn said.

Still, it didn’t make much sense. There was still something that didn’t sit well with him.

“I will talk to the others when I get back.” He said.

“Good.” The man smiled, “You know as well as I do that something is coming. I was hired to protect the movie and stick it to the Lannisters. Allow me to do my job properly this time.”

How much did Oberyn know? Would he manage to prevent the movie from collapsing when Margaery and the Starks were done?

He could only trust the fact that he knew how good the man was at what he did. Would it be enough?


 

 She would have been fine enough to go with Bronn to the airport to pick up Jorah in a perfect world. She missed him. His leaving for almost a week had been necessary, and she was also aware that with their jobs, they would have to spend time apart. 

Her world was not perfect. She had broken ribs and bruises that were fading on her chest; she hadn’t had a whole night of sleep since the accident because when the pain didn’t keep her awake, her nightmares and her worries did. 

Jorah had all the meetings he was supposed to have, wrapped the ADR sooner than scheduled (she loved how driven Jorah was when he wanted something), and was coming back—to her—a day earlier than they had expected. 

She knew that they wouldn’t have much time alone. They were going to have a chat with team GQA in their hotel suite—there would be no breaking of the internet that time. Sansa and her were exhausted, and there were important things they needed to discuss. 

 Jorah was coming back. However, they would have time for themselves, and she needed to feel his hands touching her skin. She needed to talk to him while she held his hands. 

They had texted, spoken on the phone, and had Facetimed —and she had been too tired and in pain to try sexting.

She had loved that Jorah had spent time with Rhaego, however. Jorah had sent her pictures and videos, and she had checked the cameras in her house and seen the two of them interact. It had dislodged something in her heart to watch the man she loved and her baby boy bonding. Rhaego was bright, and Jorah loved children; they had spent much time together, and her son liked Jorah. 

So, she didn’t mind the lack of sexting in the least. 

It wasn’t about sex, anyway, and the doctors had told her that she needed to wait at least another week before engaging in sexual activity.

No, it was not about sex. It was about feeling whole and ridiculous because they had spent only a few days apart, even less than they had initially thought. Yet Daenerys had missed Jorah in ways she wasn’t sure were completely healthy, but she didn’t care. 

She had made an effort to dress (still in loose clothes) and had done her best to avoid looking like Samara from The Ring with her hair. She had even put on some makeup.

She smiled when she heard the door of their hotel suite open. 

She was careful when she moved because she had learned first-hand that sudden movements left her breathless with pain.

“I’m home,” Jorah announced.

It was true. Jorah was homeThey were home whenever they were together  

She smiled when she saw him taking a few steps inside the room. She smiled because she saw his smile, and her heart fluttered in her chest. 

They moved together – and she felt like she could breathe much better when he held her in his arms. 

No words were spoken. Daenerys didn’t tell him that the show must go on was horse shit, that it was a side of their job that she would never embrace. She didn’t tell him she had missed him or would miss the bubble they were in Belfast working together. 

She listened to his steady heartbeat, “Welcome home.” She said. 

“How long do we have until the others come?” Jorah asked.

“An hour, maybe less,” Daenerys replied.

Jorah kissed her and breathed against her lips, “I missed you.”

She only nodded; pain still made her weepy, and the last thing she wanted was to unravel in front of Jorah. 

“How is the arm?” She asked.

“Fine, and the shoulder isn’t even sore any more. How do you feel?”

“Better now. Fair warning: I've stolen all your pillows and might fall asleep while sitting on chairs.”

“Duly noted.” Jorah said, “You look beautiful.”

Daenerys chuckled, “I look like something the cat dragged in, but I love you for trying.” She said. 

Jorah smiled. “Shall we rest a little before the others come? I’ve longed to hold you in my arms for a week.”

“We absolutely shall!” Daenerys replied with a grin. It might be uncomfortable, but the pain was better, the swelling was almost entirely down, and truth be told, she had had a light week on set. Sansa had shot the bulk of the scenes. 

“I have to show you the drawings Rhaego did for you. He told them to bring them to you. Someone gave him the impression that I was a knight –“

Daenerys grinned. “Might have been me. And you are, to me.”

“Come, my love.” Jorah said, “It will be a mess later, let’s rest a little-“

Rest in their bed, in Jorah’s arms, while looking at the drawings her son had made for her? That was as perfect as it was going to get.

 


 

 

They had connected Theon's laptop to her TV screen, Theon had clicked play, and they had sat on her sofa and watched the whole thing: months of work, Loras’ research and hers used to bring Joffrey Baratheon down. 

Theon mumbled that there were still some minor things to edit and tweak; in another hotel room, Ygritte Wildings was watching the same thing – there would be a conference call after and notes, and they would make the last adjustments. They were almost ready: there were minor adjustments to make, and then it would be out of their hands. 

The people helping her, her brother’s source, would ensure that nothing would be buried or truly erased. For now, there were PDF documents that were sure and password protected in a cloud. Those documents would become common knowledge later.

Sansa was right: Margaery should have told her sooner. She should have asked which role, if any, she wanted to play in it.  

Protecting Theon had been her top priority, but she would also have to protect Sansa because her friend was right: by making Joffrey's life public, someone could ask questions or make inferences, and her friend might not be as safe as she had imagined at first. 

Although her friend was still angry and wounded by their behaviour, she had ultimately chosen to be part of it. Margaery didn’t know whether her friend would forgive her, but she would show her that Sansa could still trust her and earn her forgiveness.

Theon looked worried, too. Of course, the idiot didn’t care about his career's fallout or future. Still, he probably felt guilty for omitting things from Sansa.

“She will forgive you,” Margaery said.

“Not sure I deserve it. I was – only thinking about myself.”

“She knows – and she will forgive you. You are her brother.” Margaery said.

Theon didn’t reply at first. They kept watching the images, and eventually, the man said, “She was right. I didn’t stop and think about her. I can’t forgive myself.”

“We’ll help her now in any way we can. We’ll make sure that no one harms her,” Margaery said 

“How?” Theon asked. 

“Varys, her people, and her family. And hopefully, Tyrion Lannister won’t fuck this whole thing up!” Margaery said.

“Do you trust Varys?” 

Theon asked.

“I trust that he hated working for Joffrey and that my grandmother pays a fortune to employ him.”

“Are you ready for it?” Theon asked. And she knew what he meant. When she struck, she would be in danger, and they would try to drag her through the mud and do their worst. She didn’t care. 

She only cared that they struck—and some people would make sure things spread, and after that, Joffrey Baratheon would go down. They had three different strategies. And the Starks would do their part—they were already doing it. 

“Yes. Are you?” She asked. 

Theon nodded. “I’m more accomplished in my field than Joffrey ever was. I have no skeletons in my closet. Everyone knows I’m not a Stark, and my natural sister doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“She will not act against you – she will not go to the tabloids and spin some bullshit about you!”

Theon shook her head, “I don’t care what she does. She doesn’t know me. Everyone I love knows the truth about me. Who cares about the others?” He smirked and said, “And I do have a trust fund.”

“Nothing will happen to you, Theon. I promise.” Margaery said,

“And I won’t allow anything to happen to you and Sansa,” Theon said. And it sounded like an oath. It made the skin of her arms break out in goosebumps. 

“We should call Ygritte,” Margaery said after a moment. 

Theon nodded and said, “Sansa will let us know later what happened with Tyrion.”

Margaery sighed, “I don’t trust him.”

“But she does. More than she trusts us right now. We owed it to her.” Theon said. 

Margaery nodded. It broke her heart that her closest friend didn’t trust her. But she would not and could not regret the steps she had taken. 

Theon clicked stop on the computer. “Let’s hear what Ygritte has to say. And get ready. By the way, how many bloody night shoots do you have?”

“It’s a thriller – way too many. Will I find you here when I get back?”

“If you’ll have me,” Theon said.

“Oh, I fully intend to, Greyjoy!” she said, smiling for the first time since the terse confrontation with Sansa. 

They would succeed. Sansa would be free from Joffrey, and they would protect her. Theon would not be caught in the fallout, and she would finally breathe easier. 

Perhaps she would sleep without nightmares, and the wounds left by Loras’ death would start to heal. She would stop pretending. She would live. 


 

“What the hell is Winterfell?” Daenerys asked when Robb, for the fifth time, told them they should go there after the Oscar nominations were announced. 

It had been a surprise seeing Robb among their friends. Tyrion thought that the man should not get involved. Wasn’t he married to someone outside the business? Didn’t he have a child on the way? And yet, Robb Stark was there. He had been quiet while Sansa and Daenerys explained Margaery Tyrell’s plan. 

Batshit insane. The woman had a death wish; did she genuinely think Cersei would allow her to destroy her firstborn? 

An image of a much younger Cersei, dressing casually, her lengthy hair like gold around her shoulders and back, holding baby Joffrey, came to his mind. Joffrey had been a happy child, strong fingers wrapped around his finger on the rare occasions that Cersei allowed him to play with the child for the sake of appearance when her husband was around. 

A happy child who had become a monster – the whole debate between nature and nurture strangled to death by his sister and the way she had raised her son. 

Joffrey was a shit, a mad dog, and he deserved everything that was coming to him. He was sure that both Sansa and he knew things about his nephew that would make everything that Margaery had collected pale and disappear in comparison. 

“It’s the Stark’s family house in Ireland,” Tyrion replied before Jorah or Sansa did. 

“It makes sense. I hear it’s a no-fly zone; the whole area belongs to Sansa’s family. Good luck to any paparazzi who want to find you there in winter.” Tyrion continued.

His voice was calm; it even held some of its spark – because he had known something was brewing for a long time, and he had made a choice.

Still, Tyrion felt gutted because he loved his family.

 Could the Tyrell girl see the domino effect that tearing down Joffrey would cause? Cersei’s reputation would be questioned (and it was already in tatter as it was), and Jaime – he might lose his job – and that was being optimistic. 

Sansa started talking at first, telling them that they should be upfront and on the same page about the Lannisters and what they wanted to do. She said she was tired of being in the dark. For them, it had started with some tweets, but it had started long before that for her. 

“We are friends, I think. We became friends because we wanted to oppose Joffrey and Cersei, yet we kept things from each other, and we cannot afford it. Cersei would only need one crack to tear us apart, Tyrion, you know her, what she would do?”

“She would bury the movie so deep that no one would find it anymore; she would do everything in her power not to let me shop it elsewhere for distribution, and I mean everything. None of your careers are safe or stable enough to go against my sister’s studios unscathed. Sansa is a newcomer, Jorah had the whole thing with his wife, Daenerys took a hiatus that killed her career, and Jon needs this movie to get some clout and power.”

Tyrion told them the truth, adding, “Oh, there is me! I put everything into this movie: my reputation, all the favours I was owed, all the goodwill in the business, all the clout and power I’d gathered. She kills this movie; she destroys my career.”

 “You won an Oscar, you wrote and produced blockbusters,” Robb said. 

The man was – like his father. He was decent and didn’t understand who Cersei was, what she could do, or what she would do if she had a chance.  

“It doesn’t matter. I would go back to doctor scripts and wait six months to hear if my own had been read. No one would trust me again,” Tyrion replied.

Accolades and awards were good, but only if one could capitalize on them and do something about it. Being awarded was good only as long as one could still make money with their craft. 

“So,” Daenerys said, “we have Margaery, and we have the Starks.” 

Robb shrugged, “It’s not just the Starks. I don’t know much, just what my parents told me before I came here and what Margaery told me. Do you think we are the only ones who despise the Lannisters? Tywin was a tyrant, Robert Baratheon was an idiot, and Cersei is ruthless. And Joffrey –”

“He is a monster,” Sansa said. And Tyrion noticed that her voice was steady as she said those words. Jon was sitting at her side, looking at her as if she had just hung the moon and all the stars. 

 Tyrion heard Jorah sigh. He wasn’t sure whether the man knew just how much of a monster Joffrey Baratheon had been to Sansa, a girl he had known since she was a child. He supposed it didn’t even really matter. 

Jorah told them about his conversation with Oberyn Martell in London. They had two people who had assured them that Varys would do everything he could to protect both Daenerys and Sansa. 

Being left out stung a little. Daenerys had not told him about Margaery, and he had had many conversations with Oberyn but not a single one similar to what he had told Jorah Mormont. 

“So, “ Jon said, “while Margaery and Sansa’s family do their thing, should we trust Oberyn?”

“We need to wrap the movie before nominations are announced.” Daenerys said, “That was why we returned to work so soon. We can do reshoots and pick up photography when the dust settles, but we need the movie wrapped in time.”

“And yes, Winterfell is a good idea,” Sansa said. “I know you wanted to be somewhere warm, but no one will find us there. You too, Tyrion.”

Tyrion chuckled, “I must protect the movie and fight my sister and brother.”

“Your brother cannot know about this,” Daenerys said.

Tyrion sighed. “I know. It would defeat the purpose. But you must know that Cersei is good; don’t be surprised if she catches wind of this plan before it’s hatched and nukes it.”

“Margaery told us they have contingency plans for that.” Robb Stark said. 

“Why isn’t she here?” Tyrion asked. Since they were coming clean and sharing everything, why wasn’t Sansa’s friend in that room with them?

“She is shooting her miniseries,” Sansa replied. 

Was Sansa angry at her friend? Did she tell her friend that people might question her relationship with Joffrey? Had she been in it with her friend without telling him?

He asked her, and Sansa shook her head. "I was told a few days ago. I knew she had a plan, but not this.”

“Did you talk about what it might mean for you?” Tyrion asked. 

Jon clenched his jaws and said, “Yes, they have.”

“And?” Tyrion prodded. 

“And nothing. No one will harm Sansa!” Jon said. 

And he meant it, too. So very noble and so unrealistic.

“Sansa.” Tyrion said, “You know how this might turn out for you.”

Sansa nodded, “I’m aware. I will not protect Joffrey, Tyrion.”

Why would she? His nephew had been an utter shit to her. Sansa didn’t owe him anything. 

“But I think that with Varys, Oberyn and J’Haquen’s help, I might –”

“Survive this?” Tyrion asked. Sansa Stark was already a survivor. No. She would thrive. 

“You might save the movie –“ Tyrion said. 

They were all sitting around the big table in Jorah and Dany’s suite. They ate their dinner and drank wine and beer while they talked. 

“Tyrion –“ Sansa trailed. 

“No, listen to me. I’m not saying it will happen. But I know Cersei; she will do everything she can to save her son, and she will contact you if things get out of her control, which I understand they will.”

“I don’t want to be their accomplice,” Sansa said. 

“You won’t. You’ll buy us freedom from my sister and Baelish. And Cersei will have to do it, or her son will go to jail.” Tyrion said.

“He belongs there.” Both Robb and Jon said. 

“True. But he isn’t. We will all protect you, Sansa, but will you do the same for our movie?” Tyrion asked.

It was a shitty move. Tyrion was aware of that. But they told him they wanted to destroy his family, and he could not protect Jaime, Tommen, and Myrcella. Surely, he could try and defend his movie. 

“I don’t like blackmail,” Sansa said. 

“It’s more like do ut des.” Tyrion said, “She gives you the movie. You go somewhere warm and turn off your mobile phone until things settle.”

“Do you think it will work?” Jon asked. 

The Tyrell, the Starks, and God knew who else was against her nephew. An attack on multiple fronts on the same day with no hope of burying it and putting together a coherent response in time? 

“Are they all saying the truth?” Tyrion asked Sansa and Robb. 

“As far as I know, yes,” Sansa said. 

“And it doesn’t even cover the worst he has done,” Robb added. 

Robb Stark wasn’t a movie star; he worked his arse off in theatre, he had married a doctor, and except for a couple of horror movies when he was a kid, Robb stayed the hell away from the business – and yet, he seemed sure of his words, he looked confident. He looked like he would do everything to avenge his sister. 

Said sister was right there, sitting on a chair, her face pale, her hair in a bun, bruises fading on her face, and her eyes were sad, 

“If I do what you are asking, there are women who won’t get justice because I’ll shut up,” Sansa said. 

“I have lived with this for years, Sansa. It’s horrible, but you’ll get used to it.” Tyrion said. 

“Maybe I don’t want to get used to it,” Sansa replied. 

Tyrion nodded, “Then the movie will be Cersei’s collateral damage. Are you ready to see it buried in delayed distribution? Does Jon deserve it?”

“Don’t you dare –“ Jon hissed. 

“I’m telling you the truth! Jorah has the miniseries he will shoot soon, Danny has her rom-com, and you will audition next week for some role or another. Jon has only this movie and nothing else to fall back on.” Tyrion said.

“Neither do you,” Jon said.

“I don’t work because I need it to live, Jon. I can always write books. I’ve got offers. What do you have?”

“Leave him out of it,” Sansa said. 

“Why? Cersei surely won’t,” Tyrion replied, “and you know that! Right here in this room, no one knows her better than the two of us.”

 “Oberyn –“Sansa trailed.

“Will hail all of you as heroes and troopers, and my sister will snicker at that and do whatever the fuck she pleases as she has always done. You can save the movie; even if you do, it might be a mitigated disaster. We might never be able to sell it anywhere, and I will think about this possibility, but I need to know what you are willing to do.”

“You don’t know what Joffrey did to me,” Sansa said. 

Tyrion blinked his eyes. They were all looking at him. Robb and Jon knew, and Daenerys and Jorah were learning things that night. No, he didn’t know every single monstrous thing Joffrey had done to Sansa. It must have been terrible enough that, in the end, she had dumped him, sending Joffrey spiralling into a crusade on tabloids against her. 

He knew what Joffrey did to hookers, however. He knew how he treated people who worked for him and with him. He was a writer, and he had a good imagination.

“And yet you are here. Joffrey didn’t break you. He didn’t ruin you. You are far stronger than him, Sansa.” Tyrion said. 

He saw that the redhead was fighting back tears. And he was sorry. He was sorry that his nephew was a monster and that she still had to deal with him. He was sorry because he remembered the first time he had seen Sansa Stark and how sweet and in love she had been with Joffrey. And he had seen his sister and his nephew turn everything good in her life into torture. He had done nothing to stop it. He had been too afraid of Cersei to do anything. 

Sansa wasn’t powerless now. She was loved, and she was a strong woman. 

“Maybe it won’t come down to that,” Tyrion said, “but if it does, will you bargain with her?”

“Not alone,” Sansa said. “I don’t want to be in a room alone with your sister. Been there, done that.”

He couldn’t believe his sister had been so reckless and stupid. Did she truly forget or not care about how powerful the Starks were? Did she think that Sansa was hers to torment? And Joffrey’s to hurt?

“It can be arranged,” Tyrion said. “Of course, provided this plan works. If it fails, we should be ready to defend ourselves because my sister and my nephew will be out for blood.”

“It won’t fail.” Robb Stark said. “My parents won’t fail. You have no idea what they have been doing.”

“Then, explain it to me by all means,” Tyrion said. He drank some wine. 

He observed Jon Snow as Robb Stark talked. The man was pale with anger, and his hands were closed into fists. He supposed the man would have loved to whisk Sansa away and protect her from anything, but it was just not possible. 

The Starks were moving their pieces, and he had trouble reconciling his idea of Ned Stark with what he was hearing. Then he thought about Catherine Stark’s cold glare and barely concealed anger when they had talked, and it occurred to him that it must be her idea. Starks and Tully were at war against his nephew, and there was no way that Joffrey would not be utterly ruined. 

And then the rest of his family would follow, like pieces of a domino. Fuck! He should be far more drunk to deal with what they were telling him. 

“What about you?” Robb asked. 

“What about me?” Tyrion repeated.

“We laid our cards on the table. What are yours?”

Tyrion laughed at the man’s words. “What makes you think I’ve been hiding something? Unlike most in this room, I’ve been entirely forthcoming.”

“You allowed Baelish to be the E.P. of the movie,” Jon said.

“Yes, but to be fair, at the time, I didn’t imagine it would turn into this. I needed money. Cersei was amenable.”

“Fool,” Robb said.                                                                             

Tyrion shrugged, “As I said, I didn’t imagine any of this. She was there; she had the money; believe it or not, we had already worked together. Baelish was our buffer.”

“He needs to be dealt with,” Daenerys said.

“Should we slit his throat?” Tyrion asked. He was aware of the anger in his voice, but what did they expect him to do?

“If Joffrey falls, Baelish will follow.” Sansa said, “Especially now. His future depends on ‘My Beautiful Boy’”

“Not just his.” Tyrion said, “My sister has just spent a ridiculous amount of money to sell the movie to the Eastern markets.”

“Not enough,” Robb said. 

“Then tell your mother to devise another brilliant plan to deal with Baelish!” Tyrion said. 

“You said he will be back on set after the Globes,” Robb said. 

Tyrion nodded, “He will be careful. And shall I suggest all of you to play the fucking game until we wrap? If I know him and Cersei, they suspect something is coming. They are expecting it. So, let me handle Baelish while you wrap the movie. Sansa and Dany will be in Iceland for the last week. We will wrap things here with Daario and the others. We will have a wrap party the night before Oscar nominations drop and disappear in the morning. I’ll deal with the shitstorm.”

“You can be at Winterfell too,” Sansa said.

“Nope. It’d put a target on your backs. Sansa, I’ve been playing the game with my family for most of my life.”

“And then you turned out – different,” Daenerys said. 

Tyrion smiled. It still stung that Daenerys hadn’t told him about Margaery, but he knew she cared about him. 

“Because my father and my sister hated me. But I know how to deal with them during a crisis. I was there when my father and Robert died.”

“This is different, and you told me Cersei doesn’t trust you,” Jon said. 

“No, she doesn’t. Jaime does. And I need to protect him,” he said. He looked at Sansa and then at Robb and said, “I will try to protect my brother. Tell your parents and tell Miss Tyrell.”

“How?” Sansa asked. 

“Not a clue, yet. But I’m good at thinking on my feet. Now, shall we talk contingency plans? We need to have our own. No offence to the Starks and Ms Tyrell, but they’re not here; they will not be stuck in the middle of the shit storm!”

Daenerys nodded, Jorah sighed, and Tyrion noticed that he had taken Daenerys’ hand in his. Jon scooted closer to Sansa, and the woman pursed her lips and nodded.

“Shall we begin?”

 


 

From Twitter

 

@MelisandreGossip: The red carpet is underway for the Golden Globes. Back on our site, the gallery has been updated live. Lovely gowns, stunning jewels, good spirits. We like to see. #GoldenGlobes

 

@joffreybaratheonismyking: my boy in a tux. What’s her face is too thin, but they make a good couple on red carpets. #mybeautifulboyforalltheawards #GoldenGlobes

 

@MelisandreGossip: We chatted with @JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic on the red carpet. He looks bewildered and says he still can’t believe he is there. The link for the video interview is in the comments. Dressed in Tom Ford, Baratheon is one of the frontrunners of the night. Will he bring home the globe? #GoldenGlobes

 

@SansaAlysanne01 omfg the Starks!! Catelyn Tully looks like a fucking queen! Blue is her colour! And that necklace! #TeamCatTully #LadyStoneHeartdestroyedme #GoldenGlobes

 

@MelisandreGossip: a chat with the lovely and usually reserved Starks. I asked them about their daughter, Sansa, who was involved in a car crash last week, and the proud parents told me she is on the mend and she is already back at work. Clad in Dior, Mrs. Stark is happy to be here. I asked her about her necklace, and she looked at her husband before saying, “It belonged to Ned’s great-grandmother.” Catelyn Tully is the frontrunner to bring home the globe as the best actress in a dramatic movie, but she says she believes the award should go to Glenn Close. “I’m rooting for her, really!” when asked who, among the male actors, should bring home the globe, she smiles and says, “Willem, and it’s a no-brainer!”

 


 

They had at least given them a decent table; it wasn’t close to people who mattered, but they weren’t in the back with people from TV shows no one cared about or other idiots. Alyx was too thin. She hated him and only pretended she gave a rat’s arse about him whenever cameras were close. She was sitting at his right. His mother and Baelish were seated on his left.

Joffrey had been smiling for hours; he had even smiled during the idiotic monologue at the beginning where some American idiot mocked him for his tweets; he had schooled his features to look a bit ashamed of his actions (he wasn’t). He smiled and clapped his hands. And the last week had been taken out from Baelish’s wet dreams: all the interviews, the talk show circuit, the invasive questions from the HFPAs “journalists”, to which he had replied politely, prepared by his new PR guy who looked like he was having the time of his life whenever he could ask him embarrassing questions only to tell him that he was doing it all wrong, that he should act humble, embarrassed and like a player. 

Fucker. 

He had seen Sansa’s parents, whose seats were better than his; they were chatting with Alfonso Cuaròn, with Spike Lee, and with Olivia Colman. His pr guy had told him that the Starks never partook in awards and all the circus that surrounded it (fuck, he envied them). It didn’t mean, however, that when they decided to, people didn’t bend over backwards to be photographed next to them or to be seen with them. 

He hard passed kissing their rings. He was there as a nominee, the odds of him winning were good, and he would be fucked before he went and played nice with the Starks. 

Another category was up; two new presenters were on stage and said stupid things while presenting the nominees. There were no clips shown, which he hated when he was a child; the clips were one of his favourite things about the awards. 

How many still to go? He could feel his mother’s eyes on him, and he relaxed against the chair. He was on his best behaviour. He even tolerated Alyx and how she had wanted it in her contract that he could only touch her in front of cameras and where he could touch her. Not that he would fuck her in a million years, but his PR guy had told him plainly that the pining for Sansa had become very old, and no one believed him any more. So, he had to have a new public girlfriend. One who would smile and look good on red carpets and had the whole “gazing adoringly” at her boyfriend down to an art that would not make waves. 

He missed Sansa on red carpets. She always walked them like a pro, and she didn’t mind where he put his hands, and her looks of love were always genuine, at least in the beginning. Toward the end, she had become very good at the whole game. Alyx had been found by his new PR guy after his choices for a public girlfriend had all told him no. Alyx had come with an agent, a manager and a lawyer, and every event and outing had been discussed beforehand. She had wanted a lot of money and had had precise terms. They didn’t even talk to each other unless it was necessary. But she was by his side, her body tilted toward him, giving an illusion of fondness and complicity between them; if and when cameras were on him, she looked at him adoringly, and he looked at her, imagining closing his hands around her delicate neck and squeeze the life out of her. 

He was under a tight leash; he needed happiness wherever and however he could. 

His mother looked good, wearing dark green and emeralds. He thought she had lost it when she had cut her hair so short, but she looked good nonetheless. She was Hollywood royalty and wouldn’t let anyone forget that. 

He needed a bathroom break. Doctor Qyburn had outdone himself with the stuff he had prepared for him. He felt mellow and like he had drunk a good bottle of vodka but hadn’t even touched the champagne at his table. 

All in all, it was boring as hell right now. He had been hearing about frontrunners in all categories for weeks, so the names he was hearing weren’t surprises for him, and mostly didn’t care. 

“Best Actress in a dramatic role is up next.” His mother whispered in his ear. 

Great. Fucking fantastic!

“I will lead the standing ovation if she wins, I promise.” He whispered back. 

He smiled at his mother, and she did the same, so if cameras were on them, people would only see a mother and her son chatting and smiling. 

He had been doing good lately. None of his pictures had been turned into memes or reaction gifs. He chafed under all the rules and the muzzle they had put on him. Still, he also knew that he had a signed pre-development project and was close to finalising the deal for a big project. His new PR guy kept telling him that people would forgive and forget his fuck up only if he followed the rules. If he didn’t, he could kiss goodbye to his career. 

He would gladly tear his new PR guy from limb to limb; it felt like he had some Navy Seal babysitter, but he had not been wrong so far. 

“I can burst my ass and try and clear your image, Joffrey, but you have to play ball. I say jump; you only ask how high. Am I clear?”

So, Joffrey had his best suit on, the smile he had been practising in front of the mirror for months, and he kept telling himself that he had to carry on just until the Oscars. His mother would be even more of a cunt to him until nominations were announced, but Joffrey had gotten used to that. He chafed, but he was a trooper. He was a professional actor. He pretended for a living. 

Therefore, he was pretending he wasn’t bored almost to tears by the whole evening. He pretended he didn’t care that big names were flocking around the Starks table during commercials, as if they were truly royalty. He pretended he didn’t care that only sycophants came to them with nothing to offer and so much want in their eyes. 

He pretended he gave half of a fuck about the girl sitting next to him, wearing Versace and jewels whose renting cost a fortune. She was paid by the hour, like a whore, and she demanded distance and politeness from him. 

“A word I don’t like, a touch I don’t like, and I walk. You need me. I don’t need you!” Alyx had said in the beginning. She despised him almost as much as he hated her. 

She was good, however. She was worth the absurd fee required to be his public girlfriend. His new PR guy had given them both a script with how they met and other bullshit to sell the romance, and they had both learned it. 

He mentioned his “girlfriend” in the talk show interviews, and she smiled on red carpets, telling him that she felt like she was living in a dream. 

George Clooney was on stage now, doing his little teleprompted shtick before he read the nominees for Best Actress in a Dramatic Role. He had seen all five nominees on the big screen. His personal pick would be Nicole Kidman, but realistically, it would either be Glenn Close or Catelyn Tully.

George Clooney opened the envelope. Joffrey exchanged a look with his mother. She should remember her warnings and plaster a fucking smile on her face. She looked like she had just sucked a lemon. 

“And the winner is Catelyn Tully for Lady Stoneheart!” George Clooney proclaimed. 

He saw Sansa’s mother on the screen, looking fake surprised. He saw her kissing her husband, and yep, it was happening; they were giving her a standing ovation—the second of the night after the one to Jeff Bridges.

He kept smiling as he leapt to his feet and clapped his hands. 

“This is Catelyn Tully's first nomination and win,” A voice said as the woman went up on stage to receive the award. 

“Fuck let it be a short speech….” He said, gritting his teeth. And he felt his smile falter a little when the woman held the trophy. 

Red hair, blue eyes, fair skin. 

Sansa was taller than her mother, and the shade of her hair was different; it was lighter, but their eyes looked similar. 

Fuck. She really had done it! Bored with her life in her husband’s castle and with doing arthouse movies and character actress parts in big movies, she had gone and done it. She decided to win all the awards under the sun on her first try!

“Oh, my goodness!” Sansa’s mom said, “I have so many people to thank!”

She thanked people involved with the movie, people who, he assumed, worked for her. Then she said, “Thank you to the Hollywood Foreign Press Association for this award. And I want to thank you, my husband, Ned. I love you: thank you for being my partner in all things. And this is for my children: Robb, Theon, Arya and Sansa!”

He knew that the camera was on him now. He could not fuck up. He would not. 

Hopefully, things will not be awkward during the photoshoot after he wins. 


 

From Twitter

 

@MelisandreGossip: Rami Malek, Catelyn Tully, Christian Bale and Regina King are among the Golden Globes winners. Look at the pictures in the link in the first comment!

 

@jonsnowdeserevedanoscar: @MelisandreGossip muahahahah. So glad for the winners. Very deserved. Too bad for sore losers #karmaisonlyabitchifyouare

 

@fireandice456: @jonsnodeservedanoscar @MelisandreGossip not a fan of BR, but Gods that face on the screen will live rent-free in my head forever. #thesilenceofsomepeopleisdefeaning

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I didn't realise how long this chapter had gotten! Sorry?
ETA: grammar and syntax. Grammarly made a mess and I didn't realise until after I posted the chapter.

Chapter 23: Before the Fire, the Storm Gathers

Notes:

: I’ve been stuck forever, I know. I’ve been writing other stuff, but this fic is dear to my heart. It took me years to finish it, it’s a labour of love and it ended up far longer than I could ever expect. But it is done, now. So, I want to thank you all the readers that stuck with this story for the better part of the last decade, everyone who left kudos, bookmarked and commented on QOS. I have the sequel in mind, and hopefully it won’t take me seven years to write! Let me know if you’re interested in it. As always, comments and feedback are love.
One word or two about the articles and twitter reactions and talk about Oscar race. Ok, I’ve been an awards watcher for decades, and I can assure you that it’s something real. For example, Christopher Nolan was in preproduction for Oppenheimer the cast was announced and there was already a discourse for Cillian Murphy to be locked for best actor, a whole two or three years before Oppenheimer became a thing. They were shooting the movie and Robert Downey Jr was already a lock for supporting actor, with just one still from set. So, keeping this in mind imagine what an Oscar race with our heroes would be like. I have for the past four years, and if you are interested, I’ll be glad to be a total nerd about it in the sequel of the fic.

I need to thank my best friend who stuck with me and listened to my insane ramblings about this fan-fiction for years.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Fourteenth Week of shooting (Minus One Week to Academy Awards Nominations Announcement)

 

Day 1, Iceland

 

The Icelandic wind howled, relentless and biting. They had been there three days and Sansa still wasn’t used to the cold. She loved Jon with all her heart, but his vision for the scenes in Iceland were a logistic nightmare.

 

She was happy, however. They had been waiting to shoot that scene since the table reading. They had reharsed it, read it in the makeup trailer countless times, they had discussed it in exhausting detail, and now, at least, they were here, standing in that frozen landscape to bring Tyrion’s words and Jon’s vision to life.

Sansa pulled her cloak tighter; her fingers numb from the cold. Daenerys exhaled, her breath curling in the air.

 

“We could have filmed this on a soundstage,” Daenerys muttered, rubbing her hands together.

 

She smirked, “I remember how much you liked Jon’s idea when he told us. You loved the authenticity of that.”

 

Daenerys rolled her eyes but grinned, “I meant visually, I loved the idea. Frostbite? Not so much.”

 

 

 She chuckled, “I think it’s worth it. This is when our characters meet. It has to feel – otherworldly.”

 

Daenerys nodded, her expression softening, “I know, babe. And if I had to freeze alongside anyone, I’m glad it’s you,”

 

"Likewise."

 

Davos approached grinning. He held his phone and said, “Alright, ladies – give me something iconic!”

 

They turned, locking gazes. Of all the people she didn’t expect Davos Seaworth to want to take pictures to share on social media. He had shown them, however, his unwavering support and, since the accident, he had been very protective of them.

 

The first picture was pure cinema – a queen and a woman who went through hell, bound by fate, standing at the edge of history. Daenerys dark hair in stark contrast with the white surrounding them, her red hair flowing on her back.

 

And then Daenerys threw an arm around her.

 

She yelped, “Dany -!”

 

Daenerys cocked an eyebrow and said, “I told you about my last conversation with Baelish, didn’t I?”

 

She did. And Daenerys Stormborn was a force to be reckoned with. And she was her friend. Their smile for the camera, as they hugged like children was genuine. That movie changed her life, saved it. It gave her a friendship with a woman who was loyal and for a moment their little conspiracy, even the movie didn’t truly matter. They were two friends who were making something they loved, together.

 

Click.

 

This time, when they broke the internet, it was not for revenge. It was not to send a message.

It was about friendship.


When Jon showed them the storyboard for the first time, Daenerys was over the moon. She remembered Tyrion reading the directions in the script during the table reading. His rich voice had described a landscape that was almost a rift in time. And of course, Jon being Jon, with the full support of Tyrion had used as little CGI as possible.

 

She spent most of her previous week, shooting the companion scenes to the ones in Iceland. She didn’t lie to Sansa, and she didn’t complain. They could have shot the whole meeting between Anne and Queen Alysanne in a soundstage, but Jon and Tyrion wanted the real deal, and as much as she wanted to throttle Jon right now and Tyrion too, they were right.

 

Tyrion Lannister owed her hot chocolate for the rest of their lives, however.

 

Baeric called action.

 

The wind died down. Silence stretched. The ground beneath her feet, Anne’s, was cold, and she knew that when she looked down, it wouldn’t be snow and ice but asphalt. There would be a flash of a painted traffic line, flickering like a mirage, and then it would be gone.

 

She swallowed hard.

 

Anne’s visions were out of control. She stood in a vast, icy landscape that shouldn’t exist. That she shouldn’t know. The landscape belonged to the history books. It was Iceland.

 

Anne shivered in her coat.

 

Ahead of her, Queen Alysanne emerged from a fine mist, a vision in red, a beacon for Anne. She was regal, radiant, untouched by the cold. As she walked toward her there was something in her blue eyes. Queen Alysanne regonized her, even if it was not possible. There was concern in her eyes.

 

Anne clutched her arms, trying to steady herself. “You’re not real.”

 

The concern in the Queen’s eyes was still there, and her voice was soft, as her breath curled in the air when she said, “Neither are you,”

 

They already shot her coverage. Anne would blink feeling weighed down by her coat, but when she blnked and looked at herself she would wear a red gown, tattered and threadbare.

 

Anne was unravelling, fear and desperation were smothering her.

The ground beneath her feet would shift again. One moment she would be on frozen tundra. The next she would stand in a hospital corridor, the hums of fluorescent lights above her, Professor Reid watching her from a few paces away.  

 

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening.

 

Anne clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus on Queen Alysanne, who was steady, unmoved by her shifting world.

 

Her voice cracked when she asked, “Why are you here?”

 

Alysanne took a step closer. “I could ask the same of you. You are lost.”

 

Anne laughed bitterly. “You think?”

 

Alysanne studied her carefully, tilting her head to one side for a moment, her blue eyes fixed on her. Then, she lifted a hand. Anne flinched.

 

She touched her cheek. It was warm. It was grounding. It was real.  

 

 Anne blinked. The hospital vanished. The strong, frigid, and sharp wind blew again. She was back in Iceland.

  Alysanne’s voice was gentle. “You do not have to be afraid.”

 

Tears welled her eyes. She was past the point of being afraid. She was lost. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”

 

Alysanne's eyes shone with concern, sympathy, and intelligence. Her voice was soft when she said, “Then hold onto what is good.”

 

 The wind howled louder. She reached for Alysanne’s hand.

 

And then –

 

Darkness.

 

The audience would never know if Anne had completely lost her mind at that point, or if, somehow, Alysanne had truly reached through time to save her.

 

It was also her last scene with Sansa.

 


 

Baeric called cut, and Daenerys felt like she had just run a marathon. Sansa looked shaken as well. And they were both startled at the sound of the crew’s applause. What the hell did they do?

 

Sansa was still breathing heavily, her eyes bright, her face radiant.

 

She took everything in. Months of preparation, whispered secrets, chatting in the makeup trailer that had become their spot, evenings plotting against Cersei and Joffrey, and living in each other’s pockets had all led to that moment.

 

 Since the first day, Tyrion has made clear that their characters—Alysanne and Anne—share something unique that transcends words and time. That is why Anne is a silent presence in Alysanne’s life, and Alysanne appears in Anne’s life.

 

 Anne watched, learned and suffered with Alysanne. Alysanne witnessed Anne’s unravelling mind. Their relationship was symbiotic in a way and perhaps it had bled a little in their personal lives. According to the people closest to them they unconsciously mimicked each other all the time, but what happened while they were shooting the scene was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

 

She didn’t know how good of an actress she was. She knew Jorah had made her a better actress, but in that moment, she wasn’t sure she had ever been that good as in the scene they shot. What would Jorah think of that scene?

 

He should be there, but he was in Belfast, shooting his last alone scenes. She liked to think he would proud of her, she could almost hear his voice in her mind, the quiet, rich honeyed rasp of his, telling her she had done well, that she was better than she thought. She missed him more than ever. It was a bit codependent, perhaps, but after months being always together, she couldn’t bear to be apart from him, now.

 

Sansa turned to her, still breathless, and grinned. "We did it."

 

Daenerys grinned back, then without thinking, pulled her into a fierce hug.

 

The crew erupted into cheers around them. She could hear Beric and Davos clapping, see the admiration in their faces as they looked on.

 

Daenerys let the moment wash over her, let herself savour the knowledge that they had done something special.

 

She was sure Jon was going to have a heart attack when he saw this scene. Sansa had been astonishing. There was hope for their castmates in Belfast that the stick in his ass would dislodge a little, but she wouldn’t hold her breath over it.

 

They would wrap the movie at the beginning of the following week, and they had a narrow window of time before Margaery would make her move. They would all scatter, but she knew that Sansa would always be part of her life, and it wasn’t just because Jorah and Ned were talking again, daily.

 

Missandei was her best friend, she would be lost without her, but Sansa was becoming one of the closest friends she had ever had.

 .

She pulled back and squeezed Sansa’s hands, smiling. "I wouldn’t have wanted to do this with anyone else."

 

Sansa’s smile softened, her eyes glistening. "Me neither."

 


 

Belfast, Day 1

 

Tyrion had spent weeks trying to meet with Margaery Tyrell, and she had dodged him every single time. A polite no here, a too busy there—he knew when he was being handled. He suspected she would have ignored him indefinitely if Sansa hadn’t texted her from Iceland and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she owed Tyrion this meeting.

That was why he was now sitting across from her in Theon and Sansa’s apartment, which was far too cozy for plotting the destruction of his family, but here they were.

Margaery looked completely at home in the space, sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine in her hand, her long hair loose over her shoulders, dressed casually in jeans, a blue jumper, and sneakers. She looked effortlessly elegant, as if she could walk into any room and belong there instantly. And yet, for all that controlled poise, Tyrion noticed the small tells of exhaustion beneath her perfectly applied makeup—a faint shadow under her eyes, a slight tightness in her jaw, the way she exhaled just a little too deeply before taking a sip of wine. She was running on willpower and caffeine, but she was still sharp as a blade.

"Alright, Tyrion," she said, perfectly poised, swirling the wine in her glass. "You’ve been harassing me for weeks. What exactly do you want?"

Tyrion didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and studied her, playing his own game.

"I want to save my nephew and niece," he said, simply.

Margaery's smile didn't falter, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"They're not in the business," Tyrion continued. "They’re innocent. Joffrey is a monster, my sister is – whatever she is, but Myrcella and Tommen? They’re just kids. Cersei is too obsessed with Joffrey to act in time to protect them. I need to ensure they don't become collateral damage."

Margaery tilted her head, assessing him. "And what else do you want?"

"Jaime," Tyrion admitted. "If he can be saved."

That earned him an actual laugh. "If? My, my, how quickly you’ve abandoned family loyalty."

Tyrion exhaled. "Let’s not pretend we’re anything but pragmatists, you and I. I won’t insult your intelligence by lying - Jaime has done terrible things in the name of my family. But I know my brother. I know when he’s truly guilty, and when he’s simply drowning in his own misplaced sense of duty."

Margaery took a long sip of wine before answering. "Jaime Lannister is your problem, not mine. I’m not in the business of saving Lannisters."

Tyrion studied her again, weighing his words carefully. She looked exhausted, but she wasn’t breaking.

"You are taking one hell of a risk," he said, "and I still don’t understand why. I know you loathe Joffrey, but this? You’re throwing yourself into the abyss with nothing but hope that you won’t be dragged down with him."

Margaery’s grip on her glass tightened, just for a second. Tyrion caught it, and that told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t just about Joffrey. It never had been.

"It’s none of your fucking business," she said lightly, but her voice was steel.

Interesting.

"Fair enough," Tyrion said. He wouldn’t push—not yet. "But you are playing with fire."

Margaery smirked. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you."

Silence stretched between them, loaded and knowing.

Then Margaery leaned forward slightly, as if she were about to drop something just for the sake of amusement. "Did you know your brother sold his house?"

Tyrion froze.

Margaery grinned. "Ah. You didn’t. That’s interesting."

Tyrion blinked once, twice. "...Jaime?"

"He sold his house," Margaery confirmed, amused by his reaction. "He isn’t speaking to Cersei."

Tyrion opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "He—what?"

She gave a careless shrug. "Cut ties. Walked away as far as I know. Long before the accident. Do you remember the accident? You know, the one where Ramsay Bolton almost killed Sansa, Jon, Daenerys, and Jorah?  We met at the hospital,"

Tyrion was staggered.

Jaime left?

Jaime had cut ties?

Jaime, who had been bound to Cersei for their entire lives—who had been the other half of her soul, for better or (more often) for worse, had just – left?

He felt a strange, heady mix of disbelief and relief. His brother—his deeply fucked-up, complicated, impossibly loyal brother—had done what Tyrion never thought he was capable of doing.

And then Margaery delivered the final hit.

"He’s been spending a lot of time with Brienne Tarth," she said, as if it were nothing.

Tyrion choked on his drink.

Margaery actually laughed at that.

"Oh, come on, Tyrion. You’re supposed to be the smart one. You’ve been in Belfast for too long!"

"I—what?" Tyrion coughed.

She rolled her eyes. "Jaime and Brienne. You didn’t notice?"

Tyrion thought back—all the moments he had dismissed. The constant bickering, the way Tormund had insisted they were flirting, the way Jaime's tone had softened around her, the subtle shift in his expression at his own damn surprise party when Brienne had been in the room.

He had missed it completely.

Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. "For fuck’s sake."

Margaery looked utterly delighted. "Brienne is a good woman. And she’s his best shot at not being dragged down. Not me. I don’t give a fuck about what happens to Jaime Lannister. But Brienne? I trust her. It’s her I’m going to protect if I can."

Tyrion let out a slow breath. He wasn’t sure if he trusted Jaime, but he did trust Brienne.

And then there was the bigger question—the elephant in the room.

"If you’re doing this, you’re not doing it alone," Tyrion said. "Who’s helping you?"

Margaery’s smile didn’t falter. "Oh, I have professionals working on that."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Professionals?"

Margaery only smiled.

Tyrion’s mind spun.

What kind of professional? A lawyer? A producer? A studio executive?

There were plenty of people who hated the Lannisters—but this? This required power. This required access. The Starks had their own playbook, but they weren’t the only ones involved.

Margaery was playing a very long game.

And the game was almost over.

She drained her wine glass and stood. "You’ve got what you wanted, Tyrion. Now, keep your mouth shut. For Sansa. For your film. For yourself."

And then she left the room.

Tyrion sat back, exhaled, and muttered, "Fuck."

 *

 

Jon scrolled through his phone, stretched out on his sofa, exhaustion weighing on him. The past few days had been hell, and now, as he checked his notifications, he saw something new brewing on the internet. He was about to put his phone away when a text came through from Sansa.

 

Sansa: "Are you online?"

 

Jon frowned. That was never a good sign. He immediately replied.

 

Jon: "Unfortunately. What am I walking into?"

 

A moment later, a link came through, followed by another text.

 

SANSA: "I just read it. I’m fine, before you ask."

 

Jon clicked the link, and his stomach turned. Tormund’s article. He should have known.

 

[Tormund Giantsbane, Freefolk Blog]

 

"I have not seen the whole film. No one has. But I have seen more than most and let me tell you: Good Queen Alysanne is shaping up to be something special. The internet, critics, and awards pundits can speculate all they want, but here’s my take—buckle up.

 

Daenerys Stormborn ? Fantastic. She’s got the presence, the gravitas, the magnetism. She’ll be in the conversation for Supporting Actress, though she’ll have to fight her way through a crowded category.

 

Jorah Mormont ? The man is long overdue for recognition. If the Academy had any sense, he’d be in the awards conversation every damn year. If there’s justice in this world, this might finally be his moment.

 

Daario Naharis ? Surprisingly good. Better than he has any right to be. But he’s stuck in an industry that refuses to take action stars seriously, so I wouldn’t bet money on him breaking through. I hope I’m wrong. He has more in him.

 

And then there’s Sansa Stark. Look, I get it. People are skeptical. She’s new. She’s Hollywood royalty—her mother’s the frontrunner for Best Actress this year, her father’s been in a hundred blockbusters, her aunt had an Oscar. So, yeah, I get why some are side-eyeing her. But here’s what they don’t know: she’s good. I mean, genuinely, ridiculously, ‘where the hell did she come from?’ good. And if the Academy isn’t up their own ass, they’ll see it.

 

Jon Snow ? Oh, he’s already a lock. The youngest Best Director nominee in years? I can already hear the ‘but he’s too young to win’ thinkpieces forming. We’ll see if Hollywood is ready to let go of their bias against young directors. They didn’t give Fincher the Oscar for The Social Network, and they didn’t let Nolan take it home for Dunkirk—so we’ll see if Jon Snow can break the trend."

 

Jon groaned. Tormund, you absolute shit! He was only halfway through his rising irritation when another article link appeared in his texts from Sansa.

 

Sansa: "Selmy. Read the Baelish part."

 

He swiped it open.

 

 

[Barristan Selmy, Awards Circuit]

 

"Of course, we must discuss the film’s producer. Petyr Baelish is nothing if not a man who understands Hollywood politics, but the question lingers—will his involvement taint Good Queen Alysanne’s Oscar chances? The Academy loves a redemption arc, but it loves a scandal-free campaign more. If there’s any sign of trouble, will they quietly look elsewhere? Or worse—will Baelish’s touch water down the film in post-production to make it more ‘palatable’ for voters?"

 

Jon clenched his jaw. Over my dead body.

He exhaled sharply and looked back at his messages. Sansa had sent another text.

 

Sansa: "Before you rage-text anyone, I’m fine. Don’t let him get under your skin."

 

Jon ran a hand through his hair. Don’t let him get under my skin? Easier said than done. He didn’t trust Baelish as far as he could throw him, and the mere thought of the man trying to ‘fix’ his film was enough to make his blood boil.

 

Before he could type out an angry reply, another text popped up.

 

Ygritte: "Lunch tomorrow?"

 

Jon exhaled. He could already hear her in his head—telling him to eat something before he wasted away, rolling her eyes at him. It wasn’t the worst idea. He needed information, and Ygritte always knew things before anyone else.

 

Then, without thinking, he flipped over to Tormund’s number and typed:

 

Jon: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

 

He hit send and threw his phone onto the sofa. That day just didn’t want to end, for some reason.

 

Tormund: So many things. Be specific, mate.

 

Jon: THE ARTICLE.

 

Tormund: Ah. That.

 

Jon: Yes, THAT.

 

Tormund: First of all, you’re welcome.

 

Jon: For what?!

 

Tormund: For keeping your name in the conversation. For making sure people understand what’s at stake. For pointing out that Baelish has his filthy fingers on the movie and could ruin it in the editing room.

 

Jon: You could’ve done that without saying I’m already lock for Best Director! Are you completely insane?!

 

Tormund: Oh, I’ve been insane for years, my friend. You’re just noticing now?

 

Jon: This is NOT FUNNY.

 

Tormund: It is a little funny.

 

Jon: People haven’t even seen the film, and you’re already talking about nominations like I’ve already won!

 

Tormund: Oh, come on. Be honest. If this film turns out the way we all know it will, are you really going to pretend you won’t be in the mix? The Academy has been sniffing around you since Ice and Fire. You almost cracked the lineup then, and that was before you got a budget.

 

Jon: I don’t care about the Academy! I care about the fucking film, and now every conversation about it is going be framed around whether it wins something instead of the work!

 

Tormund: Oh no, the horror. People think you made an award-worthy film. What a terrible fate.

 

Jon: You’re an unbearable little shit.

 

Tormund: You wound me, truly.

 

Jon: And what’s with the shit you said about Daario?

 

Tormund: What about it?

 

Jon: You practically dismissed his chances.

 

Tormund: I said he’s GOOD, and he is. But let’s be real—Hollywood loves its little boxes, and Daario is in the Action Star one. You know how hard it is to break out of that.

 

Jon: Yeah, well, you didn’t have to say it out loud.

 

Tormund: I did, actually. Because when he does break out of that box—and he will, because he’s talented—people will remember I called it first. That’s how this works.

 

Jon: So what, now you’re an expert?

 

Tormund: Well, yeah? Jon, I’ve been watching this circus longer than you. This is what I do for a living. Look, we’ve seen it before—action guys getting dismissed until they take a prestige role and suddenly everyone acts like they’ve just discovered fire. Keanu, Liam Neeson, Chris Pine, hell, even McConaughey before the McConaissance. Daario is going to get there, but  not for this.

 

Jon: I’m sure Daario will be thrilled to read that.

 

Tormund: He’ll live. He’s got swagger, charm, and great hair. He’ll survive.

 

Jon: And what the hell was that about Sansa?

 

Tormund: Oh, you mean me saying the industry is full of cowards who don’t want to admit they’re scared of her? Yeah, I stand by that.

 

Jon: They don’t even know her.

 

Tormund: Exactly. And that terrifies them. She’s an unknown, but the second they see her, they’ll have to admit she’s that good, and that throws a wrench into their carefully planned narratives.

 

Jon: I swear to God, if this pressure gets to her—

 

Tormund: Relax. She’s made of tougher stuff than you think.

 

Jon: That doesn’t mean she needs this now.

 

Tormund: You know what I think? I think you’re more worried about you.

 

Jon: Excuse me?

 

Tormund: You’ve got your claws out because you know this means you have to start playing the game, and you hate that.

 

Jon: I REFUSE to play the game.

 

Tormund: Well, too fucking bad, because you’re in it whether you like it or not. You’re already playing by pretending you’re not. You think Chazelle wanted to schmooze when La La Land came out? Or Fincher with Social Network? Or Nolan with Dunkirk? No, but they did it, because if they didn’t, someone else would’ve dictated the narrative for them.

 

Jon: You’re comparing me to Fincher now?

 

Tormund: I mean, you could go the full Kubrick and refuse to engage at all, but I gotta tell you, mate, you’re not that famous yet.

 

Jon: I hate you.

 

Tormund: Nope, but I bet you’re making that noise…

 

Jon: What noise? And You could’ve at least run this by me.

 

Tormund: And you would’ve told me no, which is exactly why I didn’t.

 

Jon: This is going come back to bite us all in the ass.

 

Tormund: Maybe. But better to get ahead of it than let Baelish or Cersei spin it the way they want.

 

Jon: …Baelish.

 

Tormund: Yeah. You don’t actually think he’s going let you have the final cut without a fight, do you?

 

He went silent. He knew it was a risk. But hearing it from Tormund, in plain words, made his stomach twist.

 

Jon: Over my dead body.

 

Tormund: That’s the spirit. Now, take a deep breath, drink some tea, and try not to punch anything.

 

JonI should punch you.

 

Tormund: Get in line.

 

Jon: You’d better hope this doesn’t come back to bite you.

 

Tormund: Me? I’ll be fine. You’re the one who’s fucked.

 

Jon: Thanks, really.

 

Tormund : Anytime, mate.

 

 

 Jon had spent the last hour pacing his flat like a caged animal. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t—fuck, he was losing it.

His phone was still clenched in his hand, screen dimmed now, but the last screenshot from Tormund stared back at him like a taunt. Did he just text Sansa to tattle about him? What the hell?

Tormund: Your boy is spiralling. Fix it, Red.
Tormund: Before he breaks something. Or fires someone.
Tormund: Actually, no. Let him fire Baelish. If only he could, right?

Jon had nearly thrown his phone across the room when the first text came in.

It wasn’t like Tormund was wrong.

But it also wasn’t like Jon had any control over the way his chest had been burning since he read those goddamn articles, since he saw people picking Sansa apart like she was some kind of case study—her mother’s career, her family’s legacy, her fucking chemistry with Daario being debated by people who hadn’t even seen the film yet.

And the worst part? Sansa wasn’t even surprised.

Jon could take a lot of things. He could take industry bullshit, he could take Baelish’s smarmy interference, he could take Cersei trying to sink his career.

But he could not take Sansa accepting this like it was just the way things were.

He swiped a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. He needed to do something.

His phone vibrated.

Sansa .

He answered so fast he nearly fumbled it.

"Sansa," he breathed.

A beat. Then, soft, knowing, warm, "Tormund texted me."

Jon closed his eyes. "That asshole."

"He means well."

Jon huffed. "Does he?"

She let out a small laugh. And just like that—just from that—his entire body unclenched a fraction.

He missed her. It was a physical ache, sharp and constant, something he could feel in the hollow of his chest every goddamn second of the day.

"You’re worried," she said simply.

Jon let out a low breath. "No shit."

"They’re just articles, Jon."

"They’re bullshit!"

"Most things are," she murmured. "It’s Hollywood."

"That doesn’t make it right."

"No," she agreed softly. "But it’s not the end of the world either."

Jon didn’t say anything, just clenched his jaw.

Because she believed that. And it fucking killed him.

"Are you okay?" he asked instead, because that was all that mattered.

She was quiet for a second, and then, with that same steady warmth, "I am. But you’re not."

He exhaled through his nose. "I just hate this, Sansa."

"I know."

"I hate that they are making you prove yourself before they have even seen it."

"I know."

"And I hate that you are just—accepting it."

She sighed, and he could picture her—curled up in her hotel bed, rolling onto her side, tucking a hand under her cheek.

"It’s not about accepting it, Jon," she said. "It’s about knowing what I’m up against."

Jon closed his eyes. "You shouldn’t have to fight like this."

"And yet," she teased, "I am."

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. "You deserve better."

"You make me better." Her voice was quiet, but firm, absolute. "And I have you. I have Daenerys. I have people in my corner, Jon. I’m not alone in this."

Jon swallowed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said simply. Then, lighter, teasing, "Are you?"

He huffed. "I don’t like the game."

"I know."

"I hate the game."

"I know," she said, laughing now.

Jon rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "You’re the only reason I’m still playing."

"Then it’s a good thing I don’t plan on going anywhere."

Something in his chest tightened at that.

"How was the scene today?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Sansa exhaled. "Gods, Jon," she murmured, "it was amazing. Daenerys was... she was magnificent. It felt—electric. Like everything just clicked!"

Jon forced himself to breathe through the sharp pang of longing that hit him square in the chest.

"I wish I could’ve seen it."

"You will," she promised. "You’ll love the dailies."

"Looking forward to it." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

She sighed, soft and content. "I love you."

Jon exhaled. He closed his eyes. "I love you too."

Neither of them hung up. The silence stretched between them, easy, warm, infinite.

Then—her voice, quieter now. "Get some sleep."

"Not likely," he muttered.

She laughed, and fuck—he would kill to be there, to see the way her face lit up when she did.

"Try," she murmured.

"For you?" He let his lips twitch. "Always."

She lingered for a second before she whispered, "Goodnight, Jon."

And then the call disconnected.

Jon let the phone fall to his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

He missed her so much it was fucking unbearable.


Day 2

 

From Variety

 

 

Sansa Stark Joins Star-Studded Cast of ‘The Locket,’ A Family Drama Led by Colin Firth, Rebecca Hall, and Ciarán Hinds

By Variety Staff

 

London – Sansa Stark has signed on to star in The Locket, an upcoming family drama from A24, which is set to begin production this spring. Stark will play Alayne, a young woman struggling with drug addiction, in a story that delves into the complexities of family relationships and the personal battles that threaten to tear them apart.

The film boasts an ensemble cast that includes Colin Firth, Rebecca Hall, and Ciarán Hinds. Set in modern-day London, The Locket will explore Alayne’s turbulent relationship with her family as they cope with her addiction. The story promises to tackle difficult and sensitive themes, including the impact of substance abuse on family dynamics and the long road to recovery.

Filming is set to begin in London in the coming months, with locations that reflect the gritty yet resilient spirit of the city. The project is expected to be a major undertaking for all involved, and its timely themes are expected to resonate with a wide audience.

This casting comes as Stark prepares to wrap her role in Good Queen Alysanne, the  drama that has generated a significant amount of buzz ahead of its release. Although Stark has garnered attention for her portrayal of the titular character, Queen Alysanne, The Locket will see her take on a more grounded, contemporary role. It represents a significant departure from her previous work, marking a new chapter in her career as she takes on a much more challenging and emotionally intense character.

With a talented ensemble led by Firth, Hall, and Hinds, The Locket is shaping up to be one of the most anticipated dramas of the year. Stark’s portrayal of Alayne will be a key focal point of the film, offering audiences a chance to see a different side of the actress as she tackles difficult subject matter.

 


From Twitter:

 

 

@DavosSeaworthOfficial: Iceland’s cold, but the chemistry between Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn is scorching. It’s been such a pleasure watching them together. #MovieMagic #GQA

@therealdanystormborn:  Living the dream in Iceland with the one and only Sansa Stark! She’s so good, she’s making me question my own acting chops. Can’t wait for you to see it! #BehindTheScenes #GQA

@TyrionLannisterOfficial: @therealdanystormborn #SansaStark These two are unstoppable. Watching their chemistry on set is a dream. #ProudProducer #GQA

 

 @Variety: Sansa Stark & Daenerys Stormborn—Hollywood’s next great power duo. Who’s ready for "Good Queen Alysanne"?

 

 @AwardsWatch: Forget the Oscars, this is history in the making.

 

 @TheHollywoodInsider: Two actresses at the height of their careers. But who will emerge as the film’s true lead?

 

 @CinephilePodcast: "Good Queen Alysanne" is already bigger than an awards race. This is cultural impact.

 

 @AwardsWatcher99: Daenerys has the industry love, but if Sansa delivers, she could be this year’s surprise. Think Marion Cotillard in "La Vie en Rose."

 

 @jornaerysownme: Daenerys should be in Supporting—lock the Oscar down now. #andjorahtoo

 

 @LadyStoneheartFan: Sansa has no shot. Her mother is sweeping this year’s awards—she’ll never escape that shadow.

 

 @FilmCriticDaily: The media’s already positioning Daenerys as the lead. Will they erase Sansa before the movie is even out?

 

 @JoffreysRevenge: The Starks are media darlings right now, and they’re trying to push the daughter into the awards race. Nepotism at its finest. We were right from the beginning

 

 @LannisterLoyalist: Catelyn Stark is winning Best Actress this year, and now we’re supposed to pretend her daughter is the next big thing? Please.

 

 @BaratheonTea: Joffrey Baratheon gave the best performance of the year in "My Beautiful Boy." The real conversation should be about him, not some unproven actress like Sansa.

 

 @FreefolkFan: The industry is setting up Daenerys Stormborn as the true star of "Good Queen Alysanne." I just hope this doesn’t turn into another media-fuelled rivalry like we’ve seen before.

 

 @jonssnowdeservedanoscar: Tyrion and Jon Snow chose Sansa for a reason. If you trust them, you should trust her. The slander needs to stop.

 

 @AwardsInsider: The debate over category placement is just beginning, but there’s no denying that "Good Queen Alysanne" is THE film of next year’s awards season.

 

 @TheOscarOracle: There’s something special about Good Queen Alysanne. Jon Snow’s direction has been building buzz for a while, and word on the street is that Tyrion Lannister finally got to make the movie he’s been dreaming about for years. Don’t let all the noise distract you—this film is already being talked about as exceptional, and we haven’t even seen it yet.

@CineScopeInsider: Sansa Stark as the lead? The conversation’s been heated, but Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister know what they’re doing. They’re both exceptional at what they do—Tyrion’s been on record saying this is the movie he’s dreamed of making for years. Let’s see it before jumping to conclusions.

 

@GoldenReelNews: We’re already talking about next year’s Oscars, but people are forgetting that Catelyn Stark is still sweeping this season. Sansa’s turn might surprise, but let’s at least wait and see before we crown her the next big thing.

 @PrestigeFilmCritic: Jon Snow’s direction is getting praise, and Tyrion Lannister’s writing is already being hailed as one of the best of the year. Sansa Stark may still have a lot to prove, but the movie is shaping up to be a powerhouse. Can we please give it a chance?

@FilmFocus: People are acting like Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister made a huge mistake by picking Sansa. Let’s not forget, Tyrion has been on record saying this is the movie he’s always dreamed of doing. If they think Sansa’s the right choice, maybe we should trust them?

  @LionsForJoffrey: Sansa Stark leading Good Queen Alysanne? LMAO. This movie is going to flop harder than any of you can imagine. Nepotism is alive and well. There’s no way someone with zero experience is going to carry this film. And the film itself? Total disaster.

@joffreybaratheonismyking: Joffrey Baratheon should’ve been the one we’re all talking about. He’s guaranteed a nomination this season for My Beautiful Boy, yet here we are, talking about a movie no one’s seen yet. The Stark obsession continues. Pathetic.

 @JoffreysRevenge: They’re trying to make a movie about Good Queen Alysanne when Sansa can’t even hold her own against Daenerys? Joffrey Baratheon is the star of this season. His performance is impeccable, and you can’t even compare it to the mediocrity that is Sansa Stark.

 @JonSnowWarriors: Oh, bless your heart. You know nothing about Jon Snow’s talent, do you? Sansa’s lead role was his choice. And if he says she’s the one, then I guess we’ll just trust his award-winning judgment over your “I-saw-‘The-Godfather’-once” expertise. #TrustJon #GoodQueenAlysanne.

@TotheCinemas: Joffrey Baratheon in every movie? Now that’s what I call nepotism. No one’s calling him out for showing up in everything under the sun, but Sansa gets one lead role and suddenly it’s a scandal? Newsflash: Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister know talent when they see it. Trust them.

 

@LannisterGossip: The hypocrisy is delicious. Joffrey has been forced down our throats for months, but people are acting like Sansa can’t carry a movie. Jon Snow and Tyrion picked her, and that’s all we need to know. Wait until you see the movie. You’ll thank them.

  

 @CinephilePodcast: Is it just me, or does Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn have the best chemistry? You can tell they’ve been having fun, and that’s going to come across on-screen. Good Queen Alysanne is shaping up to be a classic.

@AwardsWatcher99: Sansa and Daenerys are killing it. These photos have already made Good Queen Alysanne one of the most anticipated films of the year. The chemistry is electric. Trust me—this is going to be huge.

 @DaarioNaharisFan: Y’all are sleeping on Daario Naharis. His performance in Good Queen Alysanne? It’s game-changing. Trust me, you’ll all be shocked by how good he is. He’s got range, and it’s going to blow you away.

 @NaharisRising: @DaarioNaharisFan: word. I’ve been saying this for years. Daario Naharis is the secret weapon in this movie. Don’t be surprised if he steals the show. He’s got depth, people. Watch out for him.

@CinephileFreak: Don’t sleep on Daario. His role is going to surprise everyone. He’s more than just an action star—this performance is everything. Prepare to be impressed.

 @JorahMormontFan: Next year’s red carpets? Get ready for Jorah and Daenerys. These two are a power couple in every sense of the word, and I can’t wait to see them take Hollywood by storm. The Mormont-Stormborn effect is alive and winning!

 @DanyJorahForever: Can you imagine Daenerys and Jorah together on the red carpet? They’re already iconic. The Mormont-Stormborn effect is undeniable, and when they show up together, it’s going to be electric. Wait for the buzz when they start making appearances for Good Queen Alysanne.

@jornaerysownme: If you thought Daenerys Stormborn was good on screen, just wait until you see her and Jorah together in the spotlight. Talk about Hollywood royalty.

 @CinephileFreak: Jorah and Daenerys are unstoppable. Their chemistry in Good Queen Alysanne is off the charts. The public’s about to lose their minds when they start making red carpet appearances.

@itkTGQA: Oh, honey, unlike some people (cough Joffrey Baratheon cough), the set of Good Queen Alysanne is NOT a toxic dumpster fire. You know, the actual cast and crew like being there. Sure, Jon Snow’s demanding—shock—he’s a perfectionist, but guess what? We all love the work we’re doing. It’s a real team effort, and the vibe is nothing like whatever drama Joffrey’s crew is stirring up this season (we’re looking at you, Mama Baratheon). I’m just saying, some sets are all about the drama—ours? All about the magic.

@itkTGQA: I’ve seen the footage from Iceland. If you’re not beyond excited, you should be. The scenes being shot there? They’re going to be unbelievable. Trust me, you haven’t seen anything yet. As for the cast—Sansa Stark? She’s got mad chemistry with everyone. But with Daario Naharis? That’s next-level stuff. We’re talking smoldering, undeniable energy. The tension is off the charts. Daenerys and Sansa? Out of this world. Their dynamic isn’t just good, it’s electric. Seriously, when you see them together, you’ll be questioning why anyone would ever try to pit them against each other. They’re fire together, and I’m here for it.

@itkTGQA: Oh, and for the record, as much as some want to start the Oscar race early, it’s still way too soon to declare winners for next year. But I’ll tell you what—I’m pretty sure Sansa’s going to give people a lot to talk about. If you’re still doubting her, keep your eyes peeled because, when this movie hits? Yeah, you’ll be the one eating your words. 🍿

@itkTGQA: And as for the awards this year? Let’s keep it real—it’s early. But I’ll happily throw my hat in with Catelyn Stark as the front-runner. And don’t sleep on Rami Malek either; he’s poised to sweep. Keep an eye on the actual talent. ✨ #GQA #TrustTheProcess


From Twitter

Group chat: #jonsa

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: Okay, so let’s just talk about that picture of Jon with the fan. 😍 He looks dashing—like, I’m not okay right now. But here’s the twist: Sansa was the one who actually took that picture. YES. Sansa Stark herself. I know it didn’t hit the main feed, but the word around the closed chatrooms is true. The fan who took it is someone we trust—she’s not a liar. And the picture? Taken the evening before Sansa left for Iceland. Jon’s looking at her like she’s everything, and Sansa just casually snaps it. I’m shipping this so hard, and we’re protecting their privacy like the guardians we are. 💖💥 #JonsaForever #WeKnowTheTruth #HeartEyesForJon

fireandice456: @jonsnowdeservedanoscar: OH MY GOD. I’m literally dead. Jon looking all heart eyes in that picture? And Sansa snapping it ? I’m crying, I can’t breathe. 😩💖 The Jonsa energy is just off the charts right now. And can we talk about how the Jonsa fandom is doing it right? We’re out here keeping their privacy safe while the Barafreaks make fools of themselves. Like, seriously—stay in your lane, Barafreaks . This is Jon and Sansa’s world, and we’re just living in it. 💯 #JonsaPower #HeartEyesEverywhere

jonsnowdeservedanoscar: @Khaleesiandqueen @fireandice456. Honestly, the fact that Jon and Sansa have been so low-keyit’s amazing. They’re not even trying to make a spectacle, but we know what’s up. And speaking of low-key: ITKGQA just came for Joffrey again. 😂 “Unlike someone (cough Joffrey cough), the set is NOT a toxic mess.” 😭💥 YES—I love that ITKGQA is just laying it out there. They know exactly what’s going on. Meanwhile, Joffrey and his stans are busy trying to make drama where there is none. Sorry, babes, but Jon and Sansa are the real deal. #JoffreyWho #ITKGQAGetsIt

Khaleesiandqueen: Omg, YES!!! ITKGQA is literally always right. I trust them more than any tabloid. 😂💯 Also, you’re so right. Jon and Sansa have been so quiet about everything and are just so private—it makes it so much more exciting when we get these little glimpses of them. Like, Sansa snapping that pic? Iconic.  #JonsaForever #PrivacyIsPower

snowismyfire: Okay, can we just talk about how TIFF is going to be the biggest thing ever? If this movie hits TIFF and gets the buzz we think it will, we're in for a wild ride—think Telluride, London Film Festival, New York Film Festival. Those Actors Roundtables are going to be a whole moment. Jon, Tyrion, Sansa, Dany, Jorah—can you imagine? 😍✨   #TIFFHype #OscarsHereWeCome

fireandice456: @ snowismyfire: I literally can’t stop thinking about those roundtables. Jon and Tyrion in one? 💥 Sansa and Dany in another?? 😩 They’re going to break the internet. All those interviews are going to have us gasping—like, I need it all. 🎤  #TIFFRoundtable #JonsaAndTyrion #DanyAndSansaPower

sansaAlysanne01:  YES, YES, YES! I’m already planning my entire awards season around these roundtables and interviews. The moment Jon and Sansa do their first public appearance—I’m dead. If they show up together at a junket, I won’t survive. But low-key, Sansa’s going to be the one making it all look easy. 😂💁‍♀️ She’ll be running the show. 💖   #JonsaJunket #SansaQueen #SheHasThis

snowismyfire: Can we also talk about how Catelyn Stark is just destroying the acting world right now? I literally ugly cried after watching Lady Stoneheart. That performance? Meryl Streep-level good. Pure heartbreak. And don’t even get me started on Ned Stark—he’s a national treasure. He’s been carrying Hollywood for decades. ICONIC. 🔥   #CatelynStarkForTheWin #LadyStoneheart #TheStarkLegacyLives

fireandice456: @snowismyfire YES. YES!!! Catelyn’s performance in Lady Stoneheart had me ugly sobbing for hours. It’s one of the best performances I’ve ever seen. And don’t get me started on Ned. National treasureblockbusters, auteur films, he’s done it all. Honestly, how did we get so lucky with this family?   #NedStarkIsAnIcon #CatelynStarkForTheOscar

Jornaerysownsme: Okay, but if Baelish tries to mess up the press junket by splitting up Dany and Jorah, I will flay him alive. 🔪 I’ll lock him in a basement somewhere without Wi-Fi and a sandwich, and I swear, we’ll never hear from him again. He’ll be in a hole, forever.   #FlayBaelish #PressJunketJustice #JorahAndDanyForever

fireandice456: Can we talk about Robb Stark for a sec? I swear, I had no idea he was this good in The Crucible until I saw it. Like, this man can act. I was like, “Whaaaat?” when he hit that stage. 😲 And married a doctor, who’s also hot, like they’re both just too much for my heart. 😍🔥 @Khaleesiandqueen #RobbStarkTheaterKing #TheCrucibleSlays #RobbAndHisHotDoctorWife

Khaleesiandqueen: Honestly, Robb is just not fair. He’s like, ridiculously talented and extremely attractive. When I saw him on stage, I was like, “Hold up—he’s the next Shakespeare.” 😂 And did anyone else notice that he married a doctor and is just perfect? Like, HOW?? We really didn’t deserve this family. 😩🔥 @fireandice456 #RobbTheKing #StarkFamilyGoals

Jornaerysownsme: Alright, listen, I can already see it. If the junket brings out Dany and Jorah’s chemistry, it’s going to be game over. I’ll flail every time they look at each other. I’m serious. If Baelish dares to separate them for the press, I’ll end him. This is a Jorah and Dany moment and no one’s ruining it. 🔥💯   #DanyAndJorahForever #FlayBaelish #PressJunketPerfection

snowismyfire: No one does press like Tyrion. He’s literally the king of it. I’m already imagining him with Jon—snarky and sarcastic and getting Jon to crack a smile. Because let’s face it—Jon can’t hide his feelings forever. 😏😂 And we all know Sansa is going to make him smile with that killer smile of hers. 🤩 #TyrionAndJon #JonCantHideHisFeelings #SansaGetsJonToSmile

fireandice456: Okay, but Robb Stark and Catelyn Stark as a power family are just goals. Like, the Stark legacy is honestly so strong, I’m afraid I’ll burst. And yes, the Catelyn Stark performance in Lady Stoneheart left me ugly sobbing for hours. And don’t even get me started on Ned.   You can’t compete.   #StarkFamilyLegacy #CatelynAndRobbDeserveAllTheAwards

snowismyfire: Okay, BUT—have we ever seen a mother and daughter win Oscars back-to-back? Like, seriously. Can it happen? If Catelyn wins this year, and then Sansa comes in next year… I’m here for that history to be made. 😱 Catelyn’s sister did it, and we all know Catelyn is Meryl-level good. But could Sansa break the rules and go back-to-back with her mom? 💯💥 @fireandice456 #StarkHistory #OscarBreaking #CatelynAndSansaOscars

Khaleesiandqueen: YES, I’m literally ready for this. It’s mind-blowing. Catelyn Stark gave a Meryl Streep level of performance in Lady Stoneheart, and if Sansa pulls this off, she’ll break all the records. Like, they’ll re-write the history books. 😩 I’m so proud of them both. The Stark legacy is unstoppable. 😭💖 @snowismyfire #StarkLegacy #OscarsHistory #NextGenStark

Jornaerysownsme: The hype is too much, y’all. I can’t even keep up with the excitement. This junket is going to be wild. I’m praying for a Jonsa moment, but I’m also going to be in the front row for Dany and Jorah because they’re going to slay. But seriously, Jon and Sansa? They’re going to make our hearts explode. 💖🔥 @Khaleesiandqueen #JonsaJunket #TIFFReunion #HypeIsReal

Khaleesiandqueen: I just saw another picture of Dany and Sansa in Iceland, and I swear, I can’t handle it. They’re just too cute. 😩💖 Dany’s in that gorgeous coat and Sansa’s giving her this look like they’ve been best friends for yearsno one is allowed to tell me they’re not besties. 😍 Like, do you think they miss Jon and Jorah? I swear, their chemistry is on fire. 🔥🔥 #DanyAndSansaForever #Besties #CutenessOverload

snowismyfire: Right??? I saw those pics too and was like, “SOMEONE PLEASE PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.” They look like they’re having the best time, and I’m just sitting here like—how am I supposed to survive until the junket? 😩 Sansa and Dany are literally goals. Can we please get an official BFF roundtable with them? 😂 #DanyAndSansaForever #BFFGoals

Jornaerysownsme: So the dream team is separating for a bit, huh? 😭 Dany’s shooting a rom-com in London, Jorah’s got that sci-fi show in Scotland... and Sansa just landed a role in an ensemble drama with Colin Firth. 😍 But seriously, Variety just announced it, and I’m so proud. A24 is going to be lucky to have her. But I’m going to miss the dream team together. Separation anxiety already kicking in. 😩💔 @Jornaerysownsme #DreamTeam #TIFFReunion #SeparationAnxiety


 

Ygritte had been dodging Jon’s texts for days. Whenever he’d tried to pin her down for a conversation, she had been too busy, too tired, too something. And then, just as he had started to wonder if she was avoiding him, she had texted him with a single word:

Lunch?

Knowing her, that could mean anything from a greasy burger at McDonald's to dragging him up a mountain with a protein bar and calling it a meal.

So, he had been surprised when she chose a quiet little Italian place tucked between two narrow streets in Belfast.

Jon hadn’t questioned it. He needed answers, and Ygritte always had them.

She knew more than she should. Margaery had told him as much.  

Jon needed all the information he could get.

And Ygritte knew that too. That’s why she finally agreed to meet him.

“Eat,” she said, shoving a plate of breadsticks at him. “You’ve been wasting away since the accident.”

Jon rolled his eyes.

She hadn’t changed.

Ygritte had always nagged him about eating properly, sleeping enough, bringing an umbrella when it rained. It was one of the reasons why he had loved her once. But she was also being dramatic.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure. You look like you’ve been living on caffeine and stress,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Wait, no—that’s your default setting, isn’t it?”

Jon ignored that.

They had always been terrible at small talk. Neither of them saw the point. And Ygritte knew exactly why he was here.

So, he didn’t bother easing into it.

“Why did you say yes to Margaery Tyrell?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she raised an eyebrow, took a slow sip of her water, and said, “Wow. No how are you, Ygritte? No what’s new in your life?

Jon exhaled. “Fine. How are you?”

“Good.” She grinned. “I’m getting married in the summer.”

Jon stared at her, momentarily thrown off.

You? Married?”

“Me. Married.” She shrugged, grinning. "I can scarcely believe it myself."

“Does he know about Margaery?”

“Bold of you to assume it’s a he, Jon.”

Jon choked on his wine.

Ygritte ordered her food like nothing happened, leaving him half-certain she had just been messing with him.

“Anyway,” she said, after the waiter left, “yes. He knows. He’s met Joffrey Baratheon and despises him."

Jon snorted. "Who doesn't?"

"His mother? Her twin, perhaps?"

"Fair enough."

Jon took another sip of his wine, trying to shake off the weirdness of their conversation and refocus.

“Is that why you said yes to Margaery?”

“Nope.” She popped the p with emphasis. “You should know me better than that, Jon.”

He did know her. He knew why she had said yes. He just wanted her to say it.

"I said yes because it was the right thing to do," Ygritte said simply. "Because I could do it. And I could do it well.”

Jon nodded. That was exactly what he thought she’d say.

“Did Margaery warn you of the dangers?”

Ygritte rolled her eyes. "Of course. But I’m no one, Jon. Besides—" she smirked, “Mance Rayder wanted me to say yes.”

Jon groaned.

Mance. That explained a lot.

Mance Rayder had produced Ice and Fire. He had produced all of Ygritte’s documentaries. She trusted him almost unconditionally.

It made sense. But it still annoyed him.

"So how many people know about this plan?"

Ygritte laughed. "Mance hates the Lannisters as much as anyone. He won’t tell a soul, and you know it."

"And he convinced you to say yes?"

"Nope. I had already agreed. But then I told him, and he said it was the smartest thing I’d ever done. He also said he’d never blacklist me."

Jon nodded.

They both ate in silence for a moment, until Jon finally asked, “Can this really take Joffrey Baratheon down?”

“Yes.” Ygritte sipped her wine. “I don’t know how Margaery imagines it going down, but the way I see it—his reputation won’t survive this. It might even take Cersei down with him."

"I’ve been told a wounded Cersei is a dangerous Cersei.”

"Sansa’s Not Your Weakness, Jon."

Jon went still. He hadn’t even said her name.

"Sansa—" He stopped himself.

"She’s not your weakness," Ygritte said firmly. "Despite what you might think. She makes you stronger. I like the man you are with her."

“I’ve not come here to talk about it,” Jon muttered, shifting in his seat.

Ygritte, however, wasn’t going to let him off that easy. Not when she could see the way his fingers tightened around his glass, not when his jaw was clenched so tightly, she thought it might crack.

"But you are here because of her," she pressed, her voice filled with quiet amusement. "Because you’ve gone all knight-in-shining-armour on her, haven’t you?"

Jon exhaled through his nose, hating how easily she read him.

“I’m sorry—” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ygritte gave a small, knowing smile, as if she had been expecting that.

"Why?" she asked lightly. "I never needed a knight in shining armour, Jon. I loved the broody film student and the director, remember? Sansa doesn’t need a knight either. She needs you."

Jon clenched his jaw, unable to answer. Talking about Sansa to Ygritte felt like crossing a line—one he wasn’t willing to step over.

“Then what—”

Ygritte tapped her fingers on the table, watching him carefully. "Your mother. Your father."

Jon went still.

“My mother is dead,” he said sharply. “She worked two jobs to raise me. She was a good woman who died too soon.”

Ygritte nodded. She had known his mother. She didn’t argue.

"But your father—"

"He washed his hands of me when I was a child." Jon’s voice was hard now. "I don’t even know if he’s alive. I’ve been famous for a while, Ygritte. He hasn’t bothered to find me. How is that a weakness?"

Ygritte sighed. "Because she will find him. She’ll give him to the Boltons and make him say batshit things about you and your mother. Do not underestimate what that woman will do to hurt people."

Jon exhaled sharply. He had never thought about his father because, as far as he was concerned—he never had one.

“You should find him first,” Ygritte said. “Get ahead of the game.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don’t have time for this shit."

"Then you should make time."

Jon opened his mouth, then shut it.

He picked up his wine instead.

And that’s when Ygritte dropped the next bomb.

"How much do you trust Brienne Tarth?"

She asked it so casually, twirling a piece of pasta around her fork, as if she hadn’t just thrown a grenade on the table between them.

Jon blinked. That was not what he had expected her to say.

Brienne?

His mind flickered back to long nights on set, Brienne standing next to Davos, arms crossed, watching over everything like an iron sentinel. She worked harder than anyone. She never slacked, never let anything slip, never made excuses.

The idea that she could be anything but trustworthy was almost ridiculous.

Ygritte hummed, taking a sip of her wine. "And why is that?"

Jon frowned. "Because she’s good at her job. Because she keeps her head down and works hard. Because even Baelish admires her."

Ygritte snorted into her glass. “Using Baelish as a litmus test is stupid, Jon."

Jon huffed. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t trust her after all these months working together?”

Ygritte tilted her head, as if weighing her answer, and then said, "I saw her with the Lannister twin, in the hotel swimming pool, the night before he left Belfast."

Jon stilled. The words hit him like a slap.

"Beg your pardon?" His voice came out sharper than intended.

"They didn’t see me," she continued. "I went for a late swim. They were already in the pool, tucked in some corner, talking."

Jon stared at her. "Was he staying at the hotel?"

Ygritte shook her head.

"No. He was staying with his brother. That fancy flat Tyrion owns."

Jon felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. He had seen Brienne and Jaime talking before. Bickering, mostly. He had thought nothing of it. Jaime was a Lannister, and Brienne…

She wasn’t.

Jon picked up his glass, took a long sip of wine, and tried to piece it together.

“How did it happen?” he asked finally.

“I told you,” Ygritte said, "I couldn’t sleep. Went for a night swim. The pool was empty—except for them. They didn’t see me, but I saw them. Chatting. Looking… friendly."

Jon’s grip on his glass tightened.

“I’m not a gossip,” Ygritte added, seeing the tension in his jaw. "I didn’t even think much of it until later. But here’s the thing—Tarth has been working for Renly Baratheon for the past decade. She started right out of uni. He trusted her when no one else did. Every job on her résumé is tied to him somehow, even when she worked under Baelish. She was still under Renly."

Jon’s brows knitted together.

“Okay,” he said. “And?”

Ygritte sighed.

"Jon, do you even know how the studio power balance works?"

He blinked. "I know enough."

Ygritte rolled her eyes. "Alright, genius. Let’s break it down."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping slightly. "The Lions and the Stag."

Jon knew the name. Everyone did. The biggest power player in Hollywood.

"Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon built it into an empire," Ygritte said. "But Stormlands and Casterly Rock still exist as separate producing companies. Your movie? It’s being co-produced by Casterly Rock."

Jon nodded, waiting for the catch.

"Robert Baratheon—" Ygritte continued, "was a man who could make money but not art. He made garbage movies that filled seats but had zero artistic value. He died a few years ago. Important detail. Because when he did, Cersei Lannister got his share of the studios."

Jon rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“Then there’s Stannis," Ygritte continued. "Still obsessed with running the studio like a business. No artistic vision. No instinct. He’s just there to make sure the numbers are right."

Jon was growing impatient. "And Renly?"

"Renly," Ygritte said, "is the only Baratheon who gives a shit about art. He’s the one who made films that won accolades. Who got The Lions and the Stag into the Criterion collection. For all the hot air in the Lannisters’ heads, he’s the one making real films."

Jon sighed. “I know this.”

"Then listen," Ygritte said, "Cersei controls a huge chunk of The Lions and the Stag. She also controls Casterly Rock and has a hand in Stormlands. She’s got her claws in everything. And from what I hear, she treats Stormlands like an ATM."

Jon exhaled sharply.

"And Brienne?"

"Brienne is Renly’s creature," Ygritte said. "They’ve done a few projects for The Lions and the Stag, but always under Renly. Never for Cersei Lannister."

Jon’s pulse quickened.

"You will admit," Ygritte said, watching his expression, "that it’s a weird coincidence."

Jon gritted his teeth.

“She was already attached to the project when Tyrion went to Cersei for funds.”

"Maybe," Ygritte said, "but you don’t see the bigger picture yet."

Jon swallowed, his mind racing.

"Okay," he said slowly, "but what does this have to do with her being in a pool with Jaime fucking Lannister?"

He had raised his voice, and a few nearby patrons glanced over.

Ygritte looked unimpressed.

“Never said the two things were connected,” she said simply. “I’m just telling you what I know about the woman.”

Jon’s mind reeled.

Brienne was loyal. That much he knew. And yet…

He had seen Brienne and Jaime walking together outside the stage once. They had bickered constantly.

But towards the end of Jaime’s stay in Belfast?

It had started to look less like bickering and more like flirting.

Jon sat back in his chair; his mind spiralling.

Did Brienne know?

Could she be trusted?

Jon inhaled sharply and finally said, "I do."

Ygritte studied him for a moment, then nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.

“Alright then,” she said, sipping her wine. “If you say so.”

Brienne knew something. She had been with them, sometimes, when they had talked about Joffrey, when they had decided to overshadow Joffrey’s movie premiere. She had shared videos and pictures on her social media. She had been part of the video mocking Joffrey. He trusted her. Sansa trusted her.

 

“So – I can tell you that we will let Joffrey bask in the afterglow of the nomination and then after his statement, we will strike, hard. The Starks are moving their pieces, Margaery will move hers.”

 

“And if he is not nominated?” he asked.

 

She grinned, “Don’t be daft! Of course, he will be nominated. The Starks have been working on this for months.”

 

“And if you fail? If no one cares? If they already know and have contingency plans in place?” he asked.

 

“As far as we know they don’t. They fear the Starks; they don’t know about us.”

 

“Who is us? Margaery, Theon, you – and?” he asked.

 

Ygritte tilted her head on a side, “She is a Tyrell. Do you think she needs powerful allies?”

 

“In the business? Yes, I do.” he said, “Theon said that there are people who have been working on this for a long time. Who are they?”

 

“Don’t know. Don’t really care. All I know is that Margaery knows far more about the Lannisters than they know about her. I like that.”

 

“This is madness.” he said.

 

“Perhaps, but it is a very well-paid job for me.” she said and Jon knew that she knew more, but she was not willing to tell him.

“Margaery told you all there is to know. All that it’s safe for her to say. She doesn’t have a back up plan for herself. She made one for Theon Greyjoy, she is working on one for Sansa, but not for herself.”

 

“What about you?” he asked.

 

“I can take care of myself,” she said, and Jon knew it was the truth. Ygritte was not the type of person who was confident without reason. She must have a back-up plan.

 

“I don’t understand Margaery Tyrell.” he said.

 

Ygritte looked at him, “What’s to understand? She wants to take that idiot down,”

 

Did Ygritte know about Margaery’s brother? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know whether it was safe to share that info with her. It felt like one drop of information might tip the scales anyway.

 

“So, you met someone who was bullied by Joffrey?” he asked.

 

“Made her life a living hell on set. He is a shit.” she said.

 

Jon nodded. He wouldn’t get any argument from him about Joffrey Baratheon.

 

“And who told you that Joffrey hates me?” he asked.

 

“Margaery. Don’t ask me how she knows, because I have no idea. There are things she doesn’t want me to ask.” she said.

 

“And it’s okay with you? You surprise me, Ygritte.” he said.

 

Ygritte laughed, finished her pasta and then said, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

 

He smiled at that. There were plenty of things he didn’t know, but now that they had played, he thought Ygritte was finally ready to tell him.

 

“True. Now tell me everything.” He said.

 

Ygritte grinned, she drank some wine and then she started to talk. She loved it when he knew nothing so she could tell him. And she did.

 


 

Tyrion Lannister was many things—writer, producer, award-winner, and, at this very moment, a man desperately in need of a drink. Unfortunately, he needed to keep his wits about him, now more than ever. So, he rubbed his temples and stared at his phone like it had just personally betrayed him.

 

Sansa and Daenerys. The photos, the headlines, the feuds the press was trying to spin. None of it mattered. The real explosion was coming, and Tyrion was about to get caught in the blast. He wasn’t even sure how long it would take before things completely fell apart.

 

Margaery was about to blow everything to pieces, and Baelish was sitting in the shadows, ready to make it worse. As much as Tyrion hated it, the movie’s press was the least of his worries. He needed to make sure everyone was safe—especially the people who weren’t expecting what was about to happen.

 

He grabbed his phone and dialled Daario. This conversation was far more important than some Hollywood drama. He needed to warn him.

 

Daario picked up, his voice tired but trying to sound chipper. “Tyrion, my old friend! What’s up? Don’t tell me you finally decided to take me up on my offer and come spend a weekend in Monaco.”

 

Tyrion cut straight to it. “I wish. But no, I’m calling because we need to talk.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Daario shifted gears immediately. “That sounds ominous. Go on.”

 

“Margaery’s about to tear the whole place down,” Tyrion said, voice flat but serious. “Joffrey Baratheon’s life is about to implode. And you’re stuck right in the middle of it.” He rubbed his eyes. “This is bigger than you realize. You need to get ready.”

 

Daario went quiet for a second, clearly processing. “Hells. I knew something was off, but I didn’t think it would go this far. What exactly am I walking into?”

 

Tyrion sighed, the weight of the situation pressing on him. “It’s not just about Joffrey anymore. Margaery’s about to nuke the whole system in a week. You need to be far away from the blast. Right now, you’re not.”

 

Daario’s voice was tense now. “That’s a lot to take in. Why is she doing this?”

 

Tyrion leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Whatever her reasons are, it doesn’t matter. She’s going to set everything on fire.” He paused for a moment.

 

Daario let out a low whistle. “So, how do I stay out of it?”

 

“You need to lay low.” Tyrion’s tone was blunt. “Don’t talk to the press. Don’t talk to anyone. You’ve got a first day off in weeks, and that’s about to end. When you go to Georgia, stay out of sight. Stay in the shadows. Don’t engage.”

 

Daario snorted. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

 

Tyrion didn’t crack a smile. “It’s not about fun, Daario. This is about survival.” He leaned forward. “Margaery’s playing for keeps, and so is Baelish. Baelish, who, by the way, offered you a script, didn’t he?”

Daario let out a sharp breath. “Yeah. Cornered me on set, apologized for the ‘fauxmance’ stunt, said he still thought it was a good idea. Then he offered me a lead role if I played along.”

 

Tyrion’s face twisted in disgust. “Of course he did.” He muttered, “Bet you wanted to have a shower after that conversation.”

 

Daario’s laugh was dry, but it held a touch of anger. “Baelish at his finest.”

 

“He’s a survivalist,” Tyrion replied, voice hard. “He doesn’t care about anyone except himself. If he thinks he can escape Joffrey and get out of the sinking ship, he will. And you, my friend, will be collateral damage if you’re not careful.”

 

Daario paused for a moment, his voice dropping to something more serious. “I’m not stupid, Tyrion. I won’t bite.”

 

Tyrion gave a quick nod. “Good. Keep it that way. You’re not just dealing with Baelish or Margaery anymore. This is bigger than both of them. Stay in the shadows when you go to Georgia. Don’t talk to anyone—not even your family. The less anyone knows, the better.”

 

Daario’s voice was lower now, more solemn. “Got it.”

 

“I wish I could say things are going to calm down, but they won’t. This is about survival, and you need to be ready for it. Margaery’s not just playing the game. She’s burning the whole damn thing down. So, lay low and don’t engage.”

 

Daario let out a soft chuckle, but it was hollow. “Alright, alright. I’ll keep my head down. Thanks for the heads-up, Tyrion. I won’t forget it.”

 

Tyrion’s voice softened a fraction, though the weight of it all still hung over him. “Enjoy your day off, Gods know you deserved it, you worked your ass off since the accident. I won’t forget that either.”

 

Daario’s voice held a note of quiet gratitude. “Thanks, Tyrion. I won’t let you down.”

 

Tyrion ended the call, a little more relieved but still far from calm. The storm was coming, and there was no avoiding it. It wasn’t just about the movie anymore; it was about making sure they all survived the fallout.

 

He put the phone down and got back to work—because the storm wouldn’t wait.

 


Iceland

 

Sansa couldn’t feel the brush against her skin. It was there, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to her. It was as if the world outside was so loud that the quietness of the makeup trailer couldn’t drown out the noise. The pressure was building. The headlines. The expectations. The comparisons. Everyone was already talking about the awards, and it felt like the entire world had a story they were ready to sell—one that didn’t have anything to do with who she really was.

She glanced at Daenerys, sitting across from her, eyes on her phone but somewhere else entirely. The weight of it all seemed to press down on her. Daenerys had been quiet for too long, and Sansa couldn’t help but feel there was more to it than just the movie. Daenerys had always been strong, always seemed like she had it together. But something in the air today felt different. She was carrying something heavy, and Sansa could see it.

“So, awards talk is here already,” Sansa started, her voice sharp with sarcasm. “I guess they already know who’s winning, huh? How can they possibly know that before we’ve even wrapped? This whole circus is getting ridiculous.”

Daenerys looked up from her phone, her lips pulling into a faint smile, but there was no humour in her eyes. “Because this is how they play the game, Sansa. The industry already knows what story it wants to sell. They don’t care about what’s real. They want a narrative, and we’re just part of it.”

Sansa rubbed her temples, trying to clear her thoughts. “I get it, Dany. I get that my mom  is the frontrunner. But it doesn’t make this any easier. I can’t shake it. The world thinks I’m Catelyn Stark. They want me to be a mirror of her, just like they’ve always said I should be. But I’m not her. I can’t be her. I love my mom, but I will never be her.”

Daenerys met her eyes, and Sansa saw something there—a flash of understanding, of solidarity. “You’re not her, Sansa. You never have been, and you never will be. And that’s the beauty of you. You’re your own person. You’re not living in her shadow, even if they want to make you think you are.”

Sansa let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humour in it. “I wish it were that simple. No one ever compared Robb to anyone. He was accused of nepotism, sure, but he never had to be like anyone, Dany. No one ever expected him to be like Dad. But me? I have to live up to it, wear it like a fucking crown. I get it, though. I’m my mother’s daughter, and they want to see me like her. But that’s not who I am. It never has been.”

Daenerys’s voice softened, but the resolve in her eyes was sharp. “They don’t know you. They don’t get to decide who you are. And you don’t have to fit into their mold. You never have to live up to anyone’s expectations but your own.”

Sansa’s chest tightened, her fingers tapping anxiously on her knee. “But I’m afraid I will. I’m afraid they’ll destroy everything. And with Jon—he hates this world, Dany. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be scrutinized like this. He’s real, he is kind and good, and I love him for it. But I’m scared it won’t be enough. He’s not cut out for this game.”

Daenerys’s face softened, the edge of tension in her shoulders relaxing. “Jon is not stupid, Sansa. He’s strong. But you’re right. He’s never lived under this kind of pressure. The game? It can swallow him whole if he is not careful. And that’s what scares you, isn’t it?”

Sansa nodded slowly, her breath catching. “I can’t lose him to this. I can’t drag him into the game like this. He doesn’t deserve it. I’ll protect him, but I don’t even know where to start.”

Daenerys leaned forward, her voice dropping into something quieter but more resolute. “You’re not alone in this. You’ll protect him, just like I’ll protect Jorah and Rhaego. I’ve fought for them, and I won’t let anyone tear apart my family, Sansa. Not for some damn statue. I won’t let them use me, use Jorah, or use my son for their media circus.”

Sansa swallowed hard, her thoughts swirling. “I get it. You’ve worked so hard to keep your real life intact. You want to protect them—Jorah, Rhaego—from all of this. And I get it. I want to protect Jon, too.”

Daenerys looked at her, her eyes serious. “It’s more than that. You didn’t know me back then, Sansa. You wouldn’t have wanted to be my friend back then. I was a different person. But then I worked with Jorah the first time. It changed me. He made me care about this craft. He made me love it. And now? I can’t go back. I won’t. I want to protect what’s real. Jorah, my son, and the life I want to build with them. I won’t go back to the old me. Not for anyone.”

Sansa’s voice caught in her throat, and her words came out softer now, more sincere. “You’re right. I understand. I don’t want to go back to the old me either. I’m terrified of this world swallowing me whole. But I’ll protect Jon, just like you’ll protect Jorah and Rhaego. We have to keep what’s real.”

Daenerys smiled, though there was a dark undertone to it. “I’ve got your back, Sansa. And you’ve got mine. The industry can keep trying to break us down, but we’ll stand strong. Together.”

Sansa gave a faint smile, her heart feeling a little lighter. Maybe, just maybe, they could do this. Together.

 


Day 3

Jon leaned against the edge of the soundstage, watching Brienne as she moved with quiet precision across the set. He had a thousand thoughts, but none of them made sense. His head was a mess of chaos, worry, and confusion, spiraling faster than he could keep up with.

Sansa.

In the span of six months, when the first teaser trailer dropped, the world might figure out what he had known all along: Sansa was an incredible actress. He’d seen her go from tentative to fierce, rising from a world of chaos to make a name for herself. But while the world saw her through the lens of paparazzi and red carpets, Jon had watched her battle through pain, sweat, and tears.

Sansa wasn’t just some star in a Hollywood machine. She was his partner, his strength, and now, she was out there—handling the spotlight, handling the weight of the world on her shoulders. And he? He was stuck here, tangled in this mess, helpless to protect her. He’d never felt more powerless.

How the hell had he ended up here? In the middle of a machine so far removed from anything he had ever known. He hated it, hated every moment of it.

But Sansa? She was made for it, wasn’t she?

His thoughts kept drifting back to her. He could see her now, in Iceland, her fiery spirit catching light with every take. She was a force. She was everything he’d ever needed and more. And yet, Jon felt the weight of her absence like a blade to his chest.

She deserves better than this, he thought bitterly. She deserves peace. Not this circus.

Jon’s gaze flickered toward Brienne again. She was talking to one of the crew members, her focus sharp as usual. Brienne had always been the steady one, the one who got things done without hesitation. Jon had trusted her without question—until now.

The images of Jaime Lannister haunted him, a flash of a memory from the soundstage parking lot a few weeks ago. He’d seen them together—Jaime and Brienne, talking low, too close for comfort. At the time, it had seemed like nothing. But now?

What the hell is wrong with me?

Jon cursed under his breath. He was supposed to be paying attention to details. It was the one thing everyone had always admired him for. How the hell had he missed this?

He had always respected Brienne. She was part of the team, part of the conspiracy they were building—if they could ever get Margaery to let it all play out without blowing everything up. And yet, now he was questioning every goddamn moment he’d spent in her presence.

The way she and Jaime had been during Tyrion’s surprise party—their quiet tension, the way Brienne looked softer than usual. Hell, Jon had even caught them once in the car park after a late shoot, and they had walked too close to each other, shoulders brushing, coming from gods knew where, doing gods knew what.

Had he been too blinded by their shared goals, by the movie and his private life to see what was right in front of him?

I trusted her – damn it, Jon thought, his stomach twisting. But did she trust me? Or did she have other plans?

He couldn’t let it go. What if Brienne had shared something with Jaime? And Jaime – Jon would never trust him. Not after what he had done to Sansa.

What the fuck am I doing here? Jon’s mind was a battlefield. She was supposed to be safe. Sansa should be safe. I should be protecting her.

Jorah’s voice broke through the fog of his thoughts. “Jon, are you alright?”

Jon forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He knew Jorah was concerned, and the last thing he wanted was to talk about it. Not here, not now. But Jorah wasn’t letting him off the hook.

“We’ve got a lot on our plates,” Jorah continued, his tone almost too knowing. “But you’re not alone in this.”

Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Jorah,” he muttered, staring into the distance. “I’m – off my game. I’m worried about her. About everything. I should be focusing on the movie, but I keep getting caught up in – in all of it.”

Jorah didn’t press, just nodded. He knew better. They both did. There was no sense in talking openly about Margaery’s plan—not here, not yet. Everyone was listening, the walls had ears.

“Just remember, mate,” Jorah said, his voice low, “we’re all in this together. Sansa is an amazing  woman. We all know that.”

Jon’s gaze drifted back to Brienne. Sansa is an amazing woman, he repeated, but it wasn’t enough. He could feel the storm coming. And when it hit, the world would come for her, just like it always had.

Jon took a breath. There was nothing more to say. But still, he wasn’t ready for this—any of it. And the one thing that kept him grounded? Sansa. But she was miles away.

She’s got this. But God , I miss her...


Tyrion stepped out of his office, drink in hand, prepared to face whatever the day would throw at him. What he didn’t expect was Jon and Brienne standing in the hallway, clearly in the middle of some unspoken confrontation.

Jon was all angles, tense and rigid, like he might snap at any second. And Brienne? She was calm on the outside, but her fists were clenched so tightly that Tyrion could almost feel the strain in the air between them.

Jon was the first to speak, his voice tight with restraint. “You’re not telling me everything, Brienne. You’re still hiding something.”

Brienne didn’t flinch, but her eyes narrowed. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

Tyrion, ever the observer, couldn’t resist stepping in. “Well, well, this looks like it’s turning into quite the family therapy session. Mind if I join?”

Jon shot him a look that could kill. “This isn’t the time, Tyrion.”

Tyrion took another sip, unbothered. “Oh, but it’s the perfect time. Jon’s you’ve been throwing metaphorical daggers at Brienne all day and you Brienne look ready to snap, and I think it’s about time we get this out in the open, don’t you think?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Brienne cut him off. “We don’t need to air our dirty laundry here.”

Tyrion flashed her a grin. “Oh, Brienne, we’ve all got our laundry. It’s just a matter of whether we let it air.”

Before Jon could protest, Brienne sighed and stepped toward him, her posture softening just slightly. “I’ve told you everything that’s necessary, Jon. If you choose not to believe me, there’s nothing more to say.”

Jon’s frustration was palpable, but there was something else there too—doubt. It was buried under the layers of his protective instincts, but Tyrion saw it.

Tyrion stepped forward, his tone light but with a knowing edge. “Alright then. How about we take this somewhere more private? You know, where we can have a nice, intimate conversation—free from the hallway audience?”

Jon didn’t argue, but he didn’t seem happy about it either. He nodded curtly and walked toward Tyrion’s office, Brienne following reluctantly.


The tension in the office was almost suffocating. Tyrion set his glass down on the table with a soft clink, then took a seat, his sharp eyes flicking between Jon and Brienne. One of them was fighting to control their emotions, the other was bracing for impact.

“Well,” Tyrion began, swirling his drink and breaking the silence, “this is cozy. Just three people having a lovely, stress-free chat about the most controversial relationship in Hollywood since—what? That director who ran off with his leading lady?”

Brienne exhaled sharply, crossing her arms. “I didn’t come here for interrogation, Tyrion.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are. Lucky for you, I always have a knack for asking the right questions.” He shot Jon a quick glance. “Don’t worry, Jon. I’ll be gentle.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “This is about Jaime, isn’t it?”

Tyrion took a slow sip of his drink, letting the moment drag out just a little longer. “Oh, but of course. Who else could it be about?” He set the glass down with a little too much force. “The man, the myth, the problematic legend.”

Brienne didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to defend him, Tyrion. I’m here to tell you what I know.”

Jon’s eyes were locked on Brienne, his expression unreadable. “And you didn’t think we should know any of this sooner?”

Brienne’s gaze softened. “He needed time, Jon. And I needed time to understand him. To see him for who he really is.” She took a deep breath. “We didn’t come to this conclusion overnight.”

Tyrion leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. “Go on.”

Brienne’s voice remained steady, even as she spoke of things that clearly caused her discomfort. “Jaime and I started running into each other off set. At first, it was nothing more than coincidence. Then, it became something... more. He’d tell me things; things I didn’t expect from him.”

Jon shifted in his seat, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. “What things?”

Brienne looked down, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her tone. “That he couldn’t change the past, but he was trying. He said, we can’t choose who we love. That was the first real thing he said to me.” She paused. “And I knew then—he wasn’t just running from something. He was running toward something.”

Tyrion felt the weight of her words, but he wasn’t ready to let it go yet. “And what was it? What exactly was he running from, Brienne?”

She met his eyes, the gravity of her words sinking in. “Cersei. He was running from her.”

Jon’s expression didn’t change, but there was a shift in his posture—just a flicker of something like hope before the walls went back up. “So, you’re saying he just decided to leave her? After everything?”

Brienne nodded, her jaw set. “After everything. Later he told me they had a fight after Joffrey’s tweet. Jaime told Cersei that the Starks weren’t going to just lie down. He warned her—warned them all. And she dismissed him, like she always does.”

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, absorbing the weight of what Brienne had said. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that Jaime could change, could actually walk away from his lifelong obsession with Cersei. But the real question was whether or not Jaime would actually stick to it.

Brienne continued, her voice quieter now. “Jaime loves Cersei, but he’s done. He can’t go back to that.”

Tyrion looked from Brienne to Jon. “And Jaime’s—our Jaime—he’s really done with her, for good?”

Brienne met his gaze with absolute certainty. “Yes. And he sees what’s happening with you two, with the Starks. He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what’s at stake here.”

Jon finally exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders, if only a little. “You’re sure about this?”

Brienne didn’t flinch. “I’m sure. And I wouldn’t lie to you about him.”

Tyrion smiled, a bit of warmth creeping into his voice. “I’m glad to hear that. I really don’t need another secret to deal with.”

Jon sat back, his arms uncrossing, his posture relaxing. “Alright, then. I’ll take your word for it.”

Tyrion watched them both, his mind already working ahead. Margaery’s bombshell was coming, and if Jaime could really hold his ground, then Brienne—she—might just be his saving grace.

“Alright, then,” Tyrion said, raising his glass. “Let’s hope Jaime’s newfound resolve can hold up when the real shit hits the fan.”

Jon gave him a look that could kill, but Tyrion just grinned.

“Let’s face it, Jon,” Tyrion said, tipping his glass toward Brienne, “this whole damn thing is a clusterfuck. We’re all just trying to survive it.”

Brienne didn’t smile, but her gaze showed something of understanding. Jon let out a heavy breath, clearly not thrilled but willing to accept the reality of the situation.

Tyrion smirked and turned to the phone he had set on his desk. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few calls to make. Margaery isn’t the only one with a plan.” He winked, his tone light, but the weight of what was coming hung in the air.


Day 4

 

  "Too Green for the Throne? Why Sansa Stark Might Not Be Hollywood’s Next Leading Lady"

By Meryn Trant | The Hollywood Standard

Oscar nominations are days away, and Hollywood’s biggest awards players are already in focus. Catelyn Stark is the undisputed Best Actress frontrunner. Joffrey Baratheon, after years of inconsistent performances, has delivered a career-best turn in My Beautiful Boy and is a serious contender.

But while those names dominate the conversation, Sansa Stark’s awards buzz remains an open question.

Her upcoming film Good Queen Alysanne has sparked early speculation about a potential Best Actress campaign, but the film is still months away from release, and Hollywood remains unconvinced.

Even more concerning, Sansa’s other highly anticipated project, A24’s The Locket, has already garnered significant attention with its casting announcement by Variety. Scheduled to shoot in late spring, the film promises a raw, intimate portrayal of addiction. Still, insiders are questioning whether the young actress can deliver in a role of such emotional complexity, considering the heavy nature of the subject matter and her limited experience in leading roles.

Catelyn Stark’s status as one of Hollywood’s most respected actresses has never been in question. Her career—spanning film, television, and theatre—has been defined by precision, range, and an undeniable screen presence. With Lady Stoneheart, she has cemented herself as the leading contender for Best Actress.

But as one industry insider noted, her daughter’s rapid rise has become an unexpected complication—especially as the buzz surrounding Good Queen Alysanne intensifies.

"With Catelyn Stark poised as a frontrunner for Best Actress, her daughter’s high-profile casting could be an asset—or an unwanted distraction," one awards strategist commented.

Industry sources say that while Catelyn’s success is undeniable, Hollywood isn’t sure what to make of Sansa.

"It is rare for a young actress to be an awards player before she’s had her first major leading role," one executive explained. "For Sansa Stark, the weight of expectation may be heavier than any script."

This reality echoes the careers of actresses like Emma Stone, who went from breakout roles to an Oscar win in La La Land (2016), and Jennifer Lawrence, whose breakthrough performance in Winter’s Bone (2010) didn’t immediately place her in the awards conversation. It was only after carefully selected roles that both actresses proved their awards-worthiness, highlighting the long road many young stars must take before being truly recognized.

Sansa’s path is still unfolding. With Good Queen Alysanne on the horizon and The Locket waiting to shoot, the industry remains divided on whether Sansa can fully transition from promise to leading lady—or if she risks becoming another bright flame that burns out too soon.


Iceland

She had made it this far. She had survived –barely.

But survival was no longer enough.

It wasn’t the cold of the hotel room. It wasn’t the silence of Iceland. It was everything.

She had lived with the doubt long enough to make it familiar—You’re not enough. You’re too fragile. You don’t belong here. It had all been building, growing tighter and tighter in her chest, until now it was a vice she couldn’t escape from.

And the comments. God, the comments.

"Jon Snow aged ten years overnight. What have you done, Sansa?"
"He’s exhausted. He’s drained. This movie is killing him and for what? To carry her?"
"Imagine wasting Jon Snow’s talent on a second-rate actress. Sansa Stark isn’t worth the risk."
"This is her fault. She’s too much of a liability. Jon’s career is going to implode because of her."

Her breath hitched. What have I done to him? What have I done to us?

Her chest constricted. The room started to spin.

She could barely catch her breath. What if he’s already regretting it? What if he’s already done with me?

She wasn’t strong. She was broken. And she was the reason Jon was breaking too.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.


Texts between Arya Stark and Sansa Stark

Arya: Okay, I just saw the article. I’m about five seconds from starting a fire. 🔥🔥 Where do you want the body buried? 😡

Sansa: Please don’t start another war, Arya. We have enough to deal with. 🙄

Arya: Fine, but I’m ready when you are. Honestly, though, I’m pissed. 😡 They have no idea how hard you’ve worked for this. Like, zero clue. 👎

Sansa: No. That’s the problem. 😞

Arya: What’s up? Tell me. I’m in Prague for this damn fencing tourney 🏅, but I’ll drop everything and fly to Iceland if you need me! ✈️😤

Sansa: I just feel like I’m dragging Jon down with me. 😔 I don’t know if I can handle it...

Arya: You are NOT dragging anyone down, Sansa. 😤💪 You’ve been strong through all of this. And Jon? He’s not going to stop fighting for you, just like you won’t stop fighting for him.

Sansa: Is it about the hit piece and the mess online? 😬

Arya: YUP, that’s it. I knew it. 😡💥

Sansa: I’m so embarrassed right now. 😳🙈

Arya: Embarrassed? Girl, they should be embarrassed. 🙄💅 This whole thing is fucked up. People are idiots if they think you don’t deserve this. 💯


Tyrion sat in his office, staring at the phone in his hand. His mind was working overtime, trying to piece together the chaos that was threatening to unravel everything he had worked so hard to protect.

The ringing of his phone snapped him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen – it was Varys.

"You’ve seen the latest hit piece, haven’t you?" Tyrion asked, a bite in his voice.

Varys’ voice came through, smooth and unbothered as usual. "You mean the one where they question Sansa’s right to exist in the same industry as her mother? Hard to miss. It’s quite the hatchet job."

Tyrion’s teeth clenched. "Oberyn is playing his own game, but this isn’t him."

"Of course it isn’t," Varys agreed. "No, this is someone else entirely. Someone with a grudge and influence."

Tyrion rubbed his temple. "Cersei."

"Exactly," Varys confirmed. "She doesn’t care about this movie, nor does she care about Sansa beyond what she represents: a weakness, an exposed nerve in the Stark armor. And she’s found the perfect weapon—an eager studio executive who happens to have a contender in Best Actress."

Tyrion leaned back. "So, it’s not just about Sansa. It’s about Catelyn."

"Precisely," Varys said. "Cersei doesn’t need to destroy Sansa. She just needs to rattle Catelyn enough to disrupt her campaign."

Tyrion sighed. "And if they destroy Sansa in the process?"

"Collateral damage, my dear friend."


Tyrion had never been a fan of phone calls. But this one—this one was necessary.

The phone rang twice before Jaime picked up.

"You think I’ve been avoiding you?" Jaime’s voice came through the line, dry and edged with amusement. "More like you’ve been avoiding me."

Tyrion exhaled. "You didn’t think to check in, brother?"

Jaime sighed. "You don’t think I know what the Starks are planning, do you? They’re not the only ones playing their hand. I see how it’s going to play out. And you and I both know Joffrey is going to get exactly what’s coming to him."

Tyrion’s heart raced. Jaime wasn’t stopping it.

"I’m done with Cersei, Tyrion. She’s done too much. I’m done with everything. But I’ll be damned if I let her drag me—or anyone else—down with her. She raised a monster, and I’m not going to keep pretending that everything’s fine."

Tyrion leaned forward. "You’re really done, then?"

Jaime laughed, but it was bitter. "What else do you think I’ve been doing, Tyrion? I see the writing on the wall. And I’ll make sure Brienne doesn’t get caught in the crossfire."

Tyrion exhaled. "Good. Then I’ll see you in Belfast."


At an industry roundtable, Catelyn Stark was asked—again—about Sansa’s casting.

She smiled, but it was sharp. "I see we’re still having this conversation. Fascinating."

"Sansa auditioned. She wasn’t handed this. But I find it interesting that when a young woman works for something, people assume it was given to her. And when a young man stumbles through a career, suddenly, he’s the underdog they want to root for."

"My daughter is not an experiment. She is not a favour. She is not a mistake. And when you see her performance, I suspect this conversation will evaporate. Quickly."

She let the pause hang, then delivered the finishing blow.

"And to those watching who doubt her—well. I imagine they’ll find themselves gasping in the streets soon enough. I have a feeling that this award season is going to be …. enlightening."

It went viral instantly.


Texts between Sansa Stark and Arya Stark

Arya: I have watched that clip of Mom’s interview at least ten times. I am in awe. I want to frame it. I want to write it in the sky. I want to whisper it into Joffrey’s ear in the dead of night, so it haunts him forever. 👏🔥

Sansa: You’re too much. 😂

Arya: Am I? Or am I exactly what is needed? Because MOM is done. She's out of fucks to give, and I have NEVER been more proud. 👑🔥

Sansa: That’s true. She really is done playing nice.

Arya: And I am LOVING IT. 😈 Meanwhile, Margaery? Oh, she’s about to set off a nuclear bomb on Joffrey. And I am so ready. 🍿💥

Sansa: Margaery doesn’t play around.

Arya: No, she doesn’t. And when she’s done, it’s my turn. I wore a nice gown and high heels for you, don’t you think I wouldn’t finish what Margaery is starting?

Sansa: Arya… 😂

Arya: Joffrey’s going to wish he never stepped into this business. Once Margaery’s done, Robb and I are going to make sure he never works again. 🎭💀 And Dad? Dad hasn’t even started. When he does, Joffrey will be begging to be erased from Hollywood. 😏🔥

Sansa: Okay, I’m both terrified and relieved. 😂

Arya: You should be relieved. You’re going to win this. And Joffrey and Cersei? They’re going to be footnotes. 👑 When you’re standing there with your Oscar, we’ll be front and centre, and they’ll be eating their words. 🍾🎉

Sansa: I love you.

Arya: I know. 😎 Just go prove them wrong.

 


 

  Day 5

Iceland

Sansa adjusted her laptop on the desk, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as Jon’s face flickered onto the screen. He looked exhausted—hair damp, a furrow in his brow, his shoulders tense even through the pixelated image.

 

   “You look terrible,” she teased, tilting her head as she studied him.

 

Jon let out a low chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “Long day. You, on the other hand, look breathtaking.”

 

Sansa felt her face warm. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Snow.”

 

He smirked. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

 

She smiled, rolling her eyes. “I’m counting the hours until I’m back in Belfast.”

 

Jon’s expression softened. “Me too.”

 

The warmth between them lingered for a moment, comfortable and unspoken. Then, his phone screen lit up with an incoming call.

 

Cersei Lannister.

 

Sansa frowned. Why was Cersei calling Jon? They weren’t exactly on friendly terms. And why did he hesitate before answering, his fingers hovering over the screen for just a second too long? Then, he pressed accept—on speaker.

 

“Jon,” Cersei’s voice was warm, almost affectionate. “You’ve been making quite the name for yourself lately. I have to say, I’m impressed.”

 

Jon exhaled slowly, expression unreadable. “Didn’t know you were keeping tabs.”

 

She laughed, the sound rich, knowing. “Oh, darling, I always keep tabs. Fire and Ice—brilliant. I even sat through the festival screenings. You’ve got an eye, Jon. A real one.”

 

Sansa saw Jon’s fingers twitch against the desk, but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t stupid. Compliments from Cersei Lannister were never just compliments.

 

“Cut to the point, Cersei.”

 

She sighed, as if disappointed. “Fine. Let’s talk about Good Queen Alysanne then. You and I both know Sansa isn’t strong enough to carry this film.”

 

Sansa’s breath hitched. Her fingers froze mid-motion, the glow of her laptop suddenly too bright, too sharp. A fresh wave of exhaustion crashed over her, different from the night before when she had curled up in bed, suffocating under the weight of self-doubt. She hadn’t even had time to recover from that breakdown, and now—

 

Jon’s jaw tightened. “That is where you’re wrong.”

 

A soft, indulgent laugh. “Oh, sweet summer child. I have nothing against the girl, truly. She’s got a certain charm, but this isn’t a vanity project. This is a high-stakes industry, and we need a performer who can shoulder that weight. Daenerys is already a proven talent.”

 

Jon’s fingers curled into a fist against the desk. “Sansa is extraordinary. She holds this film together.”

 

Cersei hummed, like she was indulging a particularly naive child. “Jon, you’re too close to this. You can’t see it clearly.”

 

Jon stiffened. She knew.

 

Cersei’s voice turned softer, almost pitying. “You have final cut rights. If you were truly thinking about what’s best for the film, you’d consider putting more focus on Daenerys. You have a golden opportunity to secure an Oscar-winning performance. Why risk it all on an unknown?”

 

Jon’s grip on the phone tightened. “Because I know talent when I see it. And I know when someone is being deliberately undermined.”

 

Sansa’s stomach twisted, nausea curling in the pit of her gut. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted her laptop, as if steadying herself. He had put Cersei on speaker. Why? So she would hear? Or because he wanted her to know he wasn’t afraid of Cersei’s words?

 

The weight of the past twenty-four hours bore down on her. She had barely slept, had spent the night convincing herself she wasn’t a mistake, that she hadn’t somehow tricked everyone into thinking she belonged here. Now, Cersei’s words were peeling back every fragile layer of confidence she had built overnight.

 

Cersei’s tone sharpened, losing its feigned politeness. “Think carefully, Jon. If you hold onto this fantasy, you might end up hurting the film more than helping it.”

 

Jon’s voice was steel. “The only thing hurting this film is people like you, who would rather control the narrative than let the work speak for itself. Sansa is the lead. And you’ll see that when the film is released.”

 

Silence stretched before Cersei let out a quiet chuckle. “I expected more pragmatism from you. Such a shame.”

 

The call ended.

 

Jon sat there, exhaling sharply, frustration rippling through his body. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes still fixed on the phone as if he could burn a hole through it. Then his gaze flickered back to the screen, where Sansa’s face had gone pale, her expression unreadable.

 

His stomach dropped. She had heard everything.

 

“Sansa—”

 

She swallowed, but it did nothing to push back the lump forming in her throat. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I should go.”

Jon leaned closer to the screen, his brows knitting together. “Wait—”

 

She ended the call before he could say another word.

 

She had heard enough. And now, she wasn’t sure if she could unhear it. Her body felt cold, brittle—like one wrong word could shatter her completely.

 

She had barely survived last night. Now, she wasn’t sure she could survive this.

 


 

Daenerys stretched out on the sofa in her trailer, the script for Good Queen Alysanne abandoned beside her, forgotten. She wasn’t reading. Not really. Her mind had drifted elsewhere, to things far more distracting, far more sinful.

 

Jorah.

 

God, she missed him. The quiet intensity in his eyes, the way his fingers skimmed the small of her back like he was memorizing every inch of her. She missed the way his voice dropped when he murmured her name, how he always seemed to know exactly what she needed—before she even had to ask.

 

Her breath hitched as she imagined it now.

 

The door to his hotel room closing behind them, the solid warmth of him pressing her against it before she could take another step. The slow, teasing slide of his hands down her back, gripping her thighs, hoisting her up against him like she belonged there. His mouth, reverent and rough all at once, tracing fire along her neck, his beard scraping deliciously over her skin as he whispered just how much he had missed her.

 

He always took his time, savouring every reaction, every gasp, every helpless plea. But next time—

Next time, she didn’t want slow. She wanted to push him back the moment she saw him, drag him down onto the bed and rip that damn shirt off. She wanted his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, his breath warm and ragged against her ear as he growled her name. She wanted him unrestrained, reckless, to take her without hesitation. No teasing, no patience—just raw, desperate hunger. She wanted to feel the weight of him pressing her down, the way he’d curse under his breath when she bit his shoulder, the way his hands would tighten, holding her still as he wrecked her completely.

 

She wanted to leave him just as undone as he always left her.

 

Her thighs pressed together, heat curling through her. God, it had been too long.

 

Her phone vibrated against her stomach.

 

Daenerys nearly jumped out of her skin, sitting up with a gasp, her face burning as if someone had caught her in the act. She snatched the phone up, her pulse still racing, and groaned when she saw the name on the screen.

 

Tyrion Lannister.

 

Of course.

She opened the message.

 

Tyrion: I assume you’re being professional and absolutely not thinking about defiling your co-star?

 

Her mouth fell open.

 

Daenerys: Excuse me?!

 

Tyrion: Oh, don’t act innocent. I know exactly how you look at him. That particular faraway gaze, the one that either means poetry or sheer debauchery—and with Jorah, I’m betting on the latter.

 

Daenerys: I hate you.

 

Tyrion: You love me. But listen, we have a problem. There are new, unexpected developments, and Jon on set is being an absolute bastard.

 

Daenerys sat up straighter, the teasing forgotten.

 

Daenerys: Define ‘bastard.’

 

Tyrion: The moody, brooding, snarling-at-everyone kind. I suspect the last few days of bad press are weighing on Sansa. Something happened, but I’m still piecing it together.

 

Her stomach twisted. She knew how fragile Sansa’s confidence could be, how quickly it could spiral.

 

Daenerys: What kind of ‘something’?

 

Tyrion: Still working on that. But I need you to keep an eye on her. Jon is a mess, and if she cracks, he’ll just make it worse.

 

Daenerys: What new developments??

 

Tyrion: We'll explain when you get back.

 

Daenerys: What happened to no more secrets?

 

Tyrion: A lot. Which we'll explain in full, I swear.

 

Daenerys ran a hand through her hair, exhaling. So much for daydreams.

 

Daenerys: Fine. But if you ruin my sex life before it even happens, I will end you, Lannister.

 

She could practically hear his laughter as her phone buzzed again.

 

Tyrion: I’ll be expecting a thank-you card when you finally jump him.

 


 

Belfast, Day 5

Jon had been staring at his phone for the past ten minutes, debating whether or not to call her. It was late—later than he’d realised—but sleep wasn’t an option, not after the day they’d both had. They hadn’t spoken since that morning, pulled in different directions by the storm raging around them.

 

He had tried to call her. More than once. Each time, she hadn’t answered. He understood why—she had overheard his conversation with Cersei, and while he knew she was angry, he also knew it wasn’t at him. Still, the silence had gnawed at him all day, leaving a hollow ache in his chest.

 

Without thinking, he pressed the call button one more time.

 

The phone rang. Once. Twice. A pause.

 

Then, finally—

 

“Jon?”

 

Her voice was quiet, but there was something raw in it. Relief. Like she had been waiting for him, too. Something inside him eased just hearing her say his name.

 

He exhaled. “Hey.”

 

A pause. “You’ve been calling.”

 

Jon let out a humourless chuckle. “Yeah. Was starting to think you blocked me.”

 

“I wouldn’t.”

 

“I know.”

 

Silence stretched between them, not cold or distant, but heavy with everything that had happened, everything they hadn’t said yet. He shifted forward, elbows on his knees, gripping the phone tighter.

 

“Sansa, I—”

 

“I’m not angry with you, Jon,” she interrupted, her voice steady, but there was something behind it—something deeper. “I heard everything. I know what she was trying to do.”

 

Jon’s jaw clenched. “Sansa—”

 

“She doesn’t care about me. She doesn’t care about this movie,” Sansa said, her voice gaining strength. “She was just playing the game.”

 

Jon closed his eyes. Of course, she was. Cersei never made a move unless it served a bigger purpose. Sansa understood that just as well as he did. Still, it didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

 

“I hate that we have to deal with this,” she admitted. “I hate that she gets to pull the strings and act like none of it matters.”

 

Jon let out a slow breath. “I know.”

 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of it all sat between them, unspoken but understood. Finally, Sansa sighed. “But I’m not going to let her win.”

 

Jon’s chest tightened. That was Sansa—resilient, even when she had every reason to break.

 

A soft laugh, barely there. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

 

Jon’s lips twitched. “Yeah, but we’re in it together.”

 

The silence that followed was different. Warm. Steady.

 

“Sansa?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

She hesitated, then, so softly he almost didn’t hear it—“I love you.”

 

His breath caught. He knew it—he’d always known it—but hearing her say it like that, after everything, unravelled something deep inside him.

 

“Sansa,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I love you too.”

 

She let out a breath, shaky but sure. “Good.”

 

Jon smiled, the first real one he’d managed all day. "I'm counting the hours until you come back."

 

"Me too," she admitted, her voice softer now, carrying something warm beneath the exhaustion. "And amidst all the chaos, I think Daenerys and I are doing a good job here in Iceland. It feels... right."

 

Jon’s chest swelled with pride. "I’ve watched the dailies," he said. "You’re incredible, Sansa. I’m so proud of you."

 

She hummed softly, and he could almost see the small, tired smile on her lips. "That means everything, Jon."

 

They lingered for a moment, neither of them quite ready to let go. But exhaustion was creeping in, pulling at their voices, their bodies heavy with the weight of the day.

 

"We should get some sleep," she murmured, but there was no real insistence behind it. She didn’t want to hang up any more than he did.

 

"Yeah," he agreed, but he didn’t move to end the call. Instead, he shut his eyes and let himself absorb the sound of her breathing, steady and familiar, something grounding in all the chaos.

 

And yet, as much as hearing her soothed him, the ache in his chest didn’t disappear completely. He had promised to shield her from this. But she didn’t need shielding, did she? She needed someone who believed in her strength as much as he loved her. And he did.

 

"Goodnight, Sansa," he finally said, voice thick with something unspoken.

 

"Goodnight, Jon."

 


 

London, Day 5

 

Baelish leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, scrolling through headlines. The industry had already begun spinning its narrative, and for once, he was not the one holding the threads. That was a problem.

The Oscar buzz surrounding Sansa was exactly what he had wanted. He had planted that seed. But the doubts about whether she could carry Good Queen Alysanne? The comparisons to her mother? That was someone else’s play. And he had a very good guess who.

 

The Starks were moving.

 

Baelish had known them long enough to understand one thing: they would not play unless they were certain they could win.

 

And for the first time in years, he had no idea what their next move was.

 

He needed an ally. Someone close enough to power to be useful but distant enough from Cersei’s web to go unnoticed. Someone ambitious. Someone who, like him, understood that survival meant knowing when to switch sides.

 

Renly Baratheon fit that description perfectly.

 

Baelish picked up his phone and dialled the number.

 

"Baelish."

 

A slow smile curled on his lips. "Renly, it’s been far too long."

 

A pause. Then a chuckle. "And I imagine you wouldn’t be calling unless you needed something."

 

Baelish swirled his drink. "I need an ally. And you need an opportunity."

 

Renly let the silence stretch, savouring it like a well-aged wine. "Oh, this is fun. Watching you scramble. Go on, Baelish—tell me just how desperate you really are."

 


SCOOP ONLINE: What Are Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn Hiding?

 

In a town where secrets are currency, Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn seem to be sitting on a goldmine. Since their joint appearance at Robb Stark’s The Crucible wrap party months ago, the Hollywood rumour mill has been churning, yet the pair has maintained a deafening silence. No interviews, no clarifying statements, not even a cryptic social media post. So, what gives?

The timing of their silence couldn’t be more intriguing. Both actors are nearing the end of filming Good Queen Alysanne, with Daenerys on location in Iceland and Jorah in Belfast shooting his final scenes. With awards season on the horizon, insiders are already buzzing about potential nominations. “They’ve got the kind of performances that could sweep Supporting Actor and Actress categories,” a producer shared. “But staying quiet keeps the focus on the movie, not their personal lives. It’s a smart move.”

But what if their silence is more than just a PR tactic? Some insiders suggest it could be a strategic ploy orchestrated by the Starks. With Sansa Stark still battling nepotism accusations and the family carefully curating their public image, keeping Jorah and Daenerys under wraps might be part of a larger strategy. “The Starks are experts at shifting the narrative,” an industry source noted. “A romance between two beloved actors could easily overshadow the controversy around Sansa.”

Their history adds another layer to the mystery. They first worked together on The Ghost and Mrs Muir, and even then, rumours of a budding romance were everywhere. “They had this undeniable chemistry,” a former crew member shared. “Back then, they played it off as friendship, but who really knows? Maybe this time they’re being smarter about it.” A now-iconic photo from that time showed the pair laughing on set, Daenerys' hand resting on Jorah's shoulder—a gesture that had fans speculating for months.

Not everyone is buying the romance narrative, though. “This feels a bit too perfect,” a PR insider speculated. “With Good Queen Alysanne nearing completion, keeping people guessing could be exactly what the film needs. It’s the oldest trick in the book—make them talk about you without saying a word.”

The behind-the-scenes video from a recent photoshoot only added fuel to the fire. In the footage, Jorah and Daenerys—dressed elegantly in black-tie attire—are seen embracing. Daenerys’ hands are tucked under Jorah’s jacket, and the intimacy of the moment has sent fans into a frenzy. Social media exploded, with posts dissecting every frame of the video, from the way they held each other to the soft, almost private smiles they shared. “This isn’t just acting,” one fan tweeted. “This is REAL.”

Body language experts are divided. “There’s an intimacy to the way they interact,” one expert analysed. “But the deliberate choice to keep certain moments just out of view, the way they move around each other—it all feels intentional. They’re giving us just enough to keep us guessing.”

Meanwhile, fan theories are running wild. One particularly viral post suggested that the silence is a strategic choice, with the couple planning a dramatic reveal during awards season. “Imagine the impact of them stepping out together on the red carpet,” a PR consultant mused. “It would be the story of the year. They could ride that wave straight to the Oscars.”

But a close friend of Jorah’s isn’t convinced. “He’s not the type to play these games,” they insisted. “Jorah hates this kind of attention. If they were really together, why not just say it? Unless… maybe it’s more complicated than we realise.”

And it seems we’re not the only ones looking for answers. Just days ago, our reporters tried to catch up with Jorah Mormont outside his hotel in Belfast. Dressed down in jeans and a wool coat, the actor seemed unfazed by the sudden ambush. When asked directly about his relationship with Daenerys Stormborn, Jorah declined to comment. But tellingly, he didn’t deny the rumours either, offering nothing more than a polite smile before slipping into a waiting car.

So, what could be keeping them quiet? Are they protecting a real romance? Avoiding an overshadowing scandal? Or simply playing a long game that only they—and perhaps the ever-calculating Starks—understand?

One thing is certain—Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Stormborn have crafted Hollywood’s greatest mystery, and as awards season looms, the pressure to break their silence is only growing. Are they hiding a genuine love story, building up to a show-stopping reveal, or keeping the world at arm’s length for reasons yet unknown?

Stay tuned—because in a town built on stories, this is one we can't afford to miss!

 


 

The phone rang twice before he answered, rubbing a hand over his tired face. Today had been relentless. The press had pushed harder, pressing him directly this time. They weren’t just speculating anymore; they were demanding answers. ‘Will you finally confirm your relationship?’ ‘Why hide it when you’ve already been seen together?’ ‘What does this mean for awards season?’ His team had deflected, of course, but it was starting to feel inevitable. And as much as he wanted to shut it all out, it was getting harder to ignore. He was tired. Of the questions, of the speculation, of the noise. And more than anything, he was tired of being apart from her.

 

“Daenerys,” Jorah’s voice was warm, but strained, a touch rough at the edges. Like he hadn’t slept properly in days. Like the weight of the world was pressing down on him from every direction. And in truth, it was. The Oscar buzz was growing louder, but he hated it.

 

He had seen this game play out too many times before. He had lived through decades of awards seasons, watched careers rise and fall on the back of early speculation. The film wouldn’t be out for another eight months. He had no idea when the first test screenings would happen, or if they even would. And yet, the press had already decided what the narrative should be.

 

He hated that Margaery’s plan was in motion and he could do nothing but wait. He hated that Jon and Sansa were being dragged through the same industry machine that had almost broken him once. But most of all, he hated being apart from her, even if it was only for a few more days.

 

She smiled, closing her eyes against the quiet hum of her hotel room. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No, love,” he said, though she could hear the slight exhaustion in his tone. “I was waiting for you.”

 

A soft exhale left her lips. “I miss you.”

 

She heard the faintest chuckle on the other end, laced with something deeper, something unspoken. “I miss you more.”

 

She pulled her knees to her chest, the cold from outside pressing against the windows. “It feels strange, being here without you. You were supposed to be with me.”

 

“I know,” he murmured. There was regret in his voice, as if he blamed himself for something out of his control. “You and I both know I would rather be there with you than in this godforsaken city.”

 

She let out a soft laugh, but the ache in her chest remained. “Belfast isn’t that bad.”

 

“It is when you’re not here,” he admitted.

 

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with the weight of their absence, the longing neither of them tried to hide.

 

“How was today?” he asked, his voice softer now.

 

“Cold. Exhausting. But it was good,” she admitted. “Sansa and I work well together. I think we’re doing something special here.”

 

“You are,” Jorah said, no hesitation in his voice. “I’ve watched the dailies. You’re mesmerising, Daenerys.”

 

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “You’ve watched them more times than I have.”

 

“Because it’s always true,” he countered. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so. The industry is watching you, love. They see what I’ve always seen.”

She smiled, tucking her free hand under the blanket. “It doesn’t feel the same without you here. You’re always the first person I look for after a scene. It’s strange, knowing you’re not just off-camera, watching.”

 

“I’m still watching,” he said, voice thick with something she recognised too well. “I always will be.”

 

Her throat tightened. “Jorah...”

 

“Yes, my love?”

 

She swallowed hard. “Are you all right? I mean truly? You sound—”

 

“Like a man who hates being away from you?” he finished, a hint of a smile in his voice.

 

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

 

“I hate it,” he admitted. “Every second of it. But it’s temporary. Just a few more days, and then I’ll be where I belong.”

 

“With me,” she whispered.

 

“Always.”

 

Jorah leaned back, the worn fabric of the sofa pressing into his back. He rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble against his palm a reminder of how long the day had been. He could picture her curled up in her hotel room, the cold pressing against the windows, the weight of the day settling on her shoulders.

 

 He wished he was there, wished he could trace his fingers through her hair, wished he could take just a fraction of the weight from her. But for now, this would have to be enough—her voice, the steady presence of her on the other end of the line, grounding him as much as he hoped he was grounding her.

 

Jorah sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple, as if trying to will away a headache that had been lingering for days. “And the worst of it? They’re already talking about awards, about nominations, about ‘momentum.’ It’s the same game every year. Build them up, tear them down, start over. And the film isn’t even finished yet. None of these people have seen it, but they’re already deciding how the story goes.”

 

“They’ve been twisting our story for years,” he continued. “And we both know how this goes—the right headline, the wrong timing, and suddenly the story isn’t ours anymore.”

 

“We won’t let them. This is what we have been fighting for.” She said.

 

“Aye, and I’m with you. You know that.”

 

“Text me if you can’t sleep,” she said at last, a quiet invitation, a reassurance.

 

Jorah’s voice was softer now, warm and sure. “I will.”

 

Neither spoke, neither moved, but neither was ready to let go just yet.

 


 

Margaery collapsed onto the couch of her Belfast hotel suite, exhaustion curling around her like smoke. The day had been long: filming, press meetings, smiling at people who had no idea what was coming.

 

Across from her, Theon was perched on the sofa, his laptop open, his fingers tapping against the keyboard in a steady rhythm. He had been working non-stop, making sure that his name would never be connected to what was about to happen.

 

Her phone buzzed.

 

She already knew who it would be.

 

She exhaled sharply before answering. "Everything’s ready?"

 

A pause. Then, a voice confirmed, "Yes."

 

Her stomach twisted. It was real now.

 

She glanced at Theon. He didn’t look up. He knew what this phone call meant, and yet, they never spoke about it. He had made sure she had the tools she needed, had stood by her every step of the way, but she had also made sure to keep him safely removed from it all. His name wouldn’t be anywhere near this. That was the only way she could protect him.

 

"Ygritte is ready," the voice, Loras' source, continued. "She assures me they have everything lined up. It’s happening."

 

The voice was calm, with a practiced ease that always reminded her of garden parties and speeches at charity galas. A voice used to telling lies with a smile. A voice that had once made Loras laugh, back when laughter still came easily to him.

 

"Margaery..." The voice softened, and for a moment, all the layers of performance and strategy peeled away. "Are you all right?"

 

Her breath hitched. She twisted the silver ring on her finger, a nervous habit she'd never quite broken. "No. But I will be. Once this is over."

 

A soft sigh. "He always said you were the strongest of us. I think he knew you’d be the one to see this through."

 

Her pulse thrummed in her ears. A distant roar. She gripped the phone tighter, the plastic cool against her palm. "And they’re sure? No loose ends?"

 

"No loose ends. This is it. Cersei won’t see it coming. But be careful—Baelish has been asking questions. He knows something’s off."

 

Margaery’s fingers tightened around the phone. That name, spoken so lightly, with a thread of steel beneath. The voice on the other end had always known how to mask danger with charm.

 

Her mind flashed to Loras. His smile, his kindness, the way he had been before they destroyed him. Sometimes, when the world quieted, she could almost hear Loras' laugh. Soft, warm, and untouched by the shadows that later swallowed him. She had to believe that somewhere, somehow, he was watching. And that he would understand.

 

"Stay safe," she whispered.

 

"You too. We’ll talk soon."

 

She ended the call, and the silence that followed felt like a physical weight. She tossed her phone onto the coffee table. It skidded, knocking against a half-empty glass of wine, the soft clink echoing in the quiet room. Outside, Belfast’s grey sky pressed against the window, the rain a constant whisper on the glass.

 

Finally, she sank beside Theon. The leather cushions sighed under their weight.

 

He didn’t ask if she was okay. Instead, he handed her a steaming cup of tea, the rim chipped but warm against her palms. It was enough.

 

He glanced at her briefly, then smirked. "Sansa and Daenerys broke the internet. Again."

 

She chuckled, the sound brittle. "Of course they did."

 

Theon turned his laptop toward her, showing the newest viral image—Sansa and Daenerys, standing together on set, framed by the Icelandic wilderness, looking as if they had stepped straight out of history. The internet had exploded.

 

Margaery sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I will need to apologise to your sister when she comes back."

 

Theon raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean it?"

 

She hesitated. Then, with a small, genuine smile, she nodded. "I do. I love her. I miss her."

 

Theon studied her for a moment, then shut his laptop, shifting closer. "You did the right thing, you know."

 

She swallowed. "Did I?"

 

His expression softened. "For Sansa. For everyone he hurt."

 

A silence stretched between them, thick with things unsaid.

 

Her source. Loras’ source. His boyfriend. The whispers in the shadows, all their anger and grief.

 

She let the silence settle, the only sound the patter of rain against the window. She had always loved the rain. It washed everything clean, or at least, it pretended to.

 

Revenge had been the only thing driving her. And yet, somehow, along the way, this had become more.

 

She wanted to see the Lannisters fall.

But she also wanted to see what came after.

 

Theon reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. His palm was warm, grounding. "I love you."

This time, she said it back.

 

The pieces were set, but Margaery knew better than to trust the board. Too many hands, too many shadows. And in the end, it was always the quietest move that brought the key pieces down.

Notes:

Also, I can’t believe I’m finally adding that Jaime/Brienne tag to this story. If there is enough interest in a sequel their role will be far more prominent in the story. Let me know. Drop by my tumblr @myspecialhell
And I'll go back to write my Jonsa fic This is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty.
Also, sorry for the HUGE chapter. It's a whopper

Chapter 24: And that's a wrap!

Notes:

Author’s Note: Surprise! I’m alive. Just emotionally concussed.
This chapter exists because I made the excellent life decision to join the WIP Big Bang (https://wipbigbang.dreamwidth.org/) while staring down an almost 300k-word fic that’s been aging like fine trauma in a Word document for the last eight years. I had one job. One job. And it was to finish this. It only took a house move, a mental health crisis, one (1) surgery, and my very real, very full-time day job to get here.
I would like to thank caffeine, spite, and the ghost of my original outline (which I had to yeet into the sun after realising it was written in a pre-Succession world). Outlining the end of this fic absolutely kicked my ass. The last few chapters rose up like vengeful spirits of subplots past. I begged for mercy. They gave me... an ending. Not the one I planned. Just an ending. Like when you ask for directions and someone says, “You can’t get there from here, but you can cry in that ditch.”
Microsoft Word has filed a restraining order against me. It hates me and my formatting with equal, burning fury. I am still having vivid Oscar campaign dreams about Good Queen Alysanne. If there’s interest in a sequel, I’ll try to write it faster than George R.R. Martin. (Low bar. I like achievable goals.)
That said, there are things that have been in the outline and in the story since I first started writing it forever ago—even characters you’ve never seen before. And there are a few things I decided more recently. Considering I’ve been writing this for years, “recently” is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
After a few days of painstakingly outlining everything, I realised: guess this chapter will need to be split in two. Which immediately became three. Then four. And now... five. So yes, welcome to the first part of the ending. Tying up all the loose threads has been like herding caffeinated cats with trauma backstories. But somehow, I made it. I survived.
Please enjoy the new chapter . I’m not dead. Just exhausted. Send snacks. Or therapy. Or both.
Let me know if you want the sequel. I already regret asking.
Nina
PS: the fic will be update once a week:)

Chapter Text

 

Sansa stepped off the plane and into the cold Belfast air, the wind slicing through her coat and settling deep in her bones like an old wound reopened. Iceland had been brutal—windblown, merciless, endless—and though Belfast should have felt like a reprieve, it didn’t. Not really. The air here was cleaner, drier, familiar—but there was no comfort in it. Not yet.

She tightened her wool coat around her shoulders, the dark navy fabric pulled snug against her slender frame. The set scarf tucked into the collar still held the scent of the last shoot—smoke, snow, and something like despair. She kept her chin up. Almost there, she thought. But it never quite felt like that.

Beside her, Daenerys walked with quiet grace, her coat flaring slightly in the breeze. Her dark brunette hair—dyed for the role—was twisted up in a messy knot, pinned with haphazard care. As always, several strands had escaped, framing her face with careless elegance. Even in exhaustion, Daenerys moved like she belonged in every room she entered, her steps unhurried, her expression composed. Sansa had envied that once. Not today. Today, she was too damn tired.

“Iceland was…” Sansa started, then trailed off. The weight of the past week  pressed down again, thick as fog. The long days, the biting wind, the never-ending shots in endless twilight. “Surreal,” she finished quietly. “And not the fun kind.”

Daenerys gave her a sidelong look, her lips twitching into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Surreal? You mean freezing your arse off in a place where the universe feels like it’s punishing you personally?” She shook her head and let out a dry laugh. “Next time, we shoot somewhere warm. I’m done with cold.”

Sansa huffed a laugh, part sigh, part surrender. “If we make it through today, I’ll book the tickets myself.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Daenerys said lightly, but her voice had an edge—wry, knowing. Because they both understood: as soon as they wrapped, the world would come for them. The press. The fallout. The politics. The silence waiting to be filled with noise.

The sleek black car waited at the curb, its polished exterior gleaming dully under the grey Belfast sky. It looked like it belonged to another world—one where exhaustion didn’t line every breath. Bronn lounged in the driver’s seat, one arm slung over the wheel like he had all the time in the world. He wore a bomber jacket and aviators far too dramatic for the overcast day. He spotted them and raised a lazy hand in greeting.

“Do I even want to know where we’re going?” Sansa asked as she slid into the backseat, the leather cool against her legs. She leaned back, not relaxing, just sinking. The city moved past them like a half-remembered dream.

Bronn shot her a grin through the mirror, his expression maddeningly cheerful. “Don’t worry, love. You’re headed straight to the land of real drama. The coffee’s shit, the actors are worse, and the director’s a glorified babysitter.”

Sansa arched a brow and glanced at Daenerys, who raised an amused brow in return. “Jon?”

“Yeah, him,” Bronn snorted. “Poor bastard’s pacing like a caged animal. He’ll try to give a speech, you watch. Might even cry. I’ve got a tenner on tears.”

Sansa laughed—an actual laugh, sharp and sudden. Maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe it was just Bronn’s signature irreverence, but it cracked something open. For the first time in weeks, she felt her ribs loosen.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” she said, smirking. “He’ll make it awkward, and I’ll pretend it was brilliant.”

“Of course you will,” Bronn said, steering them through the wet streets like it was just another Tuesday. “We all will.”

“I just hope he’s been practising,” she murmured. She could already picture him—Jon, anxious, trying too hard not to look like he cared as much as he did. “But I’m pretty sure he’ll mess it up. Just... because he’s Jon.”

“I’m counting on it,” Daenerys added with a grin. “He’s got the charm. Just not the delivery.”

Sansa’s smile softened. She imagined him there on set, wringing his hands behind the monitors, overthinking every frame. That was Jon. He didn’t need to be flawless. He just needed to care—and he always, always did. That was what made him different. That was what made him good.

“Jon Snow: Director Extraordinaire,” Sansa intoned, voice low, dry, affectionate. “Sure, he’ll mess it up. But the world will adore him anyway.”

“Of course they will,” Daenerys said, voice warm. She looked at Sansa with a knowing softness. “It’s Jon.”

Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, tracing lines across the glass like threads pulling them forward. Belfast blurred into grey. Sansa stared at it, but her mind was still on him—Jon, waiting, fumbling, trying. That had always been enough. Still was.

The car turned, then slowed as the set came into view. Trailers. Lights. People scurrying like windblown leaves. Sansa’s heart kicked up—quick, sharp. That familiar jolt before a performance, before a moment that could change everything. It was always the same: something was about to tip.

She felt it in her chest, heavy and certain.

But Daenerys was beside her. Bronn was behind the wheel, whistling like none of it mattered. And somewhere ahead, Jon would be waiting.

That made it bearable.

“We’ll see it through,” Sansa whispered, more to herself than anyone else. The words felt necessary. A small offering to the storm.

Daenerys looked over, her expression quiet but steady. “We always do.”

And somehow, that was enough.

 


There was a box on the table in her trailer, plain and impersonal—the kind they gave you when it was time to go. A P.A. had left it so she could pack her things. The end was here.

Sansa sighed as she began to collect her belongings, her fingers brushing over scripts, lip balm, a sweater she always wore between takes. They would leave Belfast after the wrap party. Theon was already packing her stuff at home, and the thought made her chuckle. Her brother was a chaotic packer—his suitcases always looked like a war zone after a siege. She hoped Margaery would lend him a hand, and somewhere deep down, she held on to the fragile hope that she’d get a quiet moment with both of them before they all scattered again.

Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that made her bones ache.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. She turned, expecting a makeup artist or maybe someone from wardrobe—but it was Jon.

He stepped into her trailer, pausing just inside the door. It was the first time he had ever done so. Then again, they were almost done. The film was nearly finished. They hadn’t seen each other for over a week.

“Sansa,” Jon breathed, his voice rough with something more than just fatigue.

He looked exhausted. Beautiful. Open. And hers.

She didn’t speak. She crossed the space between them in a heartbeat and wrapped herself into his arms. No questions, no need for explanations. He held her like she was the only thing anchoring him in the world. Maybe she was.

They’d spoken on the phone every day, but it hadn’t been enough. Iceland had been brutal. The shoot had been long. The rumours online had clawed at her skin. But in Jon’s arms, the chaos fell away. The storm inside her quieted.

“Welcome back,” he murmured against her hair.

It wouldn’t be the last time their jobs tore them apart. She knew that. But her parents had made it work. She had to believe they could too.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice caught in the softness between them.

“Oh, you have no idea how mutual that was.”

Sansa let herself smile into his chest. “We have today,” she said. “Then we disappear.”

Jon kissed her slowly, a lingering press of lips that tasted like longing and warmth and promises not yet spoken.

“We could go to my place after,” he murmured against her mouth. “No one knows where I live.”

She nodded without hesitation.

“We’re almost done, Sansa—and I’m so proud of you.”

Her throat tightened. “I’m proud of you too. You pushed me to be better.”

“I don’t like being apart from you,” he said simply.

“Good thing my next project’s in London. I’ll get to come home to you every day.”

Jon exhaled, and it sounded like something inside him had just settled. “I like the idea of that. A lot.”

“You disappeared from the soundstage just to come here?” she teased, pulling back slightly to look at him.

“Yes,” he replied, mock-affronted. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes. But in a good way.”

“I love you, you know?” His tone had shifted—bare, stripped of armour.

“I love you too,” she said, the words spilling out like breath. She meant them with every part of herself. “Now go—we have a movie to wrap.”

“I know,” he said with a grin. “We’ll leave after the wrap party, all of us. No one will bother you, I promise.”

She believed him. Somehow, she always did.

“I need to get changed, and the makeup girls probably want to kill me—I look—”

“Breathtaking.”

“You might be a little biased,” she laughed.

Jon shook his head, stepping back toward the door. “Nope. You look absolutely breathtaking.”

She kissed him once more, quick and light, then motioned for him to go. He reached for the door handle, and then—

“We’ll work something out,” she called after him. “I’m not spending weeks without seeing you. I can’t.”

“We will,” he said, turning back. “We can do everything together, Sansa.”

And then he was gone, and her heart beat louder in his absence.

He wanted a future with her as much as she wanted one with him. It wasn’t a surprise—but it was humbling. The sheer hope of it filled her, bright and aching.

Her smile didn’t leave her face as she stepped out of the trailer. She moved quickly toward costume, then makeup, nodding at crew members who passed her with warm familiarity. It was the last time she would wear Alysanne’s costume.

The gown was a masterpiece—black velvet with deep red undertones blooming at the hem and along the bell sleeves like faded fire. The fabric whispered against her skin as they dressed her, cinching the bodice, fixing the drape of her skirt, pinning the silver circlet in her hair one last time.

Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror: Queen Alysanne, proud and commanding.

But inside, she was still thinking of Jon

 


Jorah’s trailer was the closest. Over the course of the shoot, their spaces had become just a matter of semantics. He’d already packed the things in her trailer, and told her he'd started doing the same at the hotel the night before.

Those were the only words between them before the trailer door clicked shut.

Gods, she had missed him—not just in the week since Iceland, but in that slow-burning ache that had started months ago and never really left her.

Daenerys stepped inside, the hush of the trailer wrapping around her like a secret. Outside, the set buzzed with final-day energy—crews moving, voices calling, cameras shifting into place—but in here, none of it mattered. The world felt far away. It was just the two of them. Just Jorah.

She hadn’t seen him in a week, but it felt like longer. The accident. The bruises on her ribs. The relentless pressure pressing down on both of them. But here, in front of him, the tension left her body in a rush. Her heart raced—not from pain, not from fear—but something else. Something clean. Something whole.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He crossed the space and pulled her into his arms, his lips finding hers like a promise.

She kissed him back with hunger, with desperation. She hadn’t realised how much she’d needed this—how much she’d needed him—until this very moment. Every second apart had hollowed her out, and now she wanted to fall into him, to fill herself back in.

His hands were firm and warm on her back, her waist. There was urgency in his touch, yes, but also care. Deliberate. Focused. Months of closeness kept just below the surface now surged forward with nowhere left to hide.

Her hands found his shirt, tugging, her fingers greedy to feel him. Beneath her palms was the body she knew well—the strength of him, the steadiness. All those years of friendship, every whispered confidence, every silent look—they lived in this moment. In the press of mouths and hands and aching hearts.

And just when she thought she’d drown in it, he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer still. The heat of him pressed into her. There was nothing hesitant now. No space between what they were and what they’d become.

She broke the kiss, breathless. For a moment, she just looked at him.

His eyes were dark with want—but not only that. There was softness there too. Something deeper. Something that made her throat tighten.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

His gaze held hers. “I’ve missed you too. More than I thought I could.”

She wanted to tell him more—that she hadn’t just missed his presence, but what it gave her. A sense of self beyond the role, beyond the spotlight. He made her feel seen, real. Not just Anne. Not just the character. Not just the actress.

But there wasn’t time.

So instead, she kissed him again, losing herself in the electricity between them. Letting it speak for her. Letting it be the truth.

His lips moved along her jaw, her neck, and she let out a quiet breath. Her hands slipped to his back, holding him close. For now, it was enough. For now, she could forget everything that waited outside.

Until she couldn’t.

She pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes again. Her heart clenched. “Today,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “It’s really the last day, isn’t it?”

Jorah’s expression softened. He took her hands in his, his thumbs brushing gently over her skin—steady, reassuring.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s the end of Good Queen Alysanne. The end of the story. But it’s also…” he paused, voice thick with meaning, “it’s also the beginning of whatever comes next. We’ll face it together. We always do.”

Emotion swelled in her chest—too big to contain, too complicated to name. She’d held it back for so long. The pressure. The fear. The anticipation of what Margaery’s plan would unleash. But right now, there was only him. And she didn’t have to be strong.

“I just don’t want it to end,” she admitted. Her voice was small. Honest. “Not the film. Not this. Not us.”

It wasn’t just about the movie. It was the sense of doing, of becoming, of being alive and vibrant and seen. She’d fought so hard for this—for a voice, for a place—and now, as the end loomed, everything felt uncertain again.

Jorah reached for her face, his touch gentle, anchoring. His gaze was steady and so full of quiet love it nearly undid her.

“It won’t end,” he said, voice low. “Not us. We may wrap the film today, but you and I? We’re just beginning.”

His promise landed like warmth in her chest, chasing away the shadows.

She nodded, leaning into him, wanting to crawl inside that certainty and stay there. Her hand slid to his chest, fingers brushing the curve of his collarbone.

“I need you,” she said quietly, thick with emotion. “Not just today. Always.”

He bent to kiss her again, and this time the kiss was tender, aching with everything they hadn’t said. It told her that he understood. That he would be there.

They pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, her palm flat against his heart. She felt the rhythm of it—steady, sure.

“We’ll be okay,” she whispered.

“Always,” Jorah replied.

And as always, she believed him.

 


 

Tyrion sat back in his chair, fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the dark wood of his desk, eyes fixed on Jaime. His brother stood by the window, framed in the golden Belfast sunlight, doing a very convincing impression of a marble statue. For the past five minutes, he hadn’t moved a muscle.

Tyrion exhaled slowly. They had just over twenty-four hours before Margaery unleashed hell. He had contingency plans in motion, exit strategies outlined, and favours called in. Still, it felt like a miracle — and he wasn’t one for miracles — that Jaime had finally cut ties with Cersei. It made protecting him easier. Cleaner. Less emotionally messy.

Part of him still couldn’t believe it. But then again, he’d seen Jaime with Brienne when he’d arrived on set. The way they moved together, quiet, measured, honest. Whatever it was, it was real. And Tyrion knew his brother well enough to understand that Jaime didn’t do flings. He didn’t do temporary.

The fact that he had truly walked away from Cersei—from the chaos, the co-dependency, the poison of it all—was nearly unfathomable. Tyrion would love nothing more than to sit him down and pry the whole bloody story from him, but time was in short supply.

He sighed dramatically. "I already have to deal with Snow brooding around like a man carved from existential dread. Show some mercy, brother."

Jaime finally moved, turning slowly to face him, then rolling his eyes. "Why am I here?"

"I was under the impression you were Brienne’s plus one tonight," Tyrion said lightly.

"Don’t be a smartass. I mean here. In your office. Why aren’t you talking?"

"Me? Gods, my life is painfully boring these days. I was more interested in you."

Jaime sighed and closed his eyes briefly. He was pissed. Good.

"Boring is not the word I’d use for your life," Jaime muttered.

Tyrion waved a dismissive hand. "Still more interested in yours."

"I told you."

"Not really. We had a five-minute phone conversation. That hardly counts."

Jaime hissed something under his breath, stepping away from the window to drop into the chair opposite him. His posture was rigid, every inch the soldier forced into a war he didn’t want.

"You never pried before. Don’t start now."

True. Tyrion had always danced around it. It had never been easy to ask Jaime about Cersei. He’d never really wanted to know what Jaime saw in her. He’d always assumed that one day she would rip out Jaime’s heart and stomp on it with one of her outrageously overpriced stilettos.

Never in his wildest dreams—and Tyrion had a vivid imagination—did he imagine Jaime would be the one to walk away.

In a perfect world, this would be good news. Exceptionally good news. Brienne was a good woman. A solid one. She would anchor Jaime in a way no one else ever had.

But they didn’t live in a perfect world. Not even close.

"You said you know what’s happening," Tyrion said carefully.

"Unlike what Cersei likes to believe, I’m not stupid."

"And unlike Cersei, you saw the writing on the wall. Splendid." Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. Gods, he needed a drink. And it was far too early in the day to start.

Jaime shook his head, his voice quieter now. "I think she knows. I think she’s scared. And she’s dangerous when she’s scared."

Tyrion nodded grimly. Jaime was right. Cersei at her most dangerous was when she felt cornered. He hoped Margaery and the Starks knew what they were doing.

Jaime ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. "Do you think this is easy? I’ve been tangled in her mess for years, Tyrion. She doesn’t just let go."

Tyrion met his brother’s gaze, steady and calm. His voice softened but held firm. "I know. But you’re not tangled anymore, Jaime. You’re standing at the edge. You can keep running back to her, or you can make a choice. A real one. For yourself."

Jaime didn’t answer immediately. He stood again, stared at the carpet, then back at Tyrion, his expression conflicted. "It’s not that simple."

"It never is," Tyrion said, leaning forward. "But the longer you delay, the more people get hurt. You can’t sit on the fence forever."

Something flickered in Jaime’s eyes. A flicker of pain. Of understanding.

"Fine," he said at last. His voice was tight. "I’m done with her. But don’t think I’m doing this for you. I’m doing it for me. For Brienne. She’s the only one who’s ever really seen me. And I’m tired of being that guy."

Tyrion’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Good enough. I’m not asking you to do it for me. I’m asking you to save yourself. To stop being her pawn. To stop helping her burn everything down."

Jaime rolled his eyes. There was no humour in it. "I’m not here to save anyone. Cersei wants to destroy everything? Let her try. I’m not the one holding the matches this time."

Tyrion’s tone sharpened. "You’re already in this, Jaime. Whether you like it or not. Margaery is about to light the fuse, and we don’t have the luxury of waiting. If you’ve really cut ties, prove it. Stand with me. Or get out of the way. The fallout’s coming, and you’re either with me or you’re not."

Jaime’s eyes softened, just for a moment. He nodded slowly. "Alright. I’m with you. But don’t expect me to be your bloody hero. I’m not that man, and you know it."

Tyrion smirked. "I’m counting on it."

He exhaled as Jaime turned toward the door.

"I suppose you have a plan, don’t you?" Jaime asked, hand on the handle.

Tyrion gave a dry laugh. "Always."

Jaime nodded once. "I’m in."

The door clicked shut behind him. Tyrion leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temple.

"One more piece in place," he muttered. But relief didn’t come.

Tomorrow was the beginning of the end.

And there was still too much left to do.

 


Of course, their most complicated scene had been pushed to the last day of filming.

They were supposed to shoot it earlier, and she knew it wasn’t Jon’s fault—but it still felt like the universe had conspired to leave it for last. Like the film couldn’t end until she bled everything out of herself.

And if she had to be honest, perhaps it was right. For all the insane talk about awards she had read about for the past week, she agreed with those who said Jorah deserved recognition and awards, all the awards, for his work on Good Queen Alysanne. He was transfixing, and she knew she would never be that lucky again, to have such a generous partner on scene.  

The set was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that felt like reverence. People moved softer. Voices stayed low. The crew was already dismantling around the edges—stacks of props, labelled boxes, partial walls fading like memories.

Jorah had wrapped his half of the scene ages ago. Now it was her turn.

She stepped onto the soundstage, her breath catching in her throat. It looked exactly like it always had—Anne’s study, lit golden and warm—but it felt different now. Fragile. Final.

She was already in costume—Anne’s costume: just dark jeans, worn boots, a soft jumper under a well-loved coat. Clothes that had meant nothing at the start of filming and now felt heavy with memory, steeped in every scene they’d lived through.

Jorah sat already in position, in costume, calm but unreadable. His stillness grounded her. Or maybe it haunted her.

Jon gave her a nod from behind the monitor, his voice steady.

“Sound?”

“Speed.”

“Camera?”

“Rolling.”

Jon’s voice: “And... action.”


Anne entered the room slowly, each step deliberate. Her hands were tucked in her coat pockets, her face composed, but there was a tremor beneath the stillness. Her breath came shallowly, as though she were afraid to disturb the air.

Reid didn’t look up from the desk.

“You said you wouldn’t come back,” he said.

Anne paused, her eyes scanning the room as though committing it to memory. “You said you’d leave the light on.”

“I did.”

She stepped forward and placed a folded letter on the desk. Her hand lingered there for a second longer than it needed to, fingers brushing the grain of the wood.

“This was never going to end quietly,” she said, voice low.

Reid finally lifted his eyes to her. They were dark, tired. Full of everything he hadn’t said. His shoulders remained tense, but there was something fractured beneath the surface.

“Neither of us was made for quiet things.”

A beat passed, stretching long.

“I loved you,” she said.

His voice was quiet. “I know.”

Silence again. Not awkward. Just final.

“Cut.”


For a moment, Daenerys didn’t move.

The air seemed suspended—like the scene hadn’t actually ended, like maybe the world didn’t know how to go on without them.

Then came the applause. Loud. Sincere. Thunderous. It echoed through the soundstage like a wave crashing over them.

Jorah looked over at her. She looked back.

Neither of them smiled, not yet.

Jon stepped forward, clapping as he crossed the set. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s a wrap on Good Queen Alysanne.”

The crew cheered. Someone popped a bottle of champagne in the background. But Daenerys barely registered it.

She sat down on the edge of the desk, her breath still uneven. The soft knit of her jumper was damp at the collar from tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed during the take. Her fingers curled over the edge of the desk, grounding herself.

Jorah moved beside her without a word, lowering himself onto the desk next to her.

They didn’t speak.

Daenerys leaned against him, her head finding the curve of his shoulder like it had always belonged there. Her eyes shimmered, unshed tears catching the light.

Jorah turned his head toward her—not dramatic, not posed, just quietly present. Watching her.

Click.

The sound was soft. A crew photographer, moving discreetly, captured the moment before anyone could stage it.

Anne and Reid.

Still in costume.

Still in character.

Or maybe not.

Her head on his shoulder. His gaze turned toward her, steady and tender. Her lashes wet. Her expression unreadable—except to anyone who’d ever felt something ending and beginning at the same time.

The photo would be posted on the production’s official account an hour later.

Within minutes, it would be everywhere.


The applause from the final take still echoed in the rafters, but already the crew was in motion—hugging, packing, calling out for celebratory drinks. A current of joy and exhaustion buzzed through the soundstage like static electricity. People were crying and laughing at once, collapsing into each other with the kind of relief only months of shared hardship could earn.

Daenerys stood with Jorah a moment longer before they were swept into their respective corners—wardrobe calling for final costume returns, makeup artists clinging to them like mothers sending their children off to war. Everything moved quickly after the last “cut,” as if time itself had been waiting for permission to surge forward.

Near the edge of the stage, Tyrion stood nursing a paper cup of something that smelled suspiciously celebratory. His tie hung loose around his neck, his shirt half-untucked, and his hair looked like it had lost a battle with gravity hours ago. He caught Jon’s eye and gave him a look—the kind that said, You’d better not make me do this alone.

Jon stepped forward first, brushing dust off his jacket. He wasn’t one for speeches. Everyone knew that. But he raised his hands slightly, and just like that, the room quieted.

He looked out at the crowd—crew, cast, extras, department heads. People who had endured frostbite-level cold and fifteen-hour shoot days. People who had held this story in their hands like something sacred.

“You know I’m not good at this,” Jon began, and someone from props let out a fond groan.

“But we did something here. We told a story worth telling. You gave this everything—your time, your talent, your sanity.” He paused. “We made something good. And I’ll never stop being grateful for that.”

The applause was soft, but real.

Sansa stood near the back of the crowd, arms folded loosely. The edges of her costume coat still clung to her shoulders, though her wig had come off hours ago. She hadn’t changed. Something about letting go of Alysanne still felt impossible—like taking off her costume would tear away something she wasn’t ready to lose.

She watched Jon from across the room—the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he looked utterly stunned by the affection being offered. He wasn’t built for attention. He never had been.

But he was the heart of this film, whether he saw it or not.

She smiled. Quietly. Like it was just for him.

He caught her gaze, just briefly. His face softened—something between gratitude and something deeper. Something older.

Neither of them said a word.

But they didn’t have to.

Jon stepped back from the riser, visibly relieved to have survived his speech without falling off the stage or choking on his own tongue.

Tyrion took his place like a man stepping into a bar fight he had been born to win.

“I hope you all appreciated that moment of gruff vulnerability from our fearless director,” Tyrion began, swirling the contents of his cup. “He’s been brooding about that speech for three weeks.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“I won’t keep you long. You’ve all earned your drinks, your sleep, and therapy. Possibly in that order.”

A few hoots from the back.

“But before we disappear into our respective caves and cry into our tax returns, I want to say something... marginally sincere.”

He paused. The shift in tone was subtle—not soft, but grounded.

“This was hell. Let’s not lie about it. Iceland tried to kill Daenerys and Sansa. Belfast drenched us. Our shooting schedule offended God. Half of you haven’t seen your families in three months, and the other half have started confusing your co-stars for them.”

Chuckles. Nods. A few groans of agreement.

“But we made something that matters.”

A hush fell. Not dramatic. Just present.

“And that doesn’t happen often in this business. So today, I want to raise a metaphorical glass to the people who made Good Queen Alysanne more than a movie.”

He lifted his drink, hand steady.

“To Jon—our reluctant captain, who somehow held the line through all of it, even when he was running on caffeine and misplaced hope.”

Applause.

“To Sansa—who gave us a Queen worth following, with more grace and grit than any script could contain.”

More applause. Someone whistled.

“To Daenerys and Jorah—who broke all of us just a little with that final scene, and reminded everyone what heartbreak is supposed to feel like.”

A few quiet cheers. Someone from sound muttered, “Still not over it.”

“To Daario, who carried this movie with grace, swagger and humour”

“To Davos, Brienne, Beric, Thoros, and every single soul who stepped into this story and bled for it.”

“And to the crew—the silent army. The ones who didn’t get the applause but earned it every single goddamn day. You made the impossible feel inevitable.”

He paused for just a second longer.

“And yes, even to me. Because let’s face it—someone had to yell at the executives.”

Laughter again. Bigger this time.

Tyrion tipped his cup.

“We did something rare. Something good. And for all my cynicism—and gods know there’s enough of it—I’ll never stop being proud of what we made.”

He looked around—at faces he’d come to trust, admire, even love. People who had surprised him, challenged him, annoyed him, amazed him.

“To Good Queen Alysanne,” he said. “Long may she reign.”

The room erupted. Glasses raised. Cheers rang out like battle cries.

And for one breathless moment, they were all just people—standing at the end of something beautiful.


 

The venue was elegant without being showy—warm lighting spilling across dark wooden floors, low tables tucked between soft leather sofas, scattered vases filled with white lilies and burnt orange roses. Outside, Belfast was cold and grey, the kind of damp chill that curled under coats and clung to bones, but inside it was all laughter and the hum of tired triumph.

The last scene had been filmed. Good Queen Alysanne was finished.

Tyrion stood near the drinks table, watching the party unfold like it was a stage he’d written but forgotten the ending to. He took a slow sip from his whisky, the smoky burn a comfort he barely registered anymore, eyes scanning the room with the weariness of someone who’d lived too many lives in a single production.

Jon was already being cornered by someone from lighting, nodding politely, his hair still damp from a hasty shower. Daenerys and Jorah were near the fireplace, still in partial costume—her in Anne's faded jumper, him in Reid's worn boots and undershirt—too emotionally rung out to change. They stood close but didn’t touch, their silence charged with something sacred.

Sansa—gods, she looked like the weight of it had finally caught up to her, yet she carried it like a queen. Her red hair was swept back, a tailored navy coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, her posture straight despite the exhaustion etched into the corners of her eyes.

Daario was already drunk. Brienne was not, but she stood beside him like she might catch him if he tried anything stupid. Jaime hovered nearby, silent, hands in his pockets. Tyrion would deal with that later.

And then Baelish walked in.

Tyrion saw it immediately—the brief hush, the way heads turned and shoulders subtly stiffened. Baelish, ever the strategist, had dressed just right: smart-casual, forgettable. Charcoal blazer over a black jumper, grey jeans. Nothing to draw attention. But his eyes scanned the room like he still thought he could own it.

No one went to greet him. No one pulled him into a photo. Oberyn gave him a look that could have peeled paint off the walls.

Baelish lingered near the bar. Waited. Sipped. Then left.

Someone said, “Well, that was fast.”

Someone else replied, “So’s karma.”

Tyrion smiled into his glass.


Later, when the room was soft with wine and people were leaning into one another with that peculiar closeness that only came from making something hard together, Tyrion stepped onto the low riser near the band. He clinked his glass with a fork.

Jon groaned under his breath.

“Don’t worry,” Tyrion said. “This one’s short. Mostly.”

A ripple of laughter.

He raised his glass. “To the mad, frozen, beautiful mess we all threw ourselves into. To the sleepless nights and the blown takes and the scenes that left us hollow. To Good Queen Alysanne.”

Applause.

“And to the people who made it matter,” he added. “To Jon, who directed like a man on fire. Sansa, who gave us a Queen who burns from the inside out. Daenerys and Jorah—who broke us, gently, and then put us back together. To Daario and Davos and Brienne and the crew who worked harder than any of us and smiled anyway.”

“And...” He reached behind the riser and held up a stack of small black boxes. “To the founding members of Team GQA.”

Each box had a hidden engraving: original member of Team GQA—discreet, elegant, tucked under a hinge or along the underside.

Tyrion handed them out himself.

To Jon, a compass on a chain. “So you don’t lose yourself. Even when everyone’s asking you to.” Jon said nothing, just gripped the chain tightly and nodded, jaw tense with unshed emotion.

To Sansa, a slim silver pen with a sharp tip. “For writing your own ending. And for stabbing idiots in the eye if need be.” She smiled—small, real—and ran her thumb over the engraving.

To Jorah, a dark leather-bound notebook with an old brass clasp. “To keep the parts of you that don't make it onto the screen.” Jorah murmured something about needing a second volume, eyes glinting with dry humour.

To Daenerys, a slender ring engraved with Gaelic script on the inside. When she turned it, she found a second inscription: founding member of Team GQA. Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t speak, but she hugged Tyrion, hard and quiet, and that was enough.

The lights dimmed halfway through the party, just as Tyrion was finishing his second drink and Brienne had finally coaxed Daario into sitting down. The music softened to a lazy piano jazz, and the whirr of a projector came from the back of the room, incongruous against the low murmur of laughter.

Jon tensed. He wasn’t drunk enough for surprises.

Sansa, by the bar with a glass of wine gone warm in her hand, tilted her head. “Was that planned?”

“No,” Tyrion replied, frowning. “But I’m too tired to stop it.”

A soft clearing of the throat drew their attention. Near the AV table, red-faced and sheepish, stood Samwell Tarly. He adjusted his glasses, blinking behind them. “I hope no one minds. I... edited something.”

The screen flickered, hissed—and snapped into focus.

The first image was pure chaos: Sansa in full costume on a wind-blasted clifftop, Alysanne’s cloak whipping violently across her face as she tried—once, twice, a third time—to deliver her final line. Finally, she broke character, deadpan to camera: “I want this scene buried with me.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

Then Daenerys appeared beside her, puffed up in three layers of thermals, the bulky coat sitting awkwardly on her small frame. “I can’t feel my face.”

“Good,” Sansa said on screen. “It matches the tone of the scene.”

Another round of laughter—louder this time.

Then came Jon, bundled in mismatched gloves and two scarves, trying to direct through the wind. “Can we reset that? Sorry. Sorry—one more for safety.”

He said it five times in a row. The audio was merciless.

Brienne showed up next, soaked to the knees and practically vibrating with frustration as she barked into her headset: “No, the extras are not allowed to eat the fake snow. I don’t care if it looks real.”

And Jorah—exhausted, frozen, forgetting his line entirely. He paused, blinked, and sighed: “It’s gone. Anne took it with her.”

Offscreen, Daenerys’ voice: “Maybe if you kissed her properly you’d remember.”

The laughter this time was helpless, rolling and bright.

But the tone shifted.

The footage slowed. The music softened. The images took on a different texture—gentler, more reverent. A wide shot of the Icelandic set under twilight, the snow-crusted hills lit pink and blue as the crew packed up around it. Daenerys and Sansa wrapped in blankets, in Scotland, silent. Jorah standing just outside frame, cradling two cups of coffee, steam rising in ghostly tendrils.

Jon, on a Scottish moor, crouched by the monitor, passing out hand warmers like relics. Tyrion, arms folded as he watched a playback, a rare look of quiet pride on his face—no smirk, just stillness.

The final image lingered.

Sansa and Daenerys stood on a ridge, backs to the camera, shoulders nearly touching. Below them, the set was being dismantled—timber hauled, lighting rigs lowered, banners torn down by careful hands. Everything they had built was disappearing. And yet they stayed.

Over it, simple white text appeared:

They carried it across ice.
I cut it together.
And I’ll remember it all.

Samwell Tarly, Editor

Silence.

Then Tyrion raised his glass. “To Sam. Who made us all look better than we are.”

Applause broke like a wave.

Sam tried to vanish behind the AV table. It didn’t work. Daenerys crossed the room and kissed his cheek. Sansa hugged him without saying a word. Jon clasped his shoulder and squeezed once, firm and wordless.

Sam went back to his laptop, still visibly pink.


Sansa was tired. The kind of tired that clung to the marrow, that no drink or cheer could shift. The party pulsed around her—dimmed now, laced with wine and relief, heavy with the strange euphoria of things ending. People were hugging. Crying. Someone danced barefoot across an antique rug like it was the last night on Earth.

She found herself at the drinks table again. Instinct or avoidance, she wasn’t sure. The glass in her hand held water now. It remained untouched.

She heard him before she saw him—his footsteps slower than usual, more careful, like each one had been considered. Jaime Lannister.

He stopped beside her, didn’t try to catch her eye. Didn’t speak at first. He stood like he belonged there, like his presence didn’t need permission. That was somehow worse.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” she said, not looking at him.

“Neither was I,” he replied. “Brienne insisted. Said I had unfinished business.”

“And you always do as you’re told?”

A faint huff. “You’d be surprised.”

They stood in silence. The party swelled, contracted. Somewhere, someone cheered over a bottle popping.

“If it would change anything,” Jaime said at last, voice low and stripped of charm, “I’d say I’m sorry.”

She waited.

“But it wouldn’t,” he continued. “So instead—I’ll say I regret it. All of it. I wish I had been better. I can’t rewrite the past. But I’m trying to be someone who doesn’t need forgiveness to do the right thing.”

Sansa’s fingers curled slightly around the stem of her glass. She still didn’t look at him.

Instead, she reached behind the wine bottles, found a bottle of scotch—single malt, dark gold, sharp on the nose—and poured it with a steady hand.

She handed it to him.

He took it without a word.

“You remembered,” he said softly.

“I remember everything,” she murmured.

And she did.

She didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect it.

He stayed beside her a while longer, the silence not comfortable but not hostile either.

“I saw that scene,” he said eventually. “You and Daenerys in the snow. Iceland suited you.”

She gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “It tried to kill us.”

“But you survived it.”

She finally looked up. “We always do.”

He nodded. His shoulders sank just a fraction, as though exhaling something that had weighed on him longer than he realised.

He turned to leave, then paused.

“If you ever need me,” he said, “for anything—I’ll come.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “But thank you.”

And that, somehow, was more forgiving than anything else she could have said.

He took a sip of the scotch and winced. “Still as brutal as I remember.”

“That’s the point,” she said.

And, unexpectedly, he smiled. Just a little.

She smiled back—reflexive. Quiet.

Click.

A camera flash somewhere across the room. Someone snapped the moment. Just one frame in a hundred, but this one would spread—misunderstood, over-analysed, meme’d with “weirdcest” or “sparks” or whatever the internet decided.

None of it would be true. None of it would matter.

For one flicker of a second, they stood there. Not enemies. Not absolved. Just two people who had burned each other and lived through it.

Then Jaime nodded once and walked away.

Sansa stayed.

One hand on the table, one still around her glass. The moment passed. The music rose again.

But for a breath, the world was quiet.


Tyrion Lannister leaned against the bar and watched the London skyline flicker like a dying circuit board. The wrap party was in full swing above the studio's makeshift rooftop terrace, but he felt like the only sober person in a sea of pleasant oblivion.

Which was ironic, given he was definitely not sober.

He swirled the whisky in his glass and exhaled. There was champagne. Laughter. A poorly chosen playlist that Oberyn had commandeered and turned into an impromptu salsa corner. Post-production loomed, stress levels were quietly skyrocketing—but tonight, for a fleeting moment, everyone was pretending.

Tyrion wasn’t pretending.

He turned slightly and found them again—Jaime and Brienne, standing under the heaters near the back. Jaime still wore the stiffness of a man not used to being anywhere without a courtroom or a crisis. His shirt was neatly pressed, his hair too tame for the occasion. Brienne, by contrast, looked exactly like herself: practical jumper, sharp eyes, and a force field of dignity that made even Oberyn keep a respectful radius.

They were speaking in low voices. Tyrion couldn’t hear them, but he didn’t need to. The way Jaime shifted his weight, the way Brienne tilted her head, arms crossed but not cold—Tyrion had seen enough body language over the years to read this scene like a script.

“You fool,” he muttered into his drink. “You’ve had good women look at you before, but this one sees you. Poor bastard.”

He watched as Jaime hesitated, then said something that made Brienne—gods be good—smile. Not just politely. Genuinely.

And Jaime… he smiled back.

Tyrion nearly choked on his whisky.

It had been a brutal few months. The Lannister name was already dragging a stench behind it in certain circles, even if the big scandal hadn’t broken yet. Jaime had grown quieter, more thoughtful. Less combative. He hadn’t said it outright, but Tyrion knew he was preparing himself. Choosing where he stood before the flood came.

And Brienne?

She was the kind of person who made you want to stand somewhere better.

Tyrion drained his glass and set it down harder than necessary. “Well,” he said to no one in particular. “If this all goes to hell, at least one of us might still have a soul.”

He watched them a moment longer, then turned toward the drinks table, muttering, “To redemption arcs in slow motion. May they end faster than our lawyers’ bills.”

He didn’t see them touch. They didn’t need to. What passed between them was quieter, subtler. A shifting of gravity.

And for the first time in weeks, Tyrion felt something beneath the exhaustion.

Hope.


The room was quieter now. Not empty—just… hushed.

That particular hush that follows a storm, the kind that settles over worn hearts and full glasses, when voices fall not out of restraint but of reverence.

It was a smaller lounge tucked behind the venue, one of those half-forgotten VIP rooms that seemed to exist in permanent twilight. The walls were paneled in walnut, the lighting dim, softened further by the flicker of a low fire that hissed occasionally but gave off little warmth. Mostly decorative, like the scatter of antique books on the shelves, unread and irrelevant. The scent of old leather mingled with champagne and smoke, a heady mix of celebration and exhaustion. Someone—probably Brienne—had dragged in a silver tray from the main bar, heavy with cut-crystal tumblers, half-finished bottles of whisky, and a forgotten flute of flat Veuve Clicquot.

The door had shut behind them with an unspoken understanding: just them. Just this moment.
No press. No crew. No interviews.
No expectations.
Only the people who had built Good Queen Alysanne from the inside out, now gathered in a loose circle like co-conspirators waiting for the final seal to dry.

Jon sat on the floor, his back resting against the edge of the leather sofa, legs stretched long and careless, boots crossed at the ankle. He cradled a glass in both hands, the rim catching the firelight like a half-kept promise. Sansa was beside him, knees drawn up, the deep blue hem of her costume coat tucked neatly beneath her thighs. The wool was lined in silk, a rich weight she hadn’t yet changed out of, as though removing it would make the moment too real. Their shoulders touched—barely—but neither pulled away. Not anymore.

Daenerys and Jorah had claimed the armchair by the fireplace. She was curled in his lap, cross-legged, as if there had never been a world where that wasn't her place. Her platinum hair had come undone, loose waves cascading over her shoulders, catching the firelight like silver thread. She wore a thin white slip, wrinkled from wear, and a ring—her ring—twisted slowly between her fingers, absently turned and turned again. Jorah held her in silence, his arms wrapped around her waist with the quiet solidity of a man who had finally arrived. He didn’t need to speak. He was here.

Tyrion had made a throne of the low coffee table, drink in hand, his black suit creased at the elbows and his shirt half-untucked. His tie had vanished somewhere hours ago. Brienne leaned against a bookshelf behind him, tall and steady, her buttoned waistcoat still on, though her cheeks were flushed with whisky. Even at rest, she looked like she was bracing for something—always ready. Jaime stood beside her, jacket folded over one shoulder, white shirt rolled up to the forearms, his face shadowed and drawn but calmer than it had been in days. There was a clarity in him now, faint but real.

Oberyn was sprawled in a velvet armchair in the corner, one boot propped up, fingers idly scrolling his phone. His rings glittered as he moved, catching fragments of firelight. He hadn’t said much—but he was watching. Always watching.

Bronn lounged sideways in another chair, one leg thrown over the arm, holding a mini quiche with dramatic flair. “Please photograph this for posterity,” he muttered around a mouthful of pastry, crumbs dusting his lap like gold flakes.

And someone did.
Daario, three drinks in and quiet until then, leaned forward from a nearby armrest with his phone already up. “Smile, losers,” he said, tone fond and slurred at the edges.

Click.
The shutter snapped mid-moment. Tyrion mid-swig, brows arched. Sansa caught with a crooked smirk. Jon blinking like he’d just woken from a dream. Daenerys looking down at Jorah, her smile soft, private. Brienne’s lips barely curved. Jaime not smiling at all—but present. Solid. Real.

“Gods, we look tired,” Bronn muttered.

“We are tired,” Sansa replied, her voice low, and warm.

“But it’s a good tired,” Daenerys added, nestling closer into Jorah’s arms.

Daario took another shot. This time they were ready—arms around shoulders, Brienne ducking her head, Tyrion raising his glass in mock victory. Even Jaime smiled, faint and fleeting.

The phone was passed to Oberyn, who peered down and drawled, “Oh no, if I’m taking it, I want something dramatic.”

And so they rearranged.
Jon and Sansa perched on the arm of the sofa, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, fingers curled just so. Daenerys curled into Jorah’s chest, her cheek pressed to his heart. Tyrion crouched in front, holding the phone at arm’s length for a wide-angled selfie. Brienne and Jaime stood behind them, side by side—tall, solemn, almost regal. The world’s most mismatched sentries.

Click.

The photo would go up the next morning. The internet would lose its collective mind.
#TeamGQA trending for twelve hours.
Fans zooming in on every expression.
Theories exploding over Jon and Sansa’s almost-touching hands.
Edits. Reactions. Unhinged joy.

But tonight—tonight wasn’t for any of that.
Tonight, they were just a group of people who had survived something hard together. Something beautiful. Something brutal.
And lived to tell the story.

There was a moment—barely a breath—when no one spoke.
The fire crackled softly. The glass in Tyrion’s hand caught the glow and shivered. He looked into it like it held some terrible truth. Sansa leaned her head gently against Jon’s shoulder. Brienne finally sat down, the leather sighing beneath her. Daenerys reached across Jorah’s chest, found his hand, and laced her fingers through his. He tightened his grip without a word.

Tyrion broke the silence, as he always did.
“So. What now?”

A pause.
Jon shrugged, voice low. “Sleep.”

“Disappear,” Sansa said, her lips brushing the word.

“Rejoin the world,” Daenerys added, softer still.

Jorah glanced at her and murmured, “Maybe.”

“Start again,” Jaime offered. His voice didn’t shake.

“Burn it all down,” Oberyn said lazily. “In spirit, if not in law.”

And that—at last—got a laugh. A real one. From all of them.

They didn’t toast again. They didn’t need to. The toasts had already been made, the words already said.

Eventually, the goodbyes began.
Bronn was first—he’d apparently found another party across town and declared, with drunken solemnity, that his presence was required.

Brienne and Jaime slipped out next. She offered Daenerys a tight, warrior’s hug; squeezed Sansa’s hand with surprising tenderness; clapped Jon’s shoulder with the kind of fondness that didn’t need words.
Jaime looked at Tyrion, held his gaze, and said only, “Don’t mess it up.”
Tyrion saluted with his glass, solemn as a knight.

Daenerys rose next, stretching with the languid grace of someone who’d danced through fire and come out whole. She hugged Sansa—tight, real—and whispered something into her ear that made Sansa blink, once, twice, and nod.
Then she kissed Jon’s cheek, lingered. Hugged Tyrion hard. And left, her fingers woven with Jorah’s, their steps a perfect rhythm.

Oberyn vanished at some point during a lull, like smoke slipping beneath a door. No one saw him go.

And then, only three remained.
Jon. Sansa. Tyrion.

Jon stood, slow and loose-limbed, and extended a hand. Sansa took it without hesitation.

Tyrion looked up at them from his perch on the table, glass nearly empty. “You two better not disappear entirely.”

Jon smirked. “Only for a little while.”

Tyrion raised one brow. “Be careful. If you go too quiet, I’ll assume you’re married.”

Sansa smiled—not coy, not teasing. Just warm. “Would that be so bad?”

Tyrion blinked. “Gods, you really have gone soft.”

They all laughed.

Then Sansa leaned down and hugged him. Quick. Sincere. One arm around his shoulders, one hand at his back.
“Thank you,” she said.

Tyrion nodded, and swallowed hard. “You made her real.”

She drew back. Jon shook his hand, firm and wordless.

Nothing else needed to be said.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Tyrion sat alone in the silence, watching the fire dwindle to embers.

The last time.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

There was still time for one more memory.


Tyrion didn’t hear them at first.

He was still sitting by the fire, hunched slightly forward, elbows on knees, the room half-empty now—ghosted with memory, thick with the afterglow of too many stories left unsaid. Scattered glasses, lipstick-smeared flutes, and crumpled napkins lay abandoned like offerings at a shrine. The fire had burned low, more glow than flame now, and the room held that late-night warmth that wasn’t heat at all, just residue. The kind that lingered.

The door eased open behind him with a soft, deliberate sound. He didn’t turn. Probably someone retrieving a coat. Maybe Brienne again, double-checking no one had set anything ablaze or passed out with their head in a candle.

Then he heard the footsteps.

Four sets. Familiar. Distinct.

Measured, quiet. Unmistakable.

He turned his head, and for a moment, time folded in on itself.

Jon. Sansa. Daenerys. Jorah.

Still in their wrap party clothes, but somehow transfigured now—like time had paused for them, like something sacred was about to be said and the world knew better than to interrupt. They looked impossibly tired, but still carried themselves with the kind of gravity you couldn’t rehearse. Which meant they hadn’t.

Sansa stepped forward first.

Her hair was loose now, the copper strands gleaming softly in the firelight, falling past her shoulders in perfect, unstudied waves. Her wrap coat, a dove-grey wool with embroidery so fine it looked like frost, was slung over one arm. She wore a simple cream blouse tucked into navy trousers, elegant but unassuming. Her expression was composed—carefully so—but her eyes held something deeper. Purpose. Kindness. Nerves, maybe, though she hid them well.

In her hands, she carried a small box. Mahogany, polished to a mirror sheen, its corners rounded, the grain dark and smooth. The kind of box that whispered wealth without ever needing to raise its voice.

“We wanted to give you something,” she said.

Tyrion blinked. “If it’s a bottle of wine, I may actually cry.”

Jon smiled faintly. His white shirt was slightly rumpled now, collar open, sleeves rolled to the forearms. He looked like he hadn’t moved from the moment he left the room—but there was a gentleness around his mouth, a calmness in his eyes. “It’s not wine.”

Jorah, ever the quiet support, added with a tilt of his head, “Though that was my first suggestion.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her voice low and even, the kind of soft that carried weight. “You don’t get to leave tonight without knowing what you meant to us. To this.”

Her dress shimmered subtly in the dim light—silver silk, cut clean and sleeveless, falling just past her knees. She looked radiant, otherworldly, but grounded now in something more human. The firelight played off the edges of her expression as she looked at him, open and sincere.

Sansa held out the box.

Tyrion hesitated.

He could already feel the lump forming in his throat, and he was not nearly drunk enough for this. His fingers closed around the box with more care than he meant to show. It was heavier than expected. Cool to the touch.

He opened it.

The pocket watch inside caught the firelight instantly, a gleam of silver and steel so clean it looked like it had been forged from memory itself. Handcrafted. Substantial. The kind of object that demanded reverence just by existing. The crest on the lid was exquisite—Good Queen Alysanne’s sigil, rendered in fine detail: a crowned dragon and a winged woman, standing back to back beneath a single torch raised high. Silver against brushed steel. Power and grace in one perfect etching.

He ran his thumb over the lid, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe, and flicked it open.

Inside the lid, the engraving was clean and unpretentious:

Original Founding Member
And Heart of Team GQA

And there—carved into the inner curve beneath the watch face, so subtle it almost wasn’t there—

“The weight was never yours alone.”

Tyrion stared at it.

The fire crackled.

Nobody spoke.

He shut the lid gently, like it was something alive. Something that might break if handled too roughly.

“I don’t…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to,” Sansa said softly.

“You carried all of us,” Daenerys added, her voice like a balm. “Through every disaster. Every fight. Every delay. Every impossible day.”

Jorah nodded, arms folded, his posture as solid as his gaze. “You never asked for credit. So we’re giving it.”

Jon said nothing. He didn’t need to. His presence said it all. When Tyrion looked up, Jon met his eyes, steady and unflinching.

“You were the reason this didn’t fall apart,” Jon said, voice low, almost intimate. “You’re the reason it became what it is.”

Tyrion blinked again. Too fast.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I hate being sincere. It makes my skin itch.”

Daenerys smiled. “Too bad. You’re stuck with it.”

They laughed—quiet, warm, worn around the edges like an old song you never skip.

And then came the embraces.

Jon, first. Solid and wordless, the kind of hug that said everything he couldn’t.
Sansa next—her arms wrapped around him tighter than he expected. She smelled like lavender and winter air. She held on a moment longer than necessary, and he let her.
Jorah clasped his shoulder like a brother in arms. “Always on our side,” he said, quiet and firm.
Daenerys pulled him into her arms without hesitation. No preamble. No formality. She held him like she meant it, and whispered into his ear, “Thank you for believing in me.”

And then they were gone.

The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound.

And the room—gods, the room felt colder now. As if they'd taken the firelight with them.

Tyrion sat back down, lowering himself with a slow exhale. Alone again, save for the embers glowing faint and low.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the watch.

Turned it over in his hand. The metal was cool through the fabric of his palm. Solid. Grounding. Like the weight of a truth finally spoken.

He didn’t open it this time.

He didn’t need to.
He already knew what it said.

He reached for his phone, the screen lighting up the shadows around him. Opened the message thread with Margaery. It had gone quiet since earlier—she was still in Belfast, deep in the trenches, orchestrating chaos with that terrifying grace of hers. Always three steps ahead.

He typed. Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Everyone’s leaving.
It’s your move now.

He stared at the words for a moment.

Then hit send.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

The fire was down to embers now. Shadows flickered across the floor—long and fading, like ghosts of the night, dancing one last time.

Tyrion leaned back in the chair, the watch still in his hand, and closed his eyes.

Just for a little while longer.


 Oscar Nominations Day

 

The internet, of course, lost its mind.

It started with a single photo.

Posted by the official production account in the early hours of the morning: the cast of Good Queen Alysanne, in that back lounge, wrapped in warmth and exhaustion. Sansa and Jon seated shoulder to shoulder. Daenerys curled into Jorah’s lap. Tyrion in the centre, smirking faintly. Jaime and Brienne at the back, looking like they belonged to an entirely different genre.

The caption was simple:

"Team GQA. That’s a wrap. Long may she reign."

It took twenty minutes to trend.

#TeamGQA
#JonandSansa
#Jornaerys
#BrienneDeservesHerOwnMovie
#QueenOfTheSeason
#GiveThemEverything

 

@cinemagic_haven:

I'm sorry but if Jon Snow and Sansa Stark aren’t dating in real life I will eat my laptop. LOOK at this photo. LOOK AT THEM.

 

@DanniOnFilm:

Daenerys Stormborn casually sitting on Jorah’s lap in a wrap party photo like she hasn’t just destroyed my will to live with that final scene. I’m feral.

 

@Starkdefender23:

It’s the way Jon looks at her. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to ship actors. I just want to live in the pocket of space between them in that photo.

 

@baelishblocked:

Nobody speak to me until GQA sweeps the nominations next year. Sansa for Best Actress. Daenerys for Supporting. Jon for Director. Tyrion for fixing cinema.

 

@filmcutjunkie:

I just rewatched Sam Tarly’s goodbye montage from the wrap party and now I’m crying into a bagel. AGAIN. Those two in the snow. That final ridge shot. What the hell, man.

 

@theBelfastBatch:

The still of Sansa and Daenerys watching the set being dismantled is already on my lockscreen and I haven’t even seen the damn film yet.

 

@thatguyedits:

No joke, Good Queen Alysanne is going to be the Black Swan meets The King's Speech moment of next season. Just wait. Jon Snow made art in Icelandic hell.

 

 

@AlysanneUnscripted:

People really out here pretending that wasn’t the most emotionally violent wrap montage in years. I’m going to sue Samwell Tarly for emotional damage.

 

@emmyseasonbloodbath:

Daenerys Stormborn, we will get you that gold statue. I don’t care if I have to fight every nepotism baby in Hollywood to make it happen.

 

@rhaegos_mum:

The way Daenerys looked at Jorah in that photo? You can’t act that. I am ascending. Again.

 

@DirectorSnow:

How do we nominate a man for Best Director, Best Therapist, and Best Human Disaster at the same time? Asking for Jon.

 

@bastardforhire:

No thoughts, just Sansa wrapped in Jon’s coat after the final take. The way he’s not even looking at her in the photo but you can feel it.

 

@fanaccount_shambles:

It’s 4am and I’m crying because this is the last time they’ll all be in the same room. What do you MEAN the wrap photo is canon now?

@JoffreysRevenge:
not y’all romanticising sansa and jaime now?? 💀 that girl really can’t stand on her own unless there’s a lannister next to her huh

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:
you mean she can’t stand on her own like Joffrey riding his entire award campaign on one fake-cry monologue? okay.

 

@GoldandCrimson:
sansa in that photo looks like she’s flirting with her ex’s uncle while his movie’s in the running. messy queen 💋

 

@snowismyfire:
she literally smiled. once. y’all acting like she licked his face. maybe touch grass

 

@RegalandRuthless:
the optics are WILD tho. man’s family made her life hell and she’s sipping scotch with him like it’s tuesday.

 

@fireandice456:
she’s at a wrap party. she’s not reconciling a dynasty. calm down. also? maybe he apologised. maybe it’s just a photo. maybe it's none of your business.

 

@JoffreyStanClub:
nah it’s calculated. sansa’s always known how to play the press. now that joffrey’s Oscar’s in reach, suddenly she’s present again 🧐

 

@Khaleesiandqueen:
oh my god you people are unwell. she starred in Good Queen Alysanne. she’s literally the lead. the camera followed her around for months.

 

@LionheartedKing:
she had one decent role in a movie no one’s seen and suddenly you’re calling it iconic? joffrey’s been dominating all year.

 

@sansastarkGQA:
and yet you’re still this pressed about her smiling near a man. go scream into your blu-ray of my beautiful boy and leave her alone

@JoffreysRevenge:
she’ll always be the girl who couldn’t keep a king.

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:
and Joffrey will always be the king who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

 

Predictions came faster than press releases.

 

Buzzfeed UK: Ten Reasons Why Good Queen Alysanne Is About to Change the Game
IndieWire: Jon Snow’s Quiet Revolution in Historical Storytelling
Vogue: Daenerys Stormborn and Sansa Stark: The Queens We Needed
Letterboxd: already compiling The Queen’s Cut: Three-Hour Edits Based on Vibes Only

And then, quietly, without announcement:

The official account posted the Samwell Tarly wrap montage.

Caption:

“We carried it across ice. He cut it together. And we’ll remember it all.”

It took down half the internet for the rest of the day.

 

From Twitter

Group Chat: #jonsa
 

@fireandice456
okay but someone PLEASE explain how one photo of Jon not looking at sansa broke me like this

 

@snowismyfire
because he doesn’t have to. his entire body is facing her. his soul is facing her. shut up I’m crying again

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar
you guys it’s the smile. THE SMILE. she smiled like he said something only she could hear. I am ill

 

@sansastarkGQA
did you see her hand on the table? like she was reaching for him but not quite?
this is victorian ghost-level yearning

 

@queensinthenorth
rewatched the wrap party videos and the way jon deflates after his speech until he sees her again??? kill me softly

 

@winterfellwinehour
I don’t care if they never confirm it. I don’t care if they date other people. They’re each other’s person. it’s canon in my heart and in god’s eyes

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar
also??? the backstage clip where he says “you were brilliant” and she says “so were you” and they both look like they’re going to fall apart??? that lives in my spine now

 

@fireandice456
Jon watching her walk off set for the last time like he’s just realised the sun is a finite resource. i can’t.

 

@snowismyfire
he looked like he’d have followed her into the snow if someone hadn’t yelled “cut”

 

@queensinthenorth
I’m going to  say it. they’re the next real-life slow burn celeb couple. no PR. just shared trauma and soft eye contact

 

@sansastarkGQA
“director and his queen.” that’s what someone called them on twitter. I need that engraved on my soul

 

@winterfellwinehour
we’re all going to lose our minds when the press tour starts and he spends every interview staring at her hands again

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar
I’m manifesting an interview where they accidentally say “we” about something personal. i want it. i need it. I deserve it

 

@fireandice456
they made something good
and then accidentally made us obsessed with their love story in the process
criminal. romantic. iconic.

 

@snowismyfire
okay but before we get back to jonsa can we please discuss DAENERYS STORMBORN IN HIS LAP LIKE THAT???

 

@jornaerysownme
I
was literally trying to drink water when I saw it and choked like a regency widow. that’s not a chair. that’s her spot.

 

@fireandice456
she looked so soft?? like flushed and laughing and done. jorah looked like he'd just seen god and it was her

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar
can we also talk about how intimate his hands looked?? not grabbing. not posing. just… holding.

 

@sansastarkGQA
no but seriously. They weren’t acting. they weren’t even aware of the camera. that’s real. that’s love.

 

@jornaerysownme
s
he was leaning her head on his shoulder like they’ve been married for ten years and just wrapped their honeymoon film.

 

@fireandice456
the temple kiss. the temple kiss in the wrap video. i am SHATTERED


Private Chat: @sansastarkGQA & @jornaerysownme
(Titled: “okay wait”)

 

@sansastarkGQA:
okay real talk tho… that pic of jaime and sansa at the drinks table? thoughts??

 

@jornaerysownme:
👀 yeah I clocked it too. he looked serious. she looked like… she’d made peace with something

 

@sansastarkGQA:
you think they’ve been in contact? like off-screen?

 

@jornaerysownme:
idk… maybe. it didn’t feel romantic. it felt… closure-y. bittersweet. like they said the unsayable and then let it go

 

@sansastarkGQA:
yeah. same. the energy was not shippy. but it was loaded. definitely something behind it

 

@jornaerysownme:
twitter’s going to make it weird. they always do

 

@sansastarkGQA:
but we know the truth 😌 now back to jon looking at her like she built the moon

 


 

Back to Group Chat: #jonsa

 

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar
rewatching the scene where jon gives the final speech and the camera cuts to sansa IMMEDIATELY. you cannot make this up.

 

@snowismyfire
they framed that like a love letter and I’m supposed to just go to work?

 

@fireandice456
we were fed. and jornaerys nation rose with us. it’s a banquet.

 

@winterfellwinehour
best ensemble. best chemistry. best slow burn. best post-production meltdown. team GQA forever.


From Tumblr

 

 @MrandMrsMuir
Posted at 03:42 AM

I would like to formally file a complaint with the universe for allowing that wrap party photos to exist.

Daenerys. Stormborn. Anne. Whatever name you want to use — sitting in Jorah’s lap like that’s just where she lives now.

The arm behind his neck.
The way her cheek is flushed like she’s been laughing in private for ten minutes.
The way he has both arms around her without actually gripping — just holding, like she’s precious and he knows it.

I haven’t known peace since the photoshoot behind the scene video, but this?? This has sent me into a deeper layer of madness.

She is glowing. He looks wrecked and in love. This isn’t PR. This isn’t “friendly colleagues.” This is we survived something, I know every version of you, stay with me a little longer.

AND THE VIDEO.

When Daenerys leaned her forehead against his after the final cut, I died.
When he whispered something and she smiled like she already forgave him for it?? I dug a hole in my floor.

And the temple kiss??? IN THE WRAP VIDEO???

I don’t need confirmation. I don’t need interviews. I don’t even need plot. Give me vibes. Give me this. Give me a love story written between takes.

Jornaerys is not just chemistry. It’s the burned edges of loyalty. It’s knowing when to step back and when to hold tighter.

I swear, if awards season doesn’t worship them, I’m starting a fire.

 

Tags: #jornaerys #daenerysandjorah #heloveshersheloveshim #goodqueenalysanne #wrapparty #someonecomegetme #foundfootageofmyemotionalcollapse #shipofdreamsandpain #wrapphotodamage #thishurtsandifeelalive

 


 

Margaery stood at the window, barefoot, watching the clouds shift over the Belfast skyline.

The morning was grey, soft-edged, hushed by mist. The city hadn’t quite woken up—cars moved slowly below, their tyres whispering across wet tarmac, headlights glowing faint in the early gloom. In the distance, the cranes of the shipyards loomed like tired sentinels, unmoving beneath the low, bruised sky.

Inside the flat, it was quiet. Just for now.

Her feet were cold against the hardwood floor, but she didn’t move. The hem of her long cardigan—cashmere, oatmeal-coloured, worn soft with time—brushed her calves as she shifted her weight slightly, one hand resting on the windowsill. Her hair was still tousled from the night before, pulled into a loose braid that had half fallen out while she worked. She hadn’t slept much. Hadn’t needed to.

The internet had stayed awake for her.

All night, it had burned—frenzied and incandescent. Fans screaming across platforms, timelines exploding in real-time euphoria, gifs looping on Tumblr like liturgy, like worship. Headlines multiplying like wildfire, voices rising and overlapping in a digital chorus she didn’t have to conduct. She had only needed to watch.

And she had.

The photo had been reposted a million times by now. The Samwell Tarly wrap video had pushed half the cast into the trending list worldwide. Jornaerys edits. Jonsa threads. Frame-by-frame breakdowns. Behind-the-scenes speculation. Tyrion Lannister is the heart of Team GQA trending for no reason other than the world finally seeing what she had known all along.

They were everywhere. And they didn’t even know it yet.

But the tide had already turned.

Margaery walked back across the room—slowly, methodically, like a queen crossing a battlefield that was already hers. Her phone sat on the table, screen-down beside a half-drunk cup of coffee gone cold. A smudge of lipstick still clung to the rim.

She flipped the phone over with one finger. The screen lit instantly, and there it was:

Everyone’s leaving.
It’s your move now.

Tyrion’s message, sent the night before.

She hadn’t replied.
She hadn’t needed to.

The pieces had been moving for weeks. Quietly, carefully. A ripple here. A whisper there. By the time Daenerys had pressed that ring into Tyrion’s hand at the wrap party, Margaery had already made the call. The last lever pulled. The final domino tilted.

The trigger was set.

She picked up the remote from the armrest of the sofa and turned the TV on. The screen flickered to life with a soft hum, bathing the room in cool light. She didn’t sit—just stood there, arms folded loosely, as a slick morning host droned over images of red carpets and headlines.

Then, across the bottom of the screen, it appeared.

Breaking Soon: Oscar Nominations to Be Announced Within the Hour.

She smiled.

Just a little.

Let them celebrate. Let them weep. Let them believe this was about gold statues and red carpets. Let them cling to the illusion of control a few moments longer.

The world still didn’t know who had handed them the match.

But it would.

Very soon.

And Margaery would be watching when it burned.


The kettle clicked off behind her.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

The light in Jon’s flat was soft, hazy through the grey London morning. The kind of filtered quiet that felt like the city was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. Outside, the air hung heavy with mist, rooftops damp and blurred, traffic moving in fits and murmurs. But her nerves were already wide-eyed and pacing.

Somewhere across town, a screen was being prepped. Cameras checked. Cards in place.

Oscar nominations were minutes away.

She wrapped her fingers tighter around the mug in her hands. The heat helped. It grounded her.

They’d taken the first flight out of Belfast at dawn—Sansa, Jon, Sam, and a few others too wired to sleep, too spent to stay. The set had barely cooled by the time they boarded. Tyrion had insisted on a studio flight with Bronn, Jaime, and Brienne—which had mostly been an excuse to keep working at thirty thousand feet.

Daenerys and Jorah had left just before sunrise too—her family’s plane taking them straight to Winterfell. Sansa had hugged Daenerys tight before she boarded, both of them too tired for words but too full of everything they’d built together to let go easily.

Daario had taken the red-eye to the U.S., off to start shooting something “completely ridiculous,” as he’d said, grinning with two hours of sleep and three espressos.

Ghost was still in Belfast with Ygritte. She was staying in a hotel, planning to drive down later in the week once things calmed—if they ever did.

Theon had stayed behind too—not for work, not this time. He had his own projects, as he had for the past few months, none of them tied to the film. But he was still in the tiny flat they’d shared while she was shooting. He was staying for Margaery. That much was clear. He hadn’t said it outright, but she knew. He didn’t need to.

She took a slow sip of her tea.

Jon’s flat was warm in a way she hadn’t expected. Clean lines, dark woods, soft blankets on the back of the sofa, not a single thing showy—but it was his. There were books everywhere, mostly film and history, a vinyl player in the corner, and a small stack of unsent postcards on the kitchen shelf.

Sansa hadn’t asked about those.

She liked it here. More than she was ready to admit.

He was still asleep in the bedroom. He’d told her to wake him when the nominations started, but she hadn’t. Not yet. He needed the rest. They’d both poured everything they had into Good Queen Alysanne, and while the world didn’t know it yet, it was done. Safe. Real.

The storm had passed—or at least shifted targets.

She glanced at the clock.

Any minute now.

She didn’t know what she was hoping for. Not really.

Her name wasn’t in the conversation. That was fine. That was planned. Her movie would only come out in the autumn.

But Catelyn’s was.

And Joffrey’s still was, too.

Sansa crossed to the sofa and reached for the remote.

Time to watch the world catch up.

 


 

The livestream buffered.

A familiar spinning wheel flickered in the centre of the screen, buying time, drawing breath.

Tyrion sipped his coffee with the weariness of a man who had read every script, memo, and lie Hollywood had to offer—and found them all equally boring. The mug was chipped, heat long gone, but he drank it anyway. It kept his hands busy.

Bronn had left twenty minutes earlier, announcing to the room that he’d rather be unconscious than “watch another talentless nepotism bastard get handed a trophy.” He’d flicked a two-fingered salute at the screen—classic, unmistakable—and vanished in search of better uses for his time. Or stronger alcohol.

Jaime hadn’t said anything. He stood near the back wall, shadowed and still, arms folded tight across his chest. He hadn’t moved since they turned the livestream on, hadn’t taken a single sip of the tea Brienne had made and left beside him. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. He watched like it owed him something. Like it might confess.

He hadn’t spoken much since Belfast. Since her.

Brienne had politely declined to join them. “Too much,” she’d said, and left it at that. Tyrion hadn’t pressed. He understood. Everyone dealt with grief differently. And this—this spectacle of fanfare and false sentiment—wasn’t the kind of closure Brienne believed in.

Truth be told, he didn’t want to watch either.

But it wasn’t about watching.

It was about knowing.

Lady Stoneheart was in. That had already settled like fact, solid and unshakeable. Everyone who mattered knew it. There had been no campaign, no interviews or strategic magazine covers. Catelyn Stark didn’t promote—she entered rooms and left silence in her wake. Her performance had been a reckoning. People were still recovering, still trying to decide if they’d survived it or if it had simply passed over them like a storm that didn’t care what it ruined.

Tyrion turned up the volume.

A host with too-white teeth and forced cheer read names off a teleprompter with the enthusiasm of a mall Santa.

“…and the nominees for Actress in a Leading Role are—”

He didn’t breathe.

“—Catelyn Stark, Lady Stoneheart…”

A pause followed. Just a beat too long.

From the corner came a soft click—the unmistakable sound of Jaime’s jaw tightening.

Tyrion allowed himself a slow blink. Not celebration. Not yet. Just… the air shifting. A tremor. The kind of moment you file away and recognise only later, when the smoke clears.

The rest of the names blurred past.

Then:

“…and the nominees for Actor in a Leading Role are—”

He knew what was coming. But knowing didn’t make it easier.

“—Joffrey Baratheon, My Beautiful Boy…”

Tyrion stared at the screen.

No surprise. No twist. Just inevitability, smoothed out and served on a silver tray. Proof, once again, that the world would forgive anything if you bled beautifully on camera.

From behind him, Jaime muttered, “Christ.”

Tyrion didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

He picked up his phone. The screen lit his face faintly as he typed two words.

To: Margaery Tyrell
Now.

He set the phone down with deliberate calm. The notification sound was the only punctuation in the room.

Onscreen, Joffrey was smiling. Eyes glossy. Dimples deep. Practiced perfection.

Tyrion watched him for a moment longer.

But not for long.


 

Joffrey Baratheon didn’t watch the nominations.

He anticipated them.
Like a storm he’d already named after himself.

The hotel suite was staged to perfection. Soft lighting, calculated shadows. A cream wool jumper draped just right over tailored charcoal trousers. Champagne chilling untouched in a silver bucket he wouldn’t so much as glance at. Everything curated for the inevitable press photos, even if no cameras were currently allowed in.

He sat poised at the edge of the leather sofa—spine straight, shoulders squared, like the room itself existed to frame him. On one side, a PR intern clutched a tablet with trembling fingers. On the other, his publicist scrolled through alerts at rapid speed, murmuring updates like prayers. Behind him stood Cersei, silent and unyielding. A statue carved in diamonds and threat. Her hand rested lightly on the back of the sofa—but she didn’t touch him. Not unless he allowed it.

“Any second now,” someone whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He was already watching himself in the reflection of the television screen. Head tilted slightly, expression thoughtful. Monumental.

The words landed like prophecy.

“Joffrey Baratheon, My Beautiful Boy.”

His jaw clenched—not in surprise, not in triumph. In possession.
Like it belonged to him by birthright.

Cersei’s hand came down, briefly, on his shoulder. A whisper of pride, sharp as glass.
“Well done,” she murmured.

He shrugged her off. Calmly.
Already unlocking his phone.

The nomination was trending—of course it was—but the hashtags weren’t clean. Too much noise, too many distractions. He scrolled faster, tension creeping into his fingertips.

#OscarNoms
#CatelynStark
#LadyStoneheart
#SansaStark
#WrapParty
#GoodQueenAlysanne

He scowled.

Sansa’s name wasn’t supposed to be there.
She hadn’t been in his film. She hadn’t even been nominated.
She was meant to be gone—an afterthought, not a thread running through every feed like she’d won something.

But there she was.
Her and Jaime, caught in a grainy wrap party photo at the drinks table. She wasn’t even doing anything. Just standing there, glass in hand, gaze lowered slightly. Serene. Self-contained. And yet the comments—
Her eyes. Her poise. That’s a woman who knows.
Give her everything and let her ruin him slowly.

“She’s manipulating the moment,” he muttered.

“No,” said Cersei, voice even, measured. “The media’s reaching. It’ll pass.”

He started drafting in Notes, thumbs moving fast:

Honoured to be recognised for a role that demanded everything. This moment belongs to the storytellers, to those brave enough to be vulnerable onscreen. Humbled beyond words.

He stared at it.
Deleted it.

New draft:

They tried to silence me. They failed. The work speaks for itself. Thank you for listening.

He glanced sideways. “Too sharp?”

His publicist hesitated. “It’s… bold.”

“I don’t do gratitude,” he snapped. “I do legacy.”

And he posted it.

The words hit the feed like a thrown gauntlet.

He turned back to the TV, eyes cold, jaw set—as if daring the screen to contradict him. As if the air in the room should thicken to accommodate his presence.

Outside, London was stretching awake—buses groaning to life, traffic lights blinking into routine.

But inside, Joffrey was already rewriting history.

He was the story.

Let the others burn quietly in the background.


 

Catelyn Stark’s statement was released through her agent’s official channels and quickly picked up by Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and ScreenDaily. Within minutes, it appeared in full on her verified social accounts, and soon after, on Instagram—paired with a black-and-white photo taken on set.

In the image, Catelyn stood alone, her face turned away from the camera, hair swept back by the wind. No spotlight. No makeup. Just the outline of a woman in costume, mid-motion, wrapped in the long black coat that had become an icon in its own right.

The statement itself was simple, poised, and razor-edged in its final line:

“I’m deeply honoured by this nomination. Lady Stoneheart was a story that asked difficult questions about grief, justice, and what remains when everything else is gone. I share this moment with the cast and crew who carried it with me, quietly and relentlessly. I’m grateful to the Academy for recognising a story led by a woman who was neither perfect nor polite—only true. My thanks to those who believed in this film from the very beginning. Especially those who know why we told it.”

No names. No explanations. No need.

It began trending within the hour:
#LadyStoneheart
#CatelynStark
#JusticeWearsABlackCoat

The internet caught the shift in tone before anyone could name it. The temperature of the conversation changed. People slowed down. Re-read. Understood.

Something was happening.
Not just a campaign.
Not just an actress thanking voters.

A message had been sent.



Private Group Chat: Sansa, Theon, Margaery
Timestamp: 10:50 AM PST — Ten minutes after the Oscar nominations went live.
*

Sansa:
The nominations are out.
It’s happening.
Tell me we’re ready—please.

Margaery:
We’re beyond ready.
The links are loaded, the embargoes drop in under ten minutes.
The timing is perfect. He just thanked the Academy—let them watch that age like milk.

Theon:
This is it.
He’s at his most arrogant.
We’ve waited for this.
In ten minutes, that thank-you post is going to sit right next to a horror show.

Sansa:
I feel sick.
Like everything could still fall apart.

Margaery:
Then hold your nerve.
You faced worse than this and came out standing.
We don’t flinch now.

Theon:
You’ve been the bravest of us.
Breathe, Sansa.
You survived him. Now you end him.

Sansa:
What if it’s not enough?
What if he wriggles out?

Margaery:
Then we tighten the net.
But it is enough.
This isn’t just gossip—it’s evidence.
Irrefutable, brutal, damning.
People will have to listen.

Theon:
And once it’s out, there’s no putting it back in the vault.
This is the world changing.

Sansa:
Okay.
Okay, I’m with you.
Let it burn.

She locked her phone with a shaking hand, her pulse thrumming like war drums in her ears. Ten minutes. Just ten minutes, and everything they’d risked—every secret kept, every thread pulled—would detonate across the internet.

And the first thing to go would be Joffrey Baratheon’s legacy.


There was no warning.

No press. No leaks. No rumours. Just a plain black site.
No name. No banner.
Just a single word, centred in white:

“Play.”

And underneath it, five links.
No password. No paywall.

The Full Documentary
Unredacted Contracts – PDF (252 pages)
Settlement Agreements – PDF (74 pages)
Transcribed Interviews – PDF (117 pages)
Full Audio Archive – ZIP FILE

No voiceover. No editorial.

The screen faded up.

And Joffrey Baratheon’s voice filled the silence.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t make this difficult. Do you want to work or not?”

Then:
A girl’s face. Blurred, but you could hear her swallow.
The camera stayed on her.
Long enough to make you sick.

Cut.

Another clip. A private video from set.
Joffrey screaming at a young actor, throwing a chair.

Cut.

A leaked email chain.

“If she won’t shut up, we can buy her out.”
“Keep her off press. You know how he gets.”
“He’s the brand, not her.”

Cut.

An audio confession—not from a victim, but a former executive.

“Everyone knew. He was protected. The studio gave him everything. They buried her complaint. Buried five others. We were told to look the other way.”

Cut.

A legal doc. NDA.
£250,000 payout.
Signature: Joffrey Baratheon.

Then ten more.
Then thirty.
All signed.
All real.

Then the audio.
One woman.
Then another.
Then another.

Different accents.
Different ages.
Same story.
Same fear.
Same voice.
His.

And then it stopped pretending to be discreet.

An assistant describing what happened in a trailer.
A makeup artist testifying about bruises.
An email chain marked URGENT: Damage Control dated the morning after a public outburst.
A restraining order.
Photos of it.

The woman who filed it was blurred, but her hand was shaking.
You could tell.

And finally—

A camera in a hotel hallway.
Joffrey pushing someone into a wall.
Security footage. Grainy.
Unmistakable.

Then the bombshell.

A final voice.
Unaltered.
Named.

A respected former co-star.
One of the industry’s sweethearts.

She stared into the lens.
No tears.
Just fury.

“He did it. And they let him.”
“I came forward once. They told me I was hysterical.”
“They told me to apologise to him.”
“Well, I’m not sorry anymore.”

Then:

“If I go down for this, fine. But he’s going with me.”

The screen went black.

The final frame faded in:

“You gave him the crown. We give you the truth.”

#TheKingIsAMonster
#WeHaveProof

It detonated.

No article.
No op-ed.
Just obliteration.

The site crashed in under seven minutes.

Screenshots spread like fire across WhatsApp, Reddit, Discord, Twitter.
YouTube clips were up within an hour, then pulled, then reuploaded—twice as fast.

It was everywhere.

The BBC broke coverage.
Variety dropped everything.
CNN ran it with “Developing Catastrophe” as the chyron.
Sky News called it “The end of an era.”

Academy officials refused comment.
Joffrey’s PR team disabled all comments.
The studio pulled his next project within two hours.

By sunset, agents were cutting ties.
His lawyer was issuing “no further comment” to a room full of press.

And his mother—

Cersei Lannister had locked the door.
And no one was answering her calls.


Sansa sat in Jon's flat, the documentary playing in front of her, the cold morning air seeping in through the windows. The text from her parents grounded her: We’re proud of you. Her fingers tightened around a mug she never drank from. Her phone buzzed again. A second message from her mum: No one will say your name. A third followed, from her father: No one will touch you. No one will ask. They won’t dare. She didn’t flinch as Joffrey’s voice played. When Jon spoke, she took his hand and said, "It had to."


Tyrion sat alone in his office, the blinds still drawn. The firestorm unfolded on three screens, news banners and social feeds exploding by the second. Messages piled in—agents, lawyers, press. He ignored them all. Instead, he poured a drink, leaned back in his chair, and whispered, "Checkmate."


Daenerys sat by the frosted window in a quiet corner of Winterfell, the tablet balanced on her knees, its screen casting pale light against the stone walls. The snow outside was falling steady now, quiet as breath. Jorah was asleep across the room, one arm flung over the edge of the old settee, still wearing his jumper from the flight.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The documentary played in full. The sound was low, but she didn’t need the volume. She knew what he’d done. She’d watched it happen. She’d lived with the silence.

Her tea had gone cold. Her fingers tightened around the mug anyway. When the screen faded to black, she whispered, "It’s done."

A pause. Then softer, almost to herself, "They won’t bury this one."

She set the tablet aside. And for the first time in weeks, she let herself exhale.


Theon’s flat was dim, littered with cables, notes, old mugs. The three of them—Theon, Margaery, Ygritte—sat in silence on the couch, the laptop still open, the documentary paused on its final frame. Margaery had negotiated this day off from her miniseries. She said it was for “family.” No one moved. No one breathed. Theon finally broke the silence: “We buried him.” Ygritte added, “We lit the match. He burned himself.” Margaery whispered: “We did it.”


Brienne didn’t speak. She watched the screen with her arms crossed, expression unmoving, her jaw locked tight. She didn’t look away. When Jaime turned to say something—maybe regret, maybe explanation—she stopped him with a single word: “Don’t.”


Jaime still wore his prosecutor’s suit, though the tie was half undone. He watched the film end and the news coverage explode. He saw Joffrey’s face splashed across the headlines and realised, truly realised, what he had spent years defending. The bile rose in his throat. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, still.


Renly watched alone in a townhouse in London—one no one knew was his. The screen faded to black. He typed one word on his phone: Sent. A few seconds later, her reply appeared: It’s done. He closed his eyes. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak his name. Just breathed.


Cersei screamed. The hotel suite was in disarray—papers, cushions, a wine glass shattered on the floor. Her assistant had locked himself in the bathroom. Her calls weren’t going through. Her son’s name flooded the headlines. Her voice was hoarse from yelling: “This is a mistake! This is a smear job!” But the world was no longer listening.


Oberyn was somewhere loud, music and people around him, the news spreading in real-time. Someone handed him a drink. He didn’t toast. He didn’t gloat. He just watched the playback on someone’s phone and murmured, “Oh, sweetling. They only just started bleeding.”


Varys scrolled across three devices at once, tracking reactions, spin, panic. His expression never changed. He closed two apps, typed a note into the third, and sat back. Everything was unfolding exactly as it should.


Baelish sat alone in a dim room. No entourage. No phone calls. Just him and the screen. He watched the entire thing. Once. Then again. There was no outrage on his face. Just calculation. Recognition. He knew the editing style. He saw the signatures. The board is shifting, he thought. And I’m no longer on the right side.


From The Guardian

"This is not a takedown. This is a scorched-earth reckoning."
By Maeryn Flint, Investigations Editor at The Guardian

The King is a Monster wasn’t a documentary. It was a public execution.
With over an hour of unflinching footage, hundreds of pages of legal records, contracts, settlements, and audio testimonies, it delivered what no statement or whisper ever could: proof. Irrefutable. Devastating.
This film was not a thinkpiece. It was a war crime tribunal with better lighting. Joffrey Baratheon was not merely exposed; he was erased.

But it did not stop there. It named names without speaking them. It dismantled a system without ever raising its voice. This wasn’t just about Baratheon. It was about every agent who stayed silent, every studio that paid out hush money, every executive who promoted him knowing what he was.

The King is a Monster ended with no credits. No music. No call to action. Just a single truth:

You gave him the crown. We give you the truth.

There was no PR strategy that could counter this. Only ash.


From Twitter:

 

@NotThatStark:
what the actual fuck did I just watch. that wasn't a documentary. that was a goddamn airstrike. #TheKingIsAMonster

@FilmFatale:
joffrey baratheon isn’t just over. he’s incinerated. not a career left. not a frame. not a legacy. #baratheonexposed

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:
I’m sobbing. shaking. screaming. THEY KNEW. THEY ALL KNEW. and that final card?? I will never recover. #TheKingIsAMonster

@VarysFiles:
this wasn’t justice. this was revenge. cold. calculated. surgical. and deserved. #burnthegoldenboy

@Oberyn4You:
Cersei better be in a bunker. Because the fallout? It’s nuclear. #TheKingIsAMonster #GoodQueenAlysanne

 

Chapter 25: Chapter 25 - The fallout

Chapter Text

 

The sun wasn’t up yet, but the reckoning had already begun.

Tyrion stood at the window of his London office, coffee going cold in his hand, unread messages multiplying across two phones and a tablet. Across the city, the machinery of power had stalled, and no one knew how to restart it.

The Hollywood trades had gone from silent to screaming. Joffrey Baratheon’s Oscar campaign hadn’t collapsed—it had detonated. Sponsors vanished within the hour. PR firms ghosted him. The Academy, always sluggish to act, was now scrambling to distance itself without looking complicit.

Tyrion hadn’t slept. He didn’t expect to.

A soft ping. Another email. This one from a distributor.

We’re reevaluating our relationship with The Lion and the Stag and Casterly Rock Pictures until further notice.

“Of course you are,” Tyrion muttered.

He picked up his phone. No new messages from Cersei. No calls. Just silence.

Not that he expected otherwise. The silence was strategic.

A headline on his screen caught his eye:

"The Fall of a Golden Boy: Baratheon’s Crown Crumbles Overnight."

Tyrion almost smiled. Almost.
Instead, he sat down, opened a new message, and began to type an email.

To: Margaery
Subject: They're burning the tapes.
Everyone’s running. Your move now.

He hit send. Then he leaned back and let the chaos unfold. 


Sansa awoke to the sound of her phone vibrating against the bedside table.

For a moment, she didn’t move. The room was quiet, softened by the pale light of an overcast London morning. She lay against Jon’s chest, warm and solid, his arm wrapped around her. The rest of the world could wait.

The phone kept buzzing.

She reached for it without lifting her head and blinked at the flood of notifications. Messages, alerts, news banners. Mentions. Too many to count. Her name wasn’t there—not explicitly—but she knew exactly what it meant.

Jon stirred beside her. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, though it wasn’t quite true. “It’s happening.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. Of course he knew.

She scrolled without speaking. Headlines blurred together. Public reactions, industry panic, think pieces already being drafted. Somewhere near the bottom of the feed, she saw The King is a Monster trending beside a still frame. She stopped scrolling. She didn’t open it.

Jon’s hand rubbed slow circles into her back. He hadn’t looked at his own phone yet. Maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe this was enough—being here, grounded, just the two of them.

“We did it,” she said softly.

“You did it,” he replied.

She looked up at him. His hair was a mess, he hadn’t shaved. He looked exhausted. But he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that made any sense.

“I feel…” She hesitated. “I don’t know what I feel.”

“Do you have to know? Not today.”

Outside, London carried on as if the ground hadn’t shifted.

She switched her phone to silent. “Can we stay here a while?”

Jon kissed her temple. “As long as you like.”

And just like that, the noise faded. Not gone, not really. But quiet—for now.


The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm orange glow across the sitting room in Winterfell. Daenerys sat curled up on the old velvet armchair, legs tucked beneath her, watching the snowfall build against the high windowpanes. The tablet rested on the low table beside her, the screen still lit with headlines.

She could hear Jorah’s low voice—warm, patient—as he helped Rhaego stack wooden blocks on the rug. Her boy giggled as another tower fell. It was peaceful. Gentle. A world apart from the frenzy unfolding across the world.

“They're saying sponsors have dropped him,” she said quietly, not looking away from the snow.

Jorah glanced up. “Of course they have.”

Rhaego clapped as he knocked another tower down. “Boom.”

Daenerys smiled softly. She reached for her mug—lukewarm now—but held it in her hands anyway. She wasn’t sure what she felt. Relief, yes. Vindication, certainly. But what surprised her most was the undercurrent of quiet happiness. It had nothing to do with justice. It had everything to do with this room—this house, this fire, this boy, and the man she loved.

“I thought I’d feel more triumphant,” she admitted.

Jorah rose and crossed to her. He sat beside her, resting a hand on her thigh. “You don’t need to feel anything more than what you feel.”

She leaned into him. His body was solid and familiar, and she let herself rest her head against his shoulder.

“He’s finished. But the system’s still standing.”

“For now,” he said. “But not forever.”

Rhaego crawled up between them, curling into Daenerys’ side. “Is he a bad man?”

Daenerys looked down at her son. His eyes were wide, curious, trusting.

“He was,” she said.

The boy nodded, serious for a moment. “Can we have pancakes now?”

Jorah grinned. “That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

Daenerys kissed Rhaego’s hair, and the three of them sat there for a moment longer. She closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon and Jorah’s familiar cologne.

Let the industry burn. Let the system crack. Here, in this room, she was whole.

The tablet screen dimmed to black.

And outside, the snow kept falling.


Tyrion Lannister had never thought of himself an optimist, but tonight he felt nostalgic for simpler times. Like three days ago.

The office was a wreck. He was a wreck. A half-eaten carton of takeaway noodles had congealed under a stack of contracts; soy slicked the rim. Cold coffee sat like tar beside two buzzing phones and a tablet that wouldn’t stop lighting up. Outside, rain pinned streetlight to the glass; inside, the air had the weight of paper, printer heat and too many hours. He’d shed his blazer hours back. Shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, tie folded in his pocket; one cufflink had vanished somewhere between midnight and despair.

He was halfway through composing an email that probably doubled as a threat when the door opened without a knock.

“Unless you’re bringing news that Baelish has spontaneously combusted or Joffrey’s confessed to every vile thing he’s ever done, I don’t want to hear it,” he said, not looking up.

“I brought wine,” Varys said pleasantly.

Tyrion leaned back with a sigh. “Better.”

Varys shut the door with the quiet certainty of a man who never needed permission. Rain freckled his dark coat; a soft grey scarf sat neat at his throat. He set a bottle on the desk, produced two stemless glasses from a pocket as if that were normal, and poured. The room took on the smell of red fruit and something oak-heavy that promised a headache.

Tyrion took a long sip, winced. “Gods, what is this?”

“Something expensive,” Varys said. “You’re welcome.”

“I’d rather have something that doesn’t taste like regret and diplomatic immunity.”

They sat. The radiator clicked and settled. Phones fluttered against wood and were ignored.

Tyrion gestured at the chaos. “Joffrey is annihilated. Baelish is spiralling. Cersei is angry enough to chew glass. So why did it feel like this was only the beginning?”

“Because you knew it was,” Varys said.

Tyrion studied him over the rim of his glass. “You’re here for a reason. I already know Margaery was behind it. She told me herself.”

“Of course she did.”

“But she didn’t work alone. That I know.”

“She didn’t.”

Tyrion waited. Varys let the silence hold.

“Is this the part where you tell me to let it go?” Tyrion asked.

“No,” Varys said, soft. “This is the part where you think it through.”

Tyrion set the glass down. “Hints, then. It’s late.”

Varys tilted his head, obliging without giving. “Ask yourself… who could keep Belfast clean without leaving fingerprints. Who understands optics as well as money. Who would never put a name on an email. Who learned patience the hard way.”

Tyrion felt the line of it before he had the words. Belfast. Optics. Patience. Old grief. He rubbed at the throb above his left eye and let the pieces sit. A face, a signature on a fund-raiser years ago, a quiet cheque that had arrived when another project needed a bridge. Not a Tyrell; too obvious, too exposed. Adjacent. Close enough to love one, far enough to move alone.

“Renly,” he said, almost to himself.

Varys didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Tyrion exhaled, a dry sound. “Of all people.”

Another piece slotted in before he could stop it. Not the money. The motive. A name that had been a footnote in a dozen whispers and the centre of one man’s life. Loras. He didn’t say it aloud. He looked at Varys. Varys looked back, unreadable.

“Why does it always come down to dead brothers and ghosts with unfinished business?” Tyrion asked.

“The past doesn’t stay buried,” Varys said. “It waits.”

Tyrion took another drink. It was no better the second time. “You could have told me sooner.”

“I needed you focused on Good Queen Alysanne, not chasing shadows.” Varys’s glance took in the stacked paperwork, the export schedules scrawled in the margins. “You’ve already shielded the film.”

“Do you trust them?” Tyrion asked. “The… architect and the artist.”

“I trust their intent,” Varys said. “Even if I don’t always agree with their methods.”

Tyrion stared at the floor for a long moment, the grain running straight through the knot under his shoe. He thought of Sansa—keep her out of it; keep the film clean. He thought of Cersei’s silence, which always meant counting.

“So what do we do now?” he said.

“We let the fire burn through,” Varys replied. “You hold the line. Let the film stand.”

“And Baelish?”

Varys’s expression darkened by degrees. “He sees the game. Not the players. He still thinks he’s the smartest man in the room.”

“Let him,” Tyrion said.

A beat. Rain worked at the window. Somewhere down the corridor a lift pinged and no one stepped out.

“Tyrion,” Varys added, almost as an afterthought. “You’ve done well.”

Tyrion gave a short laugh. “Tell that to the ulcer I’ve developed.”

“I am serious. You held your ground. Protected your cast. Protected Jon and Sansa.”

“No one protects anyone in this business,” Tyrion said. “We survive. That’s the game.”

“Not anymore,” Varys said quietly. “Not if we’re doing our jobs right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comforting, but it wasn’t hopeless either.

“Thanks for the wine,” Tyrion said, already reaching for his phone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to rewrite reality before Baelish leaks another bloody memo.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Varys said, standing. He adjusted his scarf, picked up nothing he hadn’t brought, and left the room as tidily as he’d entered.

“It’s one in the morning,” Tyrion called after him. “Too late is already here.”


The fallout was immediate.

Baelish watched from a private lounge above a Mayfair hotel bar, where thick carpet swallowed footsteps and the air smelled faintly of citrus and furniture polish. The television on the wall was muted. Captions crawled beneath a loop of The King is a Monster: montage, testimony, blurred faces, dates, time-stamps, careful blackouts. Whoever cut it understood restraint—when to hold on a witness, when to move on, when to let the line hang.

He sat on a low leather banquette, jacket still on: charcoal suit with narrow lapels, crisp white shirt, dark tie that hadn’t shifted all night. A heavy tumbler warmed in his hand. The whisky was clean with a thread of smoke, just enough to make patience feel sensible. His phone lay face down on the table and buzzed at intervals—unknown numbers, curious acquaintances, panicked allies, a studio head who prided himself on never panicking. He let it buzz.

This wasn’t amateur vengeance. It was a professional hit, planned and timed.

On screen, the film ended without credits. A final card held:

The truth was always there. You just didn’t want to see it.

Irritation arrived before anything else. He hadn’t seen this coming, and that annoyed him more than the blow itself. Surprise made people make calls they couldn’t take back. He wasn’t going to be one of them.

He took another drink and let the room settle around him—the soft hum of ventilation, a lift chiming somewhere down the corridor, the faint squeak of leather when he shifted. Think clearly: motive, means, method. Someone had waited for the top of Joffrey’s rise and dropped the film into maximum heat. That meant backing. It meant legal shepherding that knew exactly where to black out and where to leave the spine visible. It meant an edit that trusted the material and avoided vanity. The rhythm tugged at him, familiar without a name. Later, with the sound up, he’d let the cadence bother him properly.

He didn’t have suspects so much as outlines: a survivor with new money behind them; a rival with a long memory; a donor who preferred quiet rooms to red carpets; a network with access to witnesses and the discipline to keep signatures off email; a PR shop that knew how to set a fuse and walk away. Names would come later, when the first wave of statements gave him gaps to pry open.

The phone fell silent and then started again. A fixer who only texted when his fee had doubled. Legal from a company that had told him, last week, it “stood firm.” A producer who never called first. He left them unanswered.

“Someone’s been busy,” he said into the quiet.

He set the glass down, wiped the ring it left with his thumb, and turned the phone over—not to reply, but to make a list. Assistants worth pressing. Editors who vanished between jobs. Stringers who heard things before publicists did. Advocacy lawyers who moved quickly. Donors who liked their names off plaques. Access points, not theories.

He knew how this industry moved: denial, outrage, amnesia. The useful work happened in the gaps between those stages. He intended to be working there before everyone else remembered their principles.

Baelish leaned back, watched the loop begin again, and let the first shock harden into attention. Time to find out who lit the match.


The edit suite hummed. Too much air-con, dry as a plane cabin. Monitors threw a cool wash over everything. Outside, Soho buzzed; somewhere out there the industry was eating itself. In here, it was just the three of them and a film.

Sam had a hoodie on and knackered trainers. Jon wore a black jumper, hair all over the place, jaw rough. Tyrion had rolled his sleeves and dumped his jacket on the sofa. A biro lived behind his ear until it fell, which it did every few minutes.

On the screen, Sansa stood in the winter hall, candles steady.

“Back a bit?” Jon said.

Sam thumbed the wheel, let it play.

They watched her take a breath she didn’t quite want to take.

Tyrion nodded. “Leave that in.”

Jon glanced across. “I was going to.”

“Good.” Tyrion shifted in the chair. “It’s doing half the work.”

Sam clicked something and took a sip of tea. A muted news site on the side monitor spat out another banner. Tyrion’s phone buzzed on the sofa arm. He slid it under a paper cup without looking.

“You want that off?” Sam asked, nodding at the news.

“Leave it,” Jon said. “It’s company.”

“It’s heckling,” Tyrion said. “I prefer silence.”

Sam scrubbed forward a touch. “Question is—do we stay with her after the line, or cut to him?”

Jon watched, then pointed. “Stay. He reacts to her. If we jump too early we lose the point.”

Tyrion made a small noise. “Agreed.”

“Miracle,” Sam said, half under his breath.

Tyrion scratched his temple. “Careful. I might get used to it.”

Sam backed it up and ran it again. The beat landed clean. No one spoke for a moment.

“That’s her,” Jon said, almost to himself.

“It is,” Tyrion said. “Exactly what I had in my head when I wrote it.”

Sam stood. “I’m getting more tea. Anyone?”

“Please,” Jon said.

“And whatever biscuits survived the last lot,” Tyrion added.

Sam disappeared. Jon rubbed his eyes and leaned back.

“You could be out there,” he said. “Putting out fires.”

“I will be,” Tyrion said. “Just… not for ten minutes.”

Jon nodded. “Fine by me.”

They watched the same few seconds again. The phone under the cup kept tapping like a trapped bee.

“You going to check that?” Jon asked.

“No,” Tyrion said. “If it’s the end of the world, it can leave a message.”

Sam returned with a tray—three teas, a packet of digestives already torn open.

“Hero,” Tyrion said.

“I try,” Sam said, dropping into his chair. “From the top of the hall?”

“Please,” Jon said.

They watched. Sansa’s eyes did the work. A guard shifted his weight. The candle nearest the door trembled once and settled.

“How long are we on her after the line?” Sam asked.

“A beat,” Jon said. “Not an essay.”

Tyrion bit a biscuit. “And don’t sweeten the sound there. Let it be the room.”

“Alright,” Sam said. “Next shot—the corridor?”

Jon shook his head. “Keep it. We need the walk.”

Tyrion frowned. “Continuity on the candles is all over the place.”

Jon gave him a look. “You were the one who wanted real flame.”

“I was the one who wanted budget for another take,” Tyrion said, then let it go. “It’s fine. No one’s counting candles.”

Sam ran it once more. The scene breathed. They all felt it.

“That’s the one,” Jon said.

“It is,” Tyrion said, quieter now. “Thank you.”

Sam typed a new filename and didn’t make a fuss. “Next?”

Tyrion stretched his back. “What’s next is me pretending emails don’t exist for another five minutes.”

“Ramparts,” Sam said. “Wind, cloaks, the works.”

Jon rolled his shoulders. “Fun.”

Tyrion pointed at the screen. “I’ll complain about the wind and then tell you I love it.”

“That’s your process,” Jon said, a thin smile there and gone.

Sam queued the next scene. Outside, statement after statement stacked up on the news site. Inside, three cups of tea steamed a little, and they went back to work.


Baelish knew the editing.

He watched from his home office with the lights low, the big monitor washing the desk in cold blue. The room smelt of whisky and old paper. His jacket hung on the chair; tie loosened, sleeves rolled. Sound muted. He didn’t need it.

The content was the systematic destruction of Joffrey Baratheon. But the rhythm—the brutal, patient cuts. He’d worked with Theon Greyjoy once, on that useless science-fiction flick Future Perfect. He’d recognise that man’s hand anywhere.

If Theon was involved, the work sat near Stark orbit.

That thought didn’t rattle him. He’d known the Starks were moving pieces for months and had contingencies stacked: press days to pull, friendlies to brief, lawyers to lean, a whisper or two to sour a room. He was ready for slow pressure—leaks, timing, a campaign.

He was not ready for this. A film dropped clean, with receipts.

He ran a sequence back—slow, then slower. A sliver of archival buried in the montage. A frame from a story that never aired. It nudged something he’d thrown away at the time.

Marbella. A balcony. Cersei, drunk and vicious, music from the pool below.

“That little worm is everywhere, writing things he has no right to know. If he doesn’t stop, someone will stop him.”

No name then. He’d filed it under tantrums and moved on.

He opened a private terminal and skimmed old press around the dates and subjects that made Cersei spit. A handful of bylines. He clicked through obituaries. One held him a fraction longer.

Hightower, L.—investigative. Dead months after Marbella. Car crash, ruled an accident.

He didn’t crown it an answer. He saved the clips, pulled images, and dragged the frozen frame beside them. Similar jawline, maybe. He typed a note: Hightower? and left the question mark in place.

A gala archive yielded a background shot: not staged, barely useful. A man who looked like Hightower stood close to someone tall and polished. Zoom only gave him pixels and the outline of a very good suit. Baratheon-shaped, perhaps. Perhaps not. He added another note: check guest list.

Only then did he sit back. Two weeks ago he’d reached out to Renly Baratheon about other business, confident he could trade. If that blurred outline was Renly—and it might not be—the board looked different to the one he’d been playing.

The room felt colder.

He wasn’t used to being outplayed. The Starks he’d planned for. This—whoever had marshalled the edit, the witnesses, the timing—this wasn’t in his contingencies.

He looked from the frozen frame to his notes. Not a conclusion. A trail. Breadcrumbs.

And he was very good at following those.


Sansa heard his keys first. The door stuck, then gave, and the smell of sesame and soy reached her before Jon did.

“Peace offering,” he said, nudging the door shut with his heel. His hair was damp from the drizzle; his jumper had caught a few dark spots. A white carrier bag swung from his hand, cartons stacked, prawn crackers rustling.

She’d left the lamp on low. The living room was small and warm, radiator ticking. She was folded into the sofa corner in his hoodie and leggings, feet under a blanket. Her shoulders had been tight for hours without her noticing; seeing him, they dropped half an inch. The ache arrived after, dull and honest.

“You’re a saint,” she said. Her voice came out softer than she meant.

“Blasphemy,” he said, setting the bag down. “Extra crackers. Divine favour.”

He toed off his boots and kissed her—quick, then slower. The second kiss landed low in her chest; the flutter there steadied.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Good,” he said, opening cartons. “Hard. Good. Sam’s a machine. Tyrion swore at the wind and then took it back.”

Steam curled. Egg fried rice, crispy chilli beef, garlicky greens. The smell hit and her empty stomach woke like a startled animal. She hadn’t been hungry all afternoon; now saliva pooled and her hands went warm around the paper lid.

“My people messaged,” she said, prising the rice open. “They’ve been watching everything. My name isn’t anywhere near his in the press. Not in print, not on the morning shows. Online was messy for a bit, but the usual sort of messy.”

A small muscle at the base of her skull unclenched. She hadn’t known it was there until it wasn’t.

“Good,” Jon said, shoulders loosening as if he’d been holding them for her.

“They think it’ll stay that way,” she added, and heard the small catch she couldn’t quite hide. “If we keep our heads down.”

“We will.” He passed her chopsticks, sat close, knee warm against hers. “Tyrion’s on it. He’s with us in the edit when he can be, and the rest of the time he’s out there catching knives. We keep working and let the dust do what dust does.”

She nodded. The movement sent a tightness through her throat and it stung, brief and clean. She took a mouthful of rice that was too hot and perfect and felt heat travel down, spreading through the hollow under her ribs.

“Is he alright?” she asked. “Tyrion.”

“Tired,” Jon said. “Sharp. He loves this bloody film.”

“So do you,” she said, and tasted the truth of it in her mouth.

“Mm. So do you.”

They ate. The radiator hissed softly. A car went past outside. The prawn crackers crackled and made her smile because it was such a small, silly sound in a day full of sharp ones. Her phone buzzed once on the table—an insect flicker in her stomach—and fell quiet. She didn’t turn it over. Her fingers, which had been cold all afternoon, were warm now from holding the carton. She noticed the weight of the blanket, the way the hoodie sleeve held the inside of her wrist, how steady her pulse felt there.

“What was it like out there?” she asked, meaning the world, not Soho.

“Loud,” he said. “And somehow… stupid. Everyone pretending they didn’t know what they knew yesterday. In the room it was just the film. That helped.”

“It helps,” she said. The truth loosened something lower, near her diaphragm. She hadn’t realised she’d been breathing in the shallow top centimetre of her lungs; now the breath went a fraction deeper and stayed.

When the food cooled enough to stop singing, they put the cartons on the floor and slid down. Jon lay back first; she fitted herself along him, cheek to his shoulder, his arm closing around her without effort. The blanket shifted and kept their heat. He smelt of rain and soap and a hint of soy. She pressed her palm to his chest and felt the steady thud. Her own heartbeat, jumpy for days, matched it on the second try.

“My team said the same as you,” she murmured. “Keep quiet. Let it pass.”

“It will change,” he said. “But not because we shout. Tyrion’s doing the shouting.”

That pulled a small laugh out of her, the kind that left her lighter. The lamp made a soft pool on the carpet; the room felt held. Somewhere a pipe clicked and forgot itself. The noise in her skull—headlines, statements, strangers’ certainty—shrank to the size of the flat and then to the space under the blanket.

“I feel safe,” she said, surprised by how clear it was. “Like nothing can touch me right now. With you.”

His hand moved slowly through her hair, patient. The nape of her neck had been prickling all day; it cooled under his palm.

“Good,” he said. “Stay.”

She did. She let her jaw go. She let her eyes close without bracing for the next vibration of the phone. The world would be loud again in the morning. For now she let the warmth, the weight, and the clean ordinary smell of him decide the size of the night.


It took digging.

Baelish used the small office in Holborn he kept for dull work—a desk, a sulking printer, a view of brick. Jacket over the chair, sleeves rolled, coffee gone cold.

Paper first. A clerk sent the coroner’s file. He printed it because paper behaved. Halfway down the page, the line sat in neat type:

The deceased: Loras Tyrell. Professionally known as Loras Hightower.

He let his eyes rest on it, drew a single line under both names, and kept going. Companies House showed a tiny research outfit tied to the byline—nominee directors, a St James’s service address. Nothing noisy. The London Gazette carried a notice to creditors for “Loras Hightower (also known as Loras Tyrell)”. Dry, official language. Exactly the sort of truth that didn’t need selling.

That was identity. It told him who the man had been. It told him nothing about who had built the thing that had just set the town on fire.

He sat back and dealt with himself.

He drafted two short lines and saved them where only he would look: one for staff about stepping back from day-to-day “while we review”, one for the outside world about “listening” and “process”. Both brief enough to quote without context. He messaged counsel to have a delegation letter ready—effective when he said, not before. He rang the chair, then the two board members who mattered. Breakfasts went into diaries; his tone stayed calm. He filed two clean company names in case he needed to work under quieter paper. He spoke to the bank about covenants so there would be no surprises. He moved a slice of his options into a discretionary trust, set his phone to shorter retention, boxed the travel laptop, and told the runner that anything sensitive went by courier for a while. A single neutral sentence went to a friendly desk about a “strategy review”. No embroidery.

Replies began to trickle in. Fine. He clipped the inquest and the Gazette notice into a thin folder, wrote the date on the tab, and slid it into the drawer.

No conclusions. No speeches. He had a true name and a way to land if the ground shifted. For now, that was enough. He locked the door, turned up his collar, and let the rain carry him as far as the kerb.


 

The dining room at Winterfell was bright and warm. Lamps on. Radiators ticking. Snow pressed at the windows. Catelyn put a pot of stew on the table with bread and proper butter. It smelt like rosemary and heat.

Daenerys still had her hair dyed dark for the film. Jumper and jeans. They’d come up from Belfast a few days ago and the quiet here felt nothing like a set. Jorah rolled his sleeves as soon as he sat. His shoulders were loose. She felt herself loosen just seeing it.

Rhaego had fallen asleep after tea and was out cold upstairs. The house sounded settled, the way she liked: everyone where they should be.

They ate. Ned passed Jorah the bread without asking if he wanted any. Catelyn topped up glasses and told them to stop being polite.

“Do you remember the civic halls?” Ned said to Jorah, smiling. “Bad coffee. Good nights.”

Jorah laughed. “And the blackout. We finished anyway.”

“You were both idiots,” Catelyn said, fond. “But you were good.”

They skipped the years they hadn’t spoken. They didn’t need to say it. The way they talked now covered it.

“We could do something small up here,” Jorah said after a while.  

Ned didn’t hide the way his face lifted. “We could. We know how.”

Jorah flicked a quick look at Daenerys—if you’d hate it, say so. She wouldn’t. If it made him look like this, she would carry coats and make tea and stand in the rain. She gave him a small nod. He turned back to Ned.

“You’ll have to make room in your office,” Ned said to Catelyn, mock-serious. “All those awards.”

“Oh, stop,” Catelyn said, pleased despite herself. “Eat.”

They talked about small things—weather, who still baked properly, a daft story from years ago that didn’t need names. The stew was rich and hot. Jorah stole the last piece of bread from Daenerys’ plate and didn’t apologise. She let him. His knee rested against hers under the table and stayed there. He wasn’t performing here. She liked that most.

Catelyn set down her spoon. “It’s a good night,” she said. “But it’s not over, yet. Baelish and Cersei are still standing.”

The warmth didn’t leave; it drew in. The noise from the real world tried to climb back—headlines, calls, people suddenly certain. Daenerys thought of Sansa tucked away at Jon’s, of Tyrion taking the storm, of Varys’ calm voice on the phone.

“Not for long,” she said. “According to Varys.”

“That’ll do,” Ned said, and let out a breath.

Catelyn waved Daenerys back into her chair when she moved to help. “You’re staying. Sit.”

So she sat and listened to Jorah and Ned sketch the outline of something without promising it—who to ring first, the long room downstairs for a read-through, which of their old friends might still pick up. Close, not fixed. She felt the knot in her chest drop a notch. He belonged at this table, with these people, in this old house in the middle of nowhere. She loved him for looking like himself here.

They walked the corridor to their room. The house was warm; the wind pushed at the windows. Jorah squeezed her hand. A bed, a door, a few quiet days—enough for now.


The statement landed early—just as headlines were hardening into indictments, as more sources stepped forward, as the Academy’s silence grew louder by the hour.

It went out on crisp studio letterhead, emailed to every major entertainment desk and posted at the same moment on Baelish’s official channels.

“The revelations of recent days are deeply troubling. My thoughts are with those who bravely came forward to speak the truth. The industry must hold itself accountable, without compromise. I have full faith that truth and integrity will guide us forward.”

Perfectly worded. Nothing specific. Heavy with gravity.

He didn’t name Joffrey. He didn’t need to.

The phrasing was deliberate—“truth”, “integrity”, “accountability”. Words that cost nothing and suggested everything. The kind of statement journalists call measured, the kind executives forward to PR with “smart positioning” in the subject line.

Just beneath it sat the real message.

A polite nod to Good Queen Alysanne—its “bold vision” and “unwavering creative leadership”. A line about “projects that have championed courage and inclusion”, with a neat reference to his “support for talent”: an olive branch the Starks were meant to notice.

He was hedging. Pivoting. Letting the wind change and standing as if he’d always faced that way.

Behind the scenes, his team stripped his name from open credits where they could. Press releases were amended. Internal notes softened his role to “consulting producer”. If there was going to be a burn, it would not be today. Not while he still had hands on a dozen wires.

The wolves had teeth; Baelish, as ever, moved through the smoke.

And while the world called for justice, Petyr Baelish placed himself—neatly—as a man who had always stood with the righteous.

Even if no one remembered seeing him there.


No one was calling back.

Not the lawyers. Not the publicists. Not even the ones who used to grovel for her time. Cersei paced the penthouse, a glass of wine trembling in her hand. Another unread message. Another “regretfully unavailable” from a partner she’d made rich.

“This isn’t how it ends,” she said to the empty room.

The curtains were drawn. The city moved without her. She was used to being feared, to being needed, to holding the leverage. Now the industry was gutting itself, and no one wanted to be caught holding her hand when the blood hit the carpet.

She rang her brother—no answer. Jaime, ever the fool, was probably with Tyrion. With them.

She tried a studio head in New York who owed her four favours and a signed bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. Voicemail. Another drink. Another attempt. Nothing.

It had all hollowed out overnight. There was no press line, no legal angle that could save Joffrey now—not with that documentary everywhere. She’d misjudged how deep it cut. How far it reached.

She picked up her phone.

Paused.

Put it down.

No one was coming. No one was left.

For the first time in years, Cersei Lannister felt very, very alone.


It took him days to respond.
Not because he didn’t want to—because no one around him could agree how.

The lawyers begged for silence. The publicists drafted six apologies, each softer than the last. His agent tried to disappear altogether.

Joffrey Baratheon wasn’t going to stay quiet.

He sat at his desk, turned on the camera, and recorded it himself.
No script. No advisers. Just anger in a designer hoodie.

“I know what you think you’ve seen,” he began, voice steady in that forced way. “This isn’t journalism. This isn’t justice. This is a coordinated smear campaign.”

He leaned towards the lens.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence this drops during awards season? Right before my career reaches its peak? No. This is sabotage. This is envy. And I know exactly who’s behind it.”

He let the silence work for him.

“The Starks,” he said. “Sansa Stark. Her family. Her allies. They’re orchestrating this because they couldn’t stand to see me succeed. Because they couldn’t let go.”

He stared into the camera as if the room owed him applause.

“I will pursue legal action against everyone involved in this attack. I will clear my name. And when the smoke clears, I will still be standing.”

He ended the recording. He uploaded it without approval.

By the time his team saw it, it was already trending.

The responses were swift. Brutal. Unforgiving.

Joffrey didn’t care.
In his head, he had already won.


 

From Twitter:

 

From Twitter:

@FilmCriticEllis:
This isn’t a statement. This is a tantrum filmed in 4K. The man weaponised his privilege on camera and called it truth.

@ThorneInCinema:
I will still be standing” — Joffrey Baratheon, hours before BAFTA cut him off like dead weight.

@GrapevineAwards:
BREAKING: BAFTA has officially rescinded Joffrey Baratheon’s invitation to next week’s ceremony. AMPAS confirms they are “urgently reviewing” his nomination status following the documentary’s release.

@JeyneTheEditor:
If you’re still defending Joffrey after this week, you’re not part of the film industry—you’re part of the cover-up.

@FosterWrites:
The irony of Joffrey calling out the Starks for ‘sabotage’ when half the industry has known for years and said nothing. What a time to find a spine.


The responses to Joffrey's video ranged from razor-sharp to scorched earth. Think pieces went up within the hour—The Hollywood Hydra, The Prince Uncrowned, The Myth of the Golden Boy. Panel shows pulled apart his voice, his posture, the cut of his hoodie. Former colleagues issued statements of careful distance. A few of his former co-stars offered sympathy for his “struggles” without saying his name. Publicists began to jump ship. A major talent agency slipped out a single line: “We no longer represent Mr Baratheon.”

And through it all, one person said nothing: Sansa Stark.

.


They’d turned the telly off an hour ago.

Sansa sat curled under the blanket, legs tucked, phone facedown on the cushion beside her. The room held the kind of quiet that comes after a long day—radiator ticking, traffic soft through double glazing.

Jon came back from the kitchen with two mugs—tea for her, black coffee for himself—and passed hers over without a word. The heat sat well in her hands. She hadn’t realised how cold her fingers were until they weren’t.

“Thank you,” she said.

They stayed like that for a while. Not speaking. Breathing felt easier when he was near; the breath went a bit deeper and stayed.

“It doesn’t feel real,” she said at last, eyes still on the weave of the blanket. “That he’s actually… being seen. For what he is.”

Jon leaned back, his arm along the sofa behind her, close but not touching. “It is real,” he said. “You made it real.”

Guilt flickered—she hadn’t cut the film, hadn’t funded it—but the tea steadied her. “I didn’t make the documentary.”

“No,” he said. “But you survived the story it told. That’s harder.”

Her throat tightened; the ache was small and clean. She moved, slow, and let her head rest against his shoulder. His jumper smelt of laundry and rain. The muscles in her jaw unclenched a notch. She noticed it because the absence left room for something else.

“I was so afraid,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Not of him. Of being unheard.”

He rested his cheek against her hair. “You weren’t unheard, Sansa,” he said, quiet. “You were waiting for the world to catch up.”

She let that sit. The phone buzzed once under its own weight and stilled. She didn’t turn it over. She watched the steam thin from her mug and felt her pulse lose its hurry.

In the corner of her mind she ran through the usual drills—what if this turns, what if it gets ugly, what if they say my name anyway—and for once the answers didn’t drown her. Jon’s breathing was steady. She matched it without trying.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied.

She believed him. The belief landed low, warm, and surprisingly heavy—but welcome, cherished even. They stayed there, shoulder to shoulder, the flat holding their quiet while the city worked itself up outside. For tonight, the noise could wait.

 


The room was quiet except for the hum of the minibar.

Margaery stood by the window, barefoot, still in costume from the day’s shoot. Rain slid down the Belfast glass in thin lines; streetlights made small pools on the pavement.

She hadn’t turned on the news. She didn’t need to. Her phone buzzed on the table—missed calls, headlines stacking, short texts from Renly: It’s moving. Leave it. We’re covered. Hold.

She crossed to the cabinet and poured a drink. Neat. No flourish.

She held the glass a moment. No speech. Just the ache that never quite left.

“This is for Loras,” she said, barely above a breath.

She drank. Set the glass down. Pulled out one hairpin, then another, and let the quiet settle.

She didn’t need the television to tell her the rest. She let Hollywood burn.


Jaime had never visited Joffrey’s sets. He hadn’t funded the films. He hadn’t posed on carpets beside him, hadn’t offered legal counsel, hadn’t seen him more than a handful of times in five years. But he was a Lannister. A Crown Prosecutor. And Joffrey’s uncle.

That was enough.

Headlines circled:

What Did Jaime Lannister Know?
The Lannister Silence
Family Values in Question

Barristers edged away. Law societies muttered. Old convictions came out of archive drawers—not because they needed looking at, but because guilt, in weeks like this, behaved like a contagion.

Tyrion watched it build from his London office, the air stale with old coffee and overworked printers. Every alert that used Jaime’s name tightened something in his chest. Jaime had made mistakes—Tyrion could list them, alphabetically if needed—but not this. Never this.

So he went to work.

Quiet favours, the kind you don’t write down. A call to a judge with a long memory and a short patience for bandwagons. A line to two journalists who still took his calls because he never lied to them. A check-in with a public advocate who cared more about facts than feeds. He didn’t shout. He put things where people would find them.

He built a simple frame: Jaime as the outsider. The reformer. The Lannister who stepped away from the rot rather than shielding it.

No puff. Just facts, sharpened.

No professional overlap with Joffrey’s companies. Documented recusals where there was even a whisper of conflict. The prosecutions he’d pushed that had upset the right people. The unpaid work that never made a press release. And a short statement from Jaime—calm, precise—confirming he had no role in Joffrey’s business, no advisory capacity, no financial ties to those projects; that he supported full accountability and would cooperate with any review, and that he wouldn’t be commenting further.

By afternoon the headlines were still ugly, but the edges had softened. Comment pieces started to split the name from the man. A legal editor wrote, dryly, that “guilt by kinship isn’t a standard”.

Tyrion closed a tab, leaned back, and let his eyes rest. He hadn’t saved Jaime. He’d only put the truth where people could see it.


The Legal Aid UK event wasn’t meant to be a redemption. It ended up looking like one.

Jaime stepped out of the black car alone. No entourage. No handler. He turned his collar up against the cold and took the Mayfair steps at an even pace. Flashes hit as soon as his shoe touched the carpet.

“Mr Lannister—do you condone your nephew’s actions?”
“Will you resign permanently?”
“Did you know?”

He didn’t flinch.

“I was not close to my nephew,” he said, measured. “His actions are his own. My heart is with the victims, and I stand with them. As a prosecutor, my duty is to the truth and to justice, without bias.”

More flashes. Then Brienne Tarth came into view behind him—no theatrics; just there. She paused at the rope and raised a hand.

“I’m Brienne Tarth. Line producer,” she said. “I run sets. I keep people safe. I don’t stand next to men who look the other way. Mr Lannister isn’t one of them. Today is about Legal Aid—fund it, so people without power can be heard.”

That was it.

From the fringe, Tyrion watched behind dark glasses and felt the line settle. Brienne had the cleanest name in the business: work first, no nonsense, not a Lannister. If she spent ten words on you, it meant something. It read as standards, not PR.

Microphones dipped. The next questions came quieter.

Jaime went inside. Brienne followed.

Tyrion’s shoulders dropped a notch. Not fixed. Not safe. But there was a gap. He took off the sunglasses, checked his phone, and made the next call.


Backstage, Oberyn Martell was ten texts deep.

He caught Tyrion as a staffer handed over a bottle of sparkling water. The cap hissed; cold gathered on Tyrion’s palm. From the hall came a wash of applause and the thud of chairs.

“We need to move now,” Oberyn said, thumbs still flying. “The headlines are forming.”

Tyrion nodded once. “Then sharpen the angle.”

A corner of Oberyn’s mouth lifted. “He walked away. He stood up when it counted. That’s the line.”

“That’ll cost me, I assume.”

“Always does,” Oberyn said, tapping send. “Don’t worry—I’ll put it on Baelish’s tab.”

Tyrion rolled the bottle against the back of his neck; the day eased by a degree. “Give me clean lines.”

“You’ll have them in five minutes,” Oberyn said. “Three if The Times picks up.”

They did.

 

— ‘Jaime Lannister takes a stand: “I stand with the victims.”’ — Guardian UK
— ‘Brienne Tarth: “He didn’t look away.” Legal world takes note.’ — The Times
— ‘Prosecutor distances himself from nephew; record shows clean recusals.’ — Evening Standard


The day after the event, Bronn dropped Tyrion at Jaime’s new flat and said he’d wait downstairs. The stairwell smelled of fresh paint and someone else’s takeaway. Jaime opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp, the place more boxes than furniture.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Please,” Tyrion said, stepping inside.

The living room had been turned into an office out of necessity: a folding table, two chairs, and a corkboard leaned against the wall with names and arrows written in neat black pen. Tyrion noticed it, then let his eyes move on.

The kettle clicked off. Jaime brought two mismatched mugs and sat opposite him. Traffic dragged past below; the radiator woke with a soft tick.

“How is it?” Tyrion asked.

“I’ve been suspended,” Jaime said, with a small, dry smile.

“From the Service?”

He nodded. “Indefinitely. Not disciplinary. ‘Precautionary,’ apparently. Optics.”

“Spineless bastards.” Tyrion said.

“They’re not wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t stop anything either.”

They let the quiet sit. Jaime looked tired but steadier than the night before. Tyrion set a packet of shortbread on the table, and Jaime opened it like a man who had forgotten he was hungry.

“Are you eating?” Tyrion asked.

“Badly,” Jaime said. “But I’m trying.”

They spoke about ordinary things for a while: the boiler that needed coaxing, a football match Jaime claimed he hadn’t watched and could recount minute by minute. Neither of them went near the board.

“Are you still in?” Tyrion said at last.

“To the end,” Jaime replied, without hesitation.

“Good,” Tyrion said. “No statements. No heroics. Keep your head down.”

“I can do that.”

They finished their tea and the last of the shortbread. When Jaime stood to put the kettle on again, Tyrion shook his head and reached for his coat.

“I can’t stay,” he said. “Bronn’s downstairs pretending to be patient.”

“Tell him thank you,” Jaime said.

“He’ll send me a bill,” Tyrion replied. At the door he paused, looked once at his brother, and said, “You’re not on your own.”

“I know,” Jaime said.

They didn’t hug. Tyrion tapped the doorframe with two fingers and stepped out. Bronn flashed the headlights when he saw him. As the car pulled away, Tyrion watched the building in the mirror until it slipped out of sight. For one afternoon, they had been just brothers. It was enough to close the day.

Chapter 26: Chapter 26: post

Chapter Text

The call had ended five minutes ago, but Margaery still had not moved.

She sat on the edge of her hotel bed, phone still in her hand, the quiet pulse of the screen long gone. The radiator hummed beneath the window; the room was warm, yet a chill had settled over her. Not fear for herself. Her career had never been the point. Ygritte had told her straight: she would be fine, she could take care of herself, and the offers would keep coming. There were already conversations about her first feature, waiting quietly for the right time. That was not what unsettled her now.

What unsettled her was Tyrion. She thought of him bent over the whiteboard, exhausted and still turning the pieces in his head. She thought of Theon, who had risked everything for Sansa and did not even seem to notice the weight he had taken on. All of it had been sentiment. Every choice she had made since the night she sat with Renly over Loras’s hard drives, putting down a strategy had come from loyalty and from love. To have Varys tell her not to let sentiment cloud her judgement—she almost laughed at the absurdity. Sentiment was the only reason any of this existed. Sentiment was the root.

Yet his words stayed with her. Varys had not raised his voice. He never needed to. He shifted the space around you until you lost your footing. He could strip the ground beneath your feet without laying a hand.

She respected him. She did not trust him. Not fully. That would have been naive, and Margaery Tyrell had never been naive.

She heard him still: calm, soft, deceptively gentle.
“Do not let sentiment cloud your judgement. We are at the endgame, and only those who remain still will survive the storm.”

It had sounded like advice. She knew better. It was a warning. He had known everything for months—the reason he had agreed to represent her at all, helped along by the obscene amount of money her grandmother paid to hire him, and had let it bloom in slow motion while he smiled, the patient gardener.

Margaery pulled the sleeves of her jumper down over her hands. Her eyes moved over the room: an empty glass on the desk, her laptop open to yet another article dissecting Joffrey’s implosion.

She had done this. She was not done. But in the shadows Varys had made sure the pieces stayed exactly where he needed them.

Stay steady, he had said without saying it. Or you fall.

She stood. She chose movement over the practical unease his call had left behind—the questions he had not answered, the cost he had not named. She crossed to the window, watched the Belfast rain run down the glass, and let the cold settle into something useful.


Far north of the chaos, Daenerys Stormborn stared out the window of her borrowed room in Winterfell, the view blanketed in quiet snow.

The world was burning, but here, all was still.

Rhaego was asleep. Jorah was reading in the next room, murmuring occasionally at whatever news made it through the reception that far north. And Daenerys… Daenerys was watching the silence, feeling the shape of a storm she wasn’t standing in—but could still smell on the wind.

She hadn’t spoken to Varys directly in weeks. He didn’t need direct lines. The messages came through backchannels—worded carefully, sometimes obliquely. A certain phrase relayed by Tyrion. A subtle edit to a press release. A journalist who had once been hounding her suddenly shifting focus to a different story.

She had asked Tyrion once, “Do you think Varys is watching everything?”

Tyrion had shrugged. “I think if the planet exploded, Varys would already have an escape plan. And three contingencies.”

She hadn’t laughed then. She almost did now.

Her phone buzzed. One message. No sender name.

The fire is not yet out. Keep your distance, and let the ashes settle.

She stared at it for a long time.

No instructions. No demands. Just that quiet voice, slipping through the wire with the weight of a thousand whispered truths.

Varys wasn’t just working for her. He was working around her. Shielding her, in his own silent way. And she hated that she needed it. She had always prized independence, had spent a lifetime carving out space for her voice in a world built to silence it.

But this? This was war. And in war, you didn’t ignore the sharpest blade at your side.

She didn’t reply. There was no point.

Instead, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and turned toward the fire. The snow kept falling outside. Quiet. Relentless.

She would wait.

Let the fire burn itself out.

Let the ashes fall.

And when the storm passed, she’d still be standing.


The edit suite hummed. The air‑con was too cold and the coffee had gone thin. Jon sat with Sam, both hunched towards the monitors. This was Jon’s domain, not Sansa’s. Actors did not sit in cutting rooms; it was not their place. But Jon had fought for his contract, and final cut meant he belonged here until the last frame landed. Sam was his second pair of eyes, steady and blunt when needed.

On screen, Sansa held the room in a breath: a candle guttered, an eyeline landed, the silence did more than dialogue could.

"Back two," Jon said.

Sam jogged the wheel. The waveform rolled. They watched the moment again, then again, until it stopped being footage and turned back into a choice.

Sam rubbed his eyes. "We could J‑cut her inhale under Jaehaerys, keep the tension, then give her the frame clean."

Jon shook his head. "Trim three frames on the breath. It is honest, but indulgent."

Sam smiled. "Said the man who once wrote a corridor walk into five minutes."

Jon let out a breath. "Earned."

They worked. Handles, markers, the small domestic war against milliseconds. Davos had been in earlier, quiet as ever, leaving a note about a sky plate no one had remembered to hate.

On the desk, Jon’s phone buzzed. He glanced at Sansa’s name. He typed: Everything okay? and left it there, a hand held out, not pulling.

"Again," Jon said, and the candles steadied.


Baelish shifted strategies.

He had left Joffrey’s wreckage where it lay, cut the cords that tied him to a sinking brand, and turned his attention to the shadowy network behind The King is a Monster.

There was no panic. There never had been. He preferred small movements that looked like nothing at all: quiet messages, coffees arranged under the cover of catching up, phone calls that began with pleasantries and ended with numbers. He did not ask about the documentary. That raised flags. Instead, he asked about independent financing, about changes to UK tax reliefs, about smaller production companies that had been busy without much publicity.

People spoke. They always did. Assistants filled silences. Accountants corrected language. Publicists forgot which things were still off the record. A name returned more than once: a discreet fund based in London. Anonymous investors. Private placements handled by a firm that did not even keep a public website.

The threads were tight, but not invisible. Whoever had bankrolled the documentary had kept the paperwork clean and the trail short. Clean and short were still trails.

He built a list of projects financed quietly in the last eighteen months. Several shared patterns he recognised: low‑profile shoots, regional crews hired at speed, post‑production windows that were short and fully funded. A handful shared heads of department. Two had the same editor. One listed a studio consultant he knew had history with Renly Baratheon.

That combination sharpened his focus. The same discreet London fund named by unrelated people, anonymous partners, private placements through a firm with no public website, and Renly’s name appearing twice on credits. Repetition meant coordination, and coordination meant power.

He kept his smile easy and his questions loose. No one noticed what he was assembling. Not yet.

He opened a fresh page in his notebook and wrote three lines: the fund, the firm, the consultant. Then he closed the cover and reached for his coat.

 


Sansa set her phone on the table and let the silence settle. The flat was quiet. She stared at the screen for a long moment before moving, as if the act of dialling cost her more than she wanted to admit. The kettle was only an excuse to keep her hands busy, to hide the tremor that came when she thought too much. When it boiled she made herself press the call button.

His face filled the screen a moment later. Belfast light, grey at the edges. He sat at the kitchen table, the phone propped against a mug, a folded hoodie under it to hold the angle. The frame was tight on his face; the rest of the kitchen was out of shot. She knew Margaery was on set. For a second she thought about the flat itself, about its mess and the radiator that always banged at night, and the thought surprised her with how much she missed it.

"Hey," he said. His voice was soft in the way it became when he was working through something. "Are you all right?"

The question pulled at her. She wanted to say no. Instead she said, "I am here. That is something."

He nodded, then looked down, then up again. "I am sorry."

She did not rescue him. She let him feel the pause. Her heart beat hard against her ribs.

"I keep seeing that BAFTA afterparty," he said. "I left you there. You met Joffrey. It is all my fault. Dad asked me to look after you."

Sansa swallowed. "Theon — it is not and it has never been your fault. I was naive and they were so good at hiding who they were."

Theon blinked. He did not believe her. She could hear it in his voice, too tight, too sharp. It hurt that Joffrey was still in the room with them, even now.

"I knew what you had been through, and I wanted revenge. I wanted him to pay. All I could see was getting the truth out, clean and solid. I told myself the truth would do the work, that it would be enough. It was not. I did not think about how it would land on you. I did not think about the noise or what it could mean to you. I should have thought about you first."

Sansa wrapped both hands round her mug. The heat steadied her. She wanted to cry, but she did not. "I know what you were trying to do," she said. "I know why you did it. I am proud of you for doing it. I was frightened, and I am still tired. But I am not angry with you anymore."

His mouth pulled in. "I would not blame you if you were."

"I am not," she said. "But  I needed you not to keep it from me. I cannot protect myself without all the facts. It hurt that you and Margaery kept it quiet. It hurt that you did."

He closed his eyes. "You are right. I should have told you. But Sansa, you need to believe me, I thought I was protecting you by keeping you out of it." He shook his head. " I know how that sounds, but I swear it's the truth!"

The kettle clicked again, settling back into metal. In Belfast a door went somewhere off screen; Theon glanced over his shoulder and then back.

"I will speak to Margaery," he said. "And I know when you are ready, you two will talk it out. You have been friends forever, sister."

They were quiet for a moment. He rubbed at the line above his brow with his thumb, a habit from school she had never quite talked him out of. She set her mug down and looked at him properly.

"You are my brother," she said. "You are my best friend. That did not change."

His smile was quick and reached his eyes. "Same. Always."

"When this calms, come to London," she said. "We will cook something that does not come in a box. You can sit on the kitchen floor and tell me about the cut that nearly killed you. I will tell you about the scene that would not land. We will be normal for a night."

"I would like that," he said. "I will get on the first flight I can. As soon as things are not crazy, we are crashing at my place, like old times."

Her phone buzzed. A message from Jon lit the screen: Tea? She glanced at it, then looked back to Theon. Her chest felt tight, and she was not sure if it was hurt or relief.

"I have to go for a bit," she said.  Meeting Jon for tea in the small cafe near the editing studio has quickly become one of their rituals. No one cared about them, and with a hood up no one recognized her. 

"Go," Theon said. "Tell Jon I will bring something decent when I come down. Not the rubbish from work."

She smiled, softly. "He will hold you to that."

"Sansa?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for calling."

"Always," she said. "Call me tonight when you finish work. If you are not too tired."

"I will." He lifted two fingers in a small salute, the way he always had when they were children and he wanted her to know he meant it.

The call ended. The room felt warmer. She stood with the mug in her hands and let herself feel the relief of it. Then she picked up the phone and set it down beside her. She thought about going to see Jon at the edit suite, but she knew she would not stay long.


EXCERPT – The Atlantic | Culture Desk] The Monster We Fed: Joffrey Baratheon and the Illusion of Untouchability
By J. Poole

He was called golden. That was the shorthand. Charismatic, sharp, unshakeable. He entered meetings as if the answer had already been yes. In many rooms, it was.

What The King is a Monster lays bare is not only the conduct of one man, but the structure that protected him. The producers who decided that a steady slate mattered more than a safe set. The executives who weighed liability against profit and chose profit. The agents and lawyers who turned pain into paperwork. The journalists who stepped back after a legal threat. The voters who kept nominating him because momentum felt objective. This was not one man’s myth. It was an ecosystem.

Baratheon was not an open secret. He was a closed file that too many people agreed not to open. Because awards season mattered. Because access mattered. Because saying nothing is easier to justify when everyone else is saying nothing too.

The film resists catharsis. It offers a record. Dates, emails, accounts. It shows how neglect becomes policy and how policy becomes habit. It is boring in places on purpose, because that is how power often looks: administrative, procedural, professional. It is also unmistakable.

If change is the aim, start with the plumbing. Tie public money to audited safeguarding and training. Festivals should publish clear reporting routes and use them. Unions need the resources to take complaints out of employers’ hands. Newsrooms must stop treating off‑the‑record threats as the price of access. Awards bodies ought to pause eligibility while credible investigations run. None of this is radical. It is the minimum.

We like stories about singular villains because they let the rest of us off the hook. But the truth was always there, and enough of us knew enough to ask better questions. The documentary has done the work of putting the facts in order. The test now is whether the people who profited from the old order are willing to pay the price of a safer one.


The gallery was loud with polite laughter and poured wine. Waiters moved with trays that never emptied. Labels were read aloud as if that counted as looking. Baelish had not come for the art.

The rooms were too warm, walls lined with canvases chosen for the donor list rather than for taste. He skimmed the crowd the way other men skimmed an index, filing faces, noting who spoke to whom and who avoided whose gaze. Tyrion stood near the bar, glass in hand, shoulder half‑turned to a financier who nodded along while his eyes tracked the next arrival. Baelish drifted across the floor as if he had been going that way anyway, smile set to polite and unthreatening.

"Tyrion," he said, lifting his glass. "You are harder to catch than a tax‑free post‑production slot."

Tyrion’s mouth curved, dry. "Baelish. Still networking your way through the rubble?"

"Only where there is still something worth building."

They talked as men talked at openings: names without detail, projects without dates. Baelish did not mention the documentary. That would set off alarms. He alluded instead, let curiosity hang in the air. He wondered aloud about shifting power structures. About how money seemed to move more quietly now. About unseen hands steering narratives. Every word trimmed to pass as idle chat.

Tyrion let him talk. He smiled, he sipped, he gestured with his glass as though amused. But Baelish watched the tells: the slight narrowing of the eyes, the sip that took one beat too long, the glass set down and not lifted again. He had drawn blood. Not much, but enough.

Five minutes, no more. Baelish let the silence end the conversation, left Tyrion to the financier, and moved on. He collected nods, greetings, fragments of nothing. He stored them anyway. Even nothing had weight when you carried enough of it.

At the door he glanced back. Tyrion Lannister had always been quick. He missed little, and a man in his position could not stay ignorant of the game being played around him.


Jaime’s flat still smelled of cardboard and new paint, a place half moved into and already drowning under production binders. Brienne had spent the day at his shoulder, showing him how numbers became schedules, how call sheets hid disasters in their margins, how a catering invoice could topple the week if you ignored it. He had spent twenty years in courtrooms and none of it had prepared him for this. He hated admitting he was out of his depth, but she already knew. She had watched him curse under his breath when he confused net and gross, had steadied him when the budget sheet blurred. Somehow she made it all look simple, and somehow her patience made him want to try again.

By evening his head throbbed. His tie was off, sleeves shoved to his elbows. Brienne had insisted they stop, had ordered take‑out, had laughed when he admitted he had not yet bought plates. They ate straight from cartons, chopsticks clumsy in his fingers. The smell of soy and ginger cut through the flat’s paint and plaster. Jaime leaned back, studying her across the wreckage of noodles and rice, the lamplight making her hair gleam.

“How are you even real?” he asked. She was good, and honest, and honourable. She made him laugh. She made him feel seen in ways he had not thought he deserved. She made him want to be better than he had been.

She only shook her head, amused. She knew all of him. She knew the good, the bad, the ugly—the headlines that painted him guilty before the facts were known, the compromises, the years spent tied to Cersei’s shadow. He had told her everything, for some reason, even before they kissed for the first time, the night before he left Belfast to return to London,

. She had stood beside him when the knives had come out, when the industry had needed a scapegoat for Joffrey’s mistakes. She had walked at his side when he should have been finished. She had carried some of the blows herself. He had never told her that he suspected Cersei had helped sharpen them.

The night went long. They traded stories: her dry humour about a grip who had once fallen asleep on set, his confession that he still woke in sweats from hearings gone wrong. She teased him for his paperwork, he teased her for her unshakeable calm. The city outside dulled to a hum, rain sliding down glass. The radiator knocked once, then went quiet.

Their relationship had never been conventional. Nothing about it was. She was the most honourable person he had ever met, and she sat here eating noodles from a carton on his floor as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He put down his chopsticks, felt the quiet stretch, and let the words come.

“Stay the night.”

Brienne looked at him, steady as always. She had carried him through worse silences. For her, too, this was a step across a line neither of them had named. She set aside her carton, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and reached for his hand. She stayed.


The flat was dim, only the bedside lamp left on. Jon pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the chair. The air still smelled faintly of the coffee he had brewed hours earlier. Sansa sat propped against the pillows, one leg folded beneath her, the heavy quilt pulled close. She had been leafing through the old photo albums stacked on the table, her fingers tracing the edges of the worn pages. She turned a page slowly, pausing at an image of a woman caught mid‑laughter, her face lifted to the sun.

Jon felt the heat creep into his cheeks. Those photographs always left him raw, but to see Sansa’s hands on them—it was both comfort and exposure. He slid under the covers beside her, shoulder brushing hers. "Cabin fever yet?" he asked, trying for lightness though his throat was tight.

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "Not yet. These have kept me company. Your mother must have been an extraordinary woman."

Jon’s chest tightened. The picture blurred for a moment in his mind, replaced by the truth of it: his mother running between jobs, the smell of takeaway dinners, the long evenings when social services might have knocked because he had been left too long on his own. She had carried more than her share, and he had learnt early how to carry himself, how to grow a skin thick enough that the world did not break him. He swallowed. "She was," he said. The words cost him, but he let them stand. Then, softer: "I am sure she would have loved you."

Sansa set the album down on the quilt, her touch gentle. The weight left a hollow in the fabric. She turned fully towards him, her hand sliding into his, fingers lacing as if they had always belonged there. Pride stirred in her—pride for the boy who had grown into this man, for the grit that had carried him through, for the kindness he still held despite it all. Her eyes shone in the lamplight. "I hope so," she whispered.

Jon squeezed her hand, grounding himself in her warmth. The embarrassment, the grief, and the love all pressed together in his chest, heavy and real. He thought of his mother, gone too young, who had worked herself raw to keep him clothed and fed, who had taught him to endure when there was no one else to rely on. He still missed her every day. He imagined what she would have thought of Sansa: good, honest, kind, funny, beautiful. She would have loved her, he was certain. The thought ached and comforted him all at once.

The silence that followed was not empty but full, carrying more than words could. Outside, the city pressed quiet against the windows. Inside, they let the moment hold them.


Baelish sat alone in the back of the car, the city lights flickering across glass. The driver said nothing, the partition raised, the hum of the engine the only company. Baelish opened his notebook again, the same three names staring back: the fund, the firm, the consultant. Threads, not proof. But threads could be pulled until they showed the weave.

He read the list again, matching each name against scraps of memory. A production designer who had once worked on a Baratheon project. An editor whose invoice had been covered by a shell fund linked to a firm in London. A consultant who appeared twice, both times on projects Renly had championed. Too many overlaps. He marked them down, line by line, until a pattern began to show.

Once could be coincidence. Twice could be sloppy accounting. But three times, across separate productions, all tied to quiet money that wanted no spotlight—that was intent. Renly Baratheon’s name lay at the centre of it. Renly, who had always straddled the line between artist and producer, whose charm hid a sharper calculation. Baelish remembered dinners years ago: Renly’s hand on Loras’s shoulder, his laughter easy, his words carrying more weight than the tone suggested. He had dismissed it then. He did not dismiss it now.

He let the pen hover over the page. The documentary had not sprung from nowhere. It had backers with reach. And one of them, Baelish looked like the most likely thread, though the paper trail was thin and the money well covered. What he had was decades of experience, an article about the death of Loras Hightower, and a gut feeling he did not trust about  Renly Baratheon. The thought settled in his gut, cold and promising. He smiled to himself in the dark, and closed the notebook with care.


 

Snow clung to the low branches, heavy and wet. The red leaves of the weirwood shifted above them, the carved face half-obscured by moss and years of weather. The path crunched underfoot, frost brittle over stone. Daenerys walked beside Jorah, her hands sunk deep in her coat pockets, shoulders drawn not from cold but from thought.

“I did not think it would feel like this,” she said. “I thought Winterfell would be colder. Harsher.”

Jorah’s breath clouded in the air. “It is not exactly warm.”

“No,” she allowed, and a small smile touched her mouth. “But it is not unkind.”

They passed under a dip of branches, the wind sighing through. Daenerys slowed a little, eyes on the white bark ahead. “It feels steady. Like it has seen everything, and still wants to welcome you. I have not felt that in a long time.”

“They trust you,” Jorah said.

“They trust you too,” she answered. “Catelyn watches Rhaego as if she has waited her whole life for another chance.”

He gave a low laugh. “Maybe we all have.”

They reached the bench beneath the tree. She stopped there, studying the stillness, the way the place seemed to hold its breath. “I did not think I would ever feel this kind of quiet again. Not after all of it.”

“You have not had much peace,” he said.

She looked at him properly then, letting the silence sit between them. “I did not know I could.”

“You can,” he told her. “You do.”

She stepped towards him. He met her halfway. His hands settled on her arms, warm through the fabric. No declarations. No promises. Just the steadiness of his presence, the hush of the trees, the sound of Rhaego’s laughter carrying faintly from further down the path.

Ned and Catelyn sat on a bench there, their heads close in quiet conversation, Rhaego tumbling in the frost-bitten grass at their feet. His laughter lifted through the cold air, bright as a spark that refused to go out.

 


[EXCERPT – Vanity Fair | Awards Desk]
Jon Snow’s Quiet Storm: Inside the Post‑Production Lockdown of Good Queen Alysanne
By J. Cassel

Every awards season produces its own defining image. This year, the defining image may not even arrive until next. While the industry reels from the fallout of The King is a Monster and the implosion of Joffrey Baratheon’s career, another story is being written—quietly, in dark rooms, frame by frame.

The whispers all point to Good Queen Alysanne. Filming wrapped in Belfast last month; the sets are gone, the costumes returned, the cast dispersed. And yet the silence around the project has only sharpened the anticipation. Sansa Stark, who leads the film, has disappeared from social media altogether. Jorah Mormont and Daenerys Targaryen, who share the film’s most haunting present‑day storyline, have kept similarly off the grid. Daario Naharis, rarely seen outside the odd paparazzi snap of him jogging or walking his dog, has been glimpsed only at the gates of a soundstage, head down, no comment. For a film of this scale, the blackout is unusual. For a film of this reputation, it is electric.

At the centre of it sits Jon Snow. The thirty‑something director has been holed up in post‑production with editor Samwell Tarly and writer‑producer Tyrion Lannister. Rumour has it a rough cut will be shown to executive producers next week. Until then, Snow and his team are in lockdown. Colleagues describe twelve‑hour days in the edit suite, sessions that stretch until dawn, and a director unwilling to cede even three frames if it compromises rhythm.

“It is meticulous,” one crew member said. “He knows what he wants. He fights for it.” Another, asked to compare Snow to contemporaries, offered only: “He reminds me of early Nolan. But warmer.”

The stakes are clear. Good Queen Alysanne is already being whispered about as “the movie of next year.” Early viewers of dailies describe performances “career‑defining,” a script “as sharp as it is devastating,” and cinematography that “shot by BAFTA and Oscar winner Davos Seaworth, whose work gives every frame weight and texture, and whose eye may deliver the most striking visuals of his career.” Awards pundits are cautious—no one wants to call it this far out—but the phrase Oscar vehicle has appeared more than once in private threads.

What makes the silence around the project striking is how total it is. No cryptic Instagram posts. No on‑set leaks. No cast roundtables filling the void. Just the hum of post‑production, and the sense that something major is being shaped behind closed doors. In an industry addicted to noise, the quiet is deafening.

“Jon is not playing the campaign game,” says one veteran producer not affiliated with the film. “He is playing the long game. Deliver the film. Let it speak. The rest follows.”

For now, the rest of the industry waits. The firestorm has scorched this awards season. The next may belong to Good Queen Alysanne.


 

The fire crackled in the hearth. The rest of the house had gone quiet, settled into the deep quiet of Winterfell nights. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around you like history.

Jorah sat in the old armchair closest to the flames, both hands around a mug he had not touched. Across from him, Ned Stark eased into the second chair, a faint stiffness in his movements.

They sat without speaking for a while.

“You love her,” Ned said eventually, not looking over. Just stating a fact.

Jorah’s voice was steady. “Yes.”

“And the boy?”

“He is mine. In every way that matters.”

Ned nodded slowly. The firelight caught the silver at his temples.

“She is strong,” he said after a beat.

“She has had to be,” Jorah replied. “More than anyone should.”

Ned glanced at him then. “She is not alone now.”

Jorah finally looked away from the flames. “Thank you. For giving her this place.”

Ned met his gaze. “You protect what matters. So do I.”

The silence settled again—but it had changed. Heavier. Sharper around the edges.

“We are at war, Jorah,” Ned said. Calm. Clear. “You can stay here as long as you want. This is a home for both of you. But I do not imagine she will want to sit it out.”

Jorah did not speak.

“And if I know you,” Ned added, “you will not want to either.”

Jorah exhaled, the ghost of a grim smile on his face.

“Who is next?”

Ned did not hesitate. “Baelish. And then the Boltons.”

There was no heat in the words. Just certainty.

They both looked back into the fire. The logs popped softly, sparks blooming and dying in the hearth.

No toasts. No vows. Just a shared understanding.

They would not let this rot go unchecked.

Not anymore


 

Filming had wrapped weeks ago. The sets were packed, the cameras boxed, and the cast scattered home. Post‑production had begun—long hours in dark rooms, revisions stacked on revisions, every frame watched like a hawk. Jon would show the rough cut of the movie to the executives the following week. 

And in the middle of it, the quiet war had begun. They were cutting Baelish out.

Tyrion led the charge. He had always known Baelish was a risk, but now the risk was unacceptable. With the documentary still shaking the industry and Joffrey’s name scorched beyond salvage, Baelish had become radioactive.

Officially, his name was still attached. But not for long.

Jon and Brienne had already locked him out of the post‑production servers. His credentials were quietly revoked. Any access he might have had to raw footage, edit notes, or internal memos—gone.

“He has not asked yet,” Brienne said.

“He will,” Tyrion replied. “Once he realises he is frozen out.”

Oberyn handled the outside. “Stepped back for personal reasons,” he said dryly. “That is the line we are feeding anyone who bothers to ask.”

“Anyone asking?” Brienne asked.

Oberyn’s grin was sharp. “Not really. He is a sinking ship. Most people are just relieved not to be on board.”

Tyrion tapped a contract on the table. “We scrub his name from the credits. Minimal mention in PR. He is a ghost.”

Jon barely looked up from the monitor. “He will not go quietly.”

“No,” Tyrion said. “But he will not go publicly either. He has too much to lose.”

They all understood. This was not revenge. This was protection. Good Queen Alysanne could not afford to be contaminated. Not now. Not when the truth had already set the industry ablaze.

“He gambled on Joffrey,” Tyrion said. “Now he is out. Quietly. Permanently.”

Jaime looked up from the stack of paperwork Brienne had left him. His voice was low. “Let us finish it.”

And so they did.

 

 

Chapter 27: Chapter 27 - The Academy reacts

Notes:

Can you believe we’re almost at the end? This fic has been my chaotic little companion for nearly a decade (!!) and honestly, I feel a bit bereft letting it go. I do have sequel ideas simmering — imagine an Oscar race featuring Good Queen Alysanne and our merry band of survivors? 👀 If that’s something you’d like to see, drop a comment and let me know.

For the record, I’m also drafting another Hollywood AU beastie with a totally different energy from Quiet on the Set (less snakes and scandals, more… well, you’ll see). Would you be interested in reading that too?

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Baelish stood alone in his high-rise office, the glass running floor to ceiling before him. Beyond it, the city glittered — towers lit like jeweled spines, traffic threading fire across the dark.

From this height, it still looked like his.
The skyline. The hum of money changing hands. The illusion of control.

But the power had shifted. He could feel it in ways that didn’t announce themselves. Doors that took longer to open. Assistants who suddenly had other calls to take. The hesitation that crept into voices once eager to flatter. And the silence — always the silence — from allies who had once fought to be first in line.

He pressed two fingers to the glass. Cold, though the room behind him was warm.

Everyone was playing a game now.
The Starks—calm, deliberate, unblinking, as if the city itself bent to their patience.
Renly—lavishing gifts, scattering favours like coins in a crowd, but coins had edges, and they cut.
And others too, moving behind the smoke, faces he couldn’t yet see.

They weren’t cleaning up Hollywood.
They were reshaping it.
And they had outplayed him.

He let his hand fall, straightened his cuffs. Expression unreadable, the picture of calm.

Everyone carries an agenda, he thought. I’ve played my part. I’ll play it to the end.

He turned from the window. The night caught his reflection, swallowed it whole.

And Baelish began to plan again.


Exclusive: “The Queens Hollywood Didn’t See Coming”
By Lianne Graves, Vanity Fair

In a year when scandal has defined Hollywood’s headlines and studios scramble to rebuild reputations, it feels almost miraculous to find a story that plays not like survival, but coronation.

Good Queen Alysanne, the psychological historical drama filmed across Belfast and Iceland, wrapped weeks ago. It was meant to be a prestige curio for cinephiles, a period piece with gothic edges. Instead, it has become the name that slips into every conversation over wine at Soho House, the film circled on festival slates and whispered about at studio boardrooms.

The reason, insiders say, lies in its two leading women: Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn.

On screen, their characters never truly meet. Stark carries the past as Queen Alysanne, regal and formidable; Stormborn inhabits the present as Anne, a historian haunted by visions of her predecessor. Their storylines intersect like echoes across centuries. Only once do the two women share space, in a sequence filmed on a remote Icelandic plain — snow sweeping sideways, light cutting sharp across the horizon. The scene itself is brief, wordless, but early viewers describe it as “spellbinding.”

Off screen, however, is another story.

A now-famous video, released by producer Tyrion Lannister days after wrap, shows Stark and Stormborn in rehearsal for that Iceland sequence. For a minute, the set is silent, both actresses utterly still, their faces mirroring each other like reflections in water. The director calls cut — and the spell breaks. They collapse into laughter, clutching one another with the ease of sisters. Fans seized on the moment instantly. The hashtags #WinterQueens and #AlysanneHearts have trended off and on ever since, spinning fan art, GIFs, and mash-ups that spread far beyond the usual cinephile corners of the internet.

“Daenerys and Sansa brought grace and steel to their roles,” said line producer Brienne of Tarth. “But what you don’t see in the footage is the care they gave each other off-camera. Those two carried each other through some hard days.”

Crew anecdotes back her up: late-night tea runs in Belfast when call sheets stretched to fourteen hours; the day Stormborn lost her voice and Stark sat with her in silence, running lines under her breath so the rhythms stayed in place; the Iceland shoot, when they huddled together between takes under one massive parka, teeth chattering, muttering jokes until they couldn’t stop laughing.

The industry has noticed. “We’re used to the narrative of rivalry,” one studio executive said. “Two actresses, same age, same space — normally the press machine would spin it that way. But here? They’ve turned it on its head. Friendship sells. Dignity sells.”

That dignity matters more than ever. In a Hollywood convulsing with investigations, firings, and headlines that feel ripped from indictments, Stark and Stormborn have opted for the opposite of spectacle. Sansa Stark declined comment. Daenerys Stormborn has not been seen publicly since the final day of shooting; she is reportedly with her family in northern England, “taking space,” as one insider phrased it.

No interviews. No orchestrated photo ops. Just silence.

And somehow, that silence feels louder than the PR blitzes around them.

“People forget the power of restraint,” noted one critic who attended a recent private screening. “Everyone else is scrambling, clawing, trying to reframe themselves. These two? They’re letting the work stand. And the work is extraordinary.”

Already, speculation is mounting. Whispers of a London premiere in October. Strong rumours of Toronto or Venice slots. And though no one will say it outright, awards season strategists are already marking out categories, wondering if the two women might walk the same carpets come spring.

For now, though, Stark and Stormborn remain offstage — one in London, one in the north — their friendship carrying a mythic glow.

Hollywood should take note.
There are new queens in town.
And they’re not playing by the old rules.

 


 

Jon’s flat had access to the roof—not much, just a square of concrete hemmed in by a railing—but it had been his mother’s once, and now it was his. That mattered more than the view. It was a place no one else used, quiet, hidden, safe.

He had done what he could to make it look less bare. Fairy lights borrowed from Tyrion ran along the railing, their glow catching in the evening air. A blanket was spread in the middle, sandwiches wrapped in paper, a bottle of wine waiting, her favourite chocolate biscuits balanced on top. He felt both foolish and earnest, waiting for her to see it.

When Sansa stepped outside, her hand still in his, he felt her breath catch. For a moment his chest tightened, afraid it was too much, that she would smile politely and pretend.

“This is…”

“It’s not a restaurant,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I figured we’re not quite ready to be seen having steak frites at the Ritz.”

Her laugh was soft and unguarded, and the sound alone made the effort worth it. “It’s perfect.”

The city stretched below them, the constant hum softened to a distant murmur at this height. The air carried a faint chill, enough that her hair stirred in the breeze. She settled on the blanket with the careful grace of someone who had never been used to sitting on concrete, and Jon poured the wine. His hand wasn’t steady, though he hoped she didn’t notice.

“We might be seen,” she said, her tone light but her eyes searching the skyline.

“No one knows where I live,” Jon answered, more certain than he felt. But when she smiled at him, he believed it himself.

They spoke easily. Arya’s tournaments, her ridiculous talent, the way Ned’s face changed whenever she walked into a room. Sansa glowed with it, pride softening her features. She told him about ballet and piano, how she had given up dancing after Joffrey. She shrugged as if it meant little, but Jon could hear what the shrug tried to hide.
“I’d never have been an étoile anyway.”

He told her about making up stories when he was a boy, about being sullen, careful not to cause waves because his mother was already working two jobs and he couldn’t give her one more reason to worry.

“You can still be sullen,” she teased.

“Aye. What is it Daenerys says? I’ve got a stick up my arse.”

“Tyrion once begged me to dislodge it.”

He laughed, and the relief of it ran through him. She was looking at him like the laugh itself was a gift, and he found himself wishing he could give it to her more often.

“Ygritte used to say it was fused to my rear.”

Sansa arched a brow. “Are you seeing her soon?”

“End of the week. She’s keeping Ghost hostage.”

“I miss him.”

“Me too. But he loves Ygritte.”

The wine warmed his stomach, the night softened around them. She was close enough that her sleeve brushed against his arm. Her hair caught in the fairy lights, strands glinting copper like sparks. He tried not to stare, but failed.

“Winterfell,” he asked after a pause. “You grew up there?”

“Right in the middle of nowhere. But I went away to school. We’d be safe there. Daenerys will probably hate the cold, but it’s beautiful.”

“And it belongs to your father.”

“Has, for generations. It should have gone to my uncle, but he died, so it passed down to my dad.”

He didn’t ask about the uncle. She looked as though she was glad of it.

They spoke of her mother—of Catelyn’s nomination, of how strange it was to see her play the Hollywood game so well.
“She’s really good in her movie,” Jon said, and meant it.

“She is. She loved that role even before all of this.”

The food sat untouched, the wine bottle slowly emptying.

“You didn’t tell me you went to the Dome in Victoria Square,” she said. “I had to hear it from Tyrion.”

Jon grinned. “Aye. While we were shooting the siege scenes. I think he wanted to push me off it.”

“I’m sorry I missed it. Maybe there’ll be a chance to go together when this settles down?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They drifted into talk of her new project, and the script he kept rereading. Futures that neither of them named, but both felt circling them.

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it pressed around them, waiting.

“I hate that they put you in that spot,” she said at last.

“I’m not that fond of it myself.”

“Joffrey is a monster. He needed to be dealt with.”

“It’s not about revenge. I want to move on. I want peace. Not fear.”

“I’ve lived in fear of Joffrey and Cersei for years.” Her voice was low, but steady. “I want a real life. I want to protect you. You’ll face them head-on, but you don’t know how they play.”

Her words cut close. She thought of him as honest, brave—and breakable. She wasn’t wrong.

“You’re honest,” she said again. “Brave. And they will twist that.”

“I’ve been thinking—even if you don’t speak publicly, you’ll still help people. Survivors. Just by surviving.”

“But if I don’t speak, I’ll never be seen as a victim.”

“You’re a survivor, Sansa.”

Her hand closed around his, warm, certain. The trust in that gesture nearly undid him.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she whispered.

His breath caught. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She kissed him then. It wasn’t their first kiss, but it felt like it—the world pausing, the city blurring to nothing, the fairy lights haloing her hair. He kissed her back, steady, his palm cradling her cheek in promise: You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.

When they parted, the lights of London flickered below, distant as another life. The sandwiches had gone cold, the night air cool on his skin. But none of it mattered.
They stayed there, wrapped in quiet, in warmth, in love.

 


The Vanity Fair article glowed on the screen like it had been written in gold.

Cersei stared at it, unmoving. She didn’t finish it—didn’t need to. The headline was enough. The pull quotes. The glossy stills from set, each caption a coronation. Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn. Crowned by the press. Cherished. Untouched by the fire she and Joffrey were choking on.

Her hand tightened, and before she could stop herself she hurled the tablet across the room. It struck the wall with a hollow crack, splintering down the middle. The sound echoed for a moment and then was swallowed by the silence.

No one came to check.

There was no one left.

The calls she had made earlier—sharp at first, then frantic, then near-begging—had all gone unanswered. PR firms. Legal teams. Producers who used to hang on her every word. Nothing. Or worse: the cool murmur of polite refusal, voices she had once owned now stepping neatly away.

Joffrey had already vanished from the narrative. His name scrubbed from press kits. His projects shelved. The BAFTAs had rescinded their invitation. The Academy had opened a “review” of his nomination. The same people who had promised her his triumph were now pretending he had never existed.

And now, this.

Two women she couldn’t touch. Two figures lifted into the light while she and her son were pushed deeper into shadow. The public no longer wanted to hear about Joffrey. They wanted behind-the-scenes clips of Daenerys laughing in the snow. Sansa bent low to hug a child actor between takes. Queens.

Cersei lowered herself into a chair, knees stiff, and reached for her phone. The screen was already cracked, a hairline fracture across the glass. It seemed fitting.

She had no allies left. Not really.

But she still had options.

Her thumb hovered. Perhaps—just perhaps—if she reached out to Sansa. A joint statement. Something graceful. A gesture that might soften the ground beneath her feet, keep her from sinking entirely.

She opened her messages.

And closed them again.

Because even she knew—
Sansa Stark would never answer.


 

The press conference lasted less than ten minutes, yet Tyrion knew it would be recounted for decades.

On screen, the Academy’s spokesperson stood at a sleek podium, flanked by golden statues that seemed to gleam brighter under the harsh white lights. The logo glowed behind her, a seal of legitimacy, as cameras crowded in like wolves scenting blood.

“After careful consideration and an internal review, the Academy has decided to annul the nomination of Joffrey Baratheon,” she said. Her voice was steady, inflectionless, designed to withstand replay on every channel. “We stand firmly in our commitment to upholding the integrity of our awards, and more importantly, to supporting survivors of abuse and ensuring the industry moves toward a safer, more ethical future.”

The words landed in Tyrion’s chest like stones. Calm. Cold. Final.

“This decision is unprecedented,” she went on. “In the history of the Academy, we have never annulled a nomination once announced. But the gravity of the revelations and the weight of our responsibility compel us to act. This is not about public pressure. This is about principle.”

Principle. Tyrion almost laughed. The Academy, cloaking themselves in principle after years of silence. But the sound stuck in his throat.

They had looked away for decades—awarding Roman Polanski, ignoring Harvey Weinstein until the walls collapsed. And yet today they had acted. Not from courage, but from necessity. Still, the result was the same.

Joffrey Baratheon’s name was gone. Erased from the list of nominees.

In his place, Christian Bale for Vice. Procedural, yes, but neat. Bale was no saint—none of them were—but he wasn’t Joffrey. That was enough.

The broadcast hung in silence for half a beat, and then the flood: camera shutters rattling, reporters jostling, phones lighting up with headlines that raced around the globe before the spokesperson even stepped aside.

ACADEMY PULLS JOFFREY BARATHEON’S NOMINATION.
OSCARS CUT TIES IN UNPRECEDENTED MOVE.
SURVIVORS HEARD AT LAST.

Tyrion sat in the quiet of Varys’s London flat, a glass of whiskey warming uselessly in his hand. The ice had already melted. He hadn’t touched it.

Varys sat beside him, hands folded, composed as stone. His stillness was unnerving, though Tyrion suspected it masked an unspoken satisfaction.

Across from them, Oberyn sprawled in a velvet chair, grinning as though the world had just performed his favourite trick. He lifted his glass in salute.
“Now that’s a headline.”

“This is it,” Varys said softly. “The tide is turning.”

Tyrion breathed out, long and slow. He should have felt lighter. Instead there was a hollow space beneath the relief, an ache he hadn’t expected. Joffrey was a monster, yes. He deserved this and worse. But he was also family—blood of his blood—and watching his name stripped in public felt like watching a house burn down with ghosts still inside.

“They’ll come for her next,” Tyrion said at last, his voice low. “Cersei won’t take this lying down.”

“Let her come,” Oberyn said darkly, swirling his wine, smile widening. “We’ll be ready.”

The television screen kept glowing, ticker crawling with headlines, history unspooling in real time. Tyrion stared at it, the whiskey untouched in his hand, and felt the weight of what had been won—
and what was still to come.

That was not an ending.
Only the first battle.
And he knew, in his bones, the war would cost them all.


From Twitter:

@TheRealSpinMaster: Never thought I’d see the day the Academy pulled a nom. Historic. Necessary. #Oscars2019 #JoffreyBaratheon

@WesterosWhispers: Christian Bale swooping in to replace Joffrey like he’s Batman again. Academy said ‘no monsters, just method actors.’ #Vice #Oscars

@TheRedPen: Joffrey Baratheon’s career isn’t circling the drain—it’s already in the sewer. #AccountabilityNow #Oscars

@PopCultCrusader: Reminder: the Academy still gave Polanski an Oscar and let Weinstein reign for decades. This isn’t justice, it’s PR.

@FeministFury: Doesn’t matter why they did it. What matters is they did. #BelieveSurvivors

@LionsDenLegacy: This is disgusting. Trial by social media. Hollywood’s eating its own and you’re all cheering.

@NorthernJustice: Hollywood’s finally cleaning house. Sorry it makes your golden boy uncomfortable. #GoodRiddance

@CultofRhaenyra: Someone said Joffrey's PR team is just Cersei, a bottle of gin, and an NDA spell. 💀💀💀 #TheKingIsAMonster

@AwardSeasonSavage: If you’re defending Joffrey Baratheon right now, blink twice if you need help. Or just go outside and touch some grass.

@JoffreyFanSinceLeaves: He’s still the best actor of the year and you can’t cancel talent. The Academy will regret this.

@BrienneTheBard: Girl be serious. This isn’t cancel culture—it’s consequence culture. Try again.

@GossipGiantess: Word is someone’s already writing a book on the downfall. Title suggestion: The Crownless Shall Be King of Nothing.

@JonSnowDirects: People out here shocked Joffrey got dropped like it wasn’t LONG overdue. Watch The King is a Monster, then we’ll talk.

@BelfastBroadway: Plot twist: Good Queen Alysanne wins everything next year and makes this look like Act One. 🍿

@RedKeepIntern: This is giving ‘Nero fiddles while Rome burns’ but with more bronzer and NDAs.

@AltJusticeNow: Joffrey exposed the deep state in Hollywood. That’s why they took him out. Not because of what he did—because of what he knew.

@NoOneNoFace: And notice who isn’t speaking. The Starks. All of them, quiet since Catelyn Stark’s statement. That’s not nobility, that’s calculation.

@DragonstoneStan: Imagine being Joffrey’s fan right now. Couldn’t be me. #TheKingIsAMonster

@FilmCriticFrey: The irony of Bale taking his place—both famous for on-set tantrums. At least Bale never strangled a PA.

@PRNightmare: Somewhere, a junior publicist just earned hazard pay trying to spin this to Variety.

@QueenInTheNorthEdits: Already cutting an edit of Sansa smiling on set with “thank u, next” over it. #WinterQueens

@MummerShowBiz: Whole Academy gaslit us for years but suddenly found a conscience when Twitter turned. Don’t kid yourselves.

@HotPie4Oscar: Ok but can we all agree Bale deserves it more anyway?? Man ACTED his ass off. #Vice

@WineWithVarys: The speed at which Hollywood buried Joffrey proves one thing: fear. They all knew. They ALL knew.

 


The Hollywood Reporter

Headline: Academy Pulls Joffrey Baratheon’s Oscar Nomination in Unprecedented Move

 

In a decision without precedent, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has revoked the Best Actor nomination of Joffrey Baratheon, following weeks of mounting allegations and the release of the hard-hitting documentary The King Is a Monster.

The announcement was made this morning at a press conference in Los Angeles, where Academy spokesperson Dana Rivers confirmed that “the integrity of our awards demands action.”

“In the history of the Academy, no nomination has ever been annulled once announced,” Rivers said. “But the revelations surrounding Mr. Baratheon compelled us to act. This decision is not about public pressure, but about principle.”

Baratheon, who was nominated for his performance in My Beautiful Boy, has seen his career collapse in recent weeks as allegations of abuse and misconduct have continued to surface. Once considered a front-runner for the Oscar, he has since been dropped by his agency, removed from ongoing projects, and disinvited from the BAFTAs.

Replacing Baratheon in the category is Christian Bale for his performance in Vice. According to Academy procedure, the slot reverts to the next-highest vote-getter in the initial nomination round. Bale, a two-time Oscar winner, is considered a safe choice by many in the industry.

Reaction to the decision has been swift. Survivors’ advocacy groups praised the Academy’s move as long overdue, while others questioned whether the organisation was responding to principle or optics.

“This marks a watershed moment,” said one senior studio executive who requested anonymity. “The Academy has always been slow to act. But this time, they didn’t just slap a wrist—they erased him.”

The decision comes amid a broader cultural reckoning in Hollywood. With Good Queen Alysanne dominating early buzz and actresses Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn emerging as breakout figures of grace and dignity, the contrast could not be sharper. “The industry has a new face it wants to show the world,” one veteran publicist noted. “And Joffrey Baratheon isn’t part of it.”

Comments (74)

OscarWatcher77: About damn time. The Academy looked the other way for YEARS. Pulling his My Beautiful Boy nom is the first real consequence.

cinephileNYC (verified critic): The irony of that title though. Not beautiful. Not a boy. Just a monster.

FilmLawyerLA: From a legal standpoint, this is fascinating. If his team sues, they’d basically be arguing for the right to an Oscar nomination. Good luck with that.

DragonQueenStan: Dany and Sansa shining in Good Queen Alysanne while Joffrey gets erased from My Beautiful Boy. Karma works fast. #WinterQueens

ProducerInTheValley (verified producer): He was never winning. Everyone knew Malek and Cooper were ahead. The Academy just saved itself embarrassment by cutting him loose early.

LionsDenLegacy: Cancel culture run wild. He gave the best performance of the year and you all know it. Court of Twitter isn’t justice.

NorthRemembers88: Survivors ARE justice. He doesn’t deserve the work, the platform, or the award.

ScriptDoctorLA (verified screenwriter): People forget: the part was practically gift-wrapped for awards. My Beautiful Boy was written to be Oscar bait. He coasted on that while treating everyone like dirt.

RedKeepConspiracy: Funny how his fall lines up perfectly with Stark projects thriving. You people really think that’s coincidence?

CriticsCircleUK (verified): Bale stepping in feels almost too neat. But it keeps the category stable and moves the narrative back to performance instead of scandal. That’s the Academy’s real goal here.

VineyardVulture: The memes are already writing themselves. My Beautiful BoyMy Cancelled Boy.

HotPie4Oscar: I don’t care what anyone says—Bale deserves it more. Dude transforms every time. Joffrey just snarled his way through another role.

PRNightmare: Somewhere a junior publicist is Googling “how to spin losing an Oscar nom” and crying into their latte.

ghostofhighgarden: Not one person from the cast of My Beautiful Boy has defended him. That tells you everything.

CynicalCinephile: Hollywood didn’t find a conscience. They found a fire and decided to throw Baratheon on it before it spread.

ShitpostMaester: Rename the movie My Monstrous Boy. Problem solved.

 


Variety

Headline: Joffrey Baratheon’s Oscar Nomination Revoked by Academy in Historic Decision

 

In a shocking and unprecedented move, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has rescinded the Best Actor nomination of Joffrey Baratheon for My Beautiful Boy, citing “the integrity of the awards” and “a responsibility to survivors of abuse.”

The announcement came at a hastily arranged press conference in Los Angeles on Tuesday morning. Academy spokesperson Dana Rivers said, “This is not about public pressure. This is about principle.”

Baratheon, once positioned as a front-runner, has seen his career implode in recent weeks amid mounting allegations and the release of the bombshell documentary The King Is a Monster. His agency dropped him last month, his projects have been shelved, and the BAFTAs rescinded their invitation.

Replacing him on the Oscar ballot is Christian Bale for Vice, in accordance with Academy procedure, which elevates the next-highest vote-getter. Bale, already a two-time Oscar winner, re-enters the race with less than three weeks until final voting begins.

The decision has sent shockwaves through the industry. Publicists, awards strategists, and studio executives privately admitted they had never seen anything like it.

“This is seismic,” one top awards consultant told Variety. “The Academy has always erred on the side of caution—delay, deny, or ignore. To actually erase a nominee, especially one who was considered a contender, is extraordinary.”

Reaction was swift across Hollywood. Advocacy groups praised the Academy’s move as long overdue. Social media erupted within minutes of the press conference, with hashtags like #TheKingIsAMonster and #BelieveSurvivors trending worldwide.

Not everyone applauded. Some in the industry cautioned that the Academy was acting more to protect its brand than out of conscience. “If they cared about survivors, they’d have made this move twenty years ago,” one veteran producer said.

Still, the symbolism is undeniable. With Good Queen Alysanne gaining momentum and stars Sansa Stark and Daenerys Stormborn being hailed as a new standard of dignity and grace, the contrast could not be starker. “Hollywood is trying to rewrite its narrative,” one studio executive observed. “And Joffrey Baratheon doesn’t fit the story anymore.”


Deadline

BREAKING: Academy Rescinds Joffrey Baratheon’s Best Actor Nomination

By Mike Fleming Jr, Deadline

In an unprecedented move, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has revoked Joffrey Baratheon’s Best Actor nomination for My Beautiful Boy.

The announcement came Tuesday morning at a Los Angeles press conference. Academy spokesperson Dana Rivers said the decision followed “careful consideration and an internal review,” adding: “This is not about public pressure. This is about principle.”

This is the first time in Academy history a nomination has been annulled after being announced.

Baratheon, once seen as a frontrunner, has seen his career collapse in recent weeks following abuse allegations and the release of the explosive documentary The King Is a Monster. He has since been dropped by his agency, removed from upcoming projects, and disinvited from the BAFTAs.

Christian Bale (Vice) will replace Baratheon on the ballot, in line with Academy rules that elevate the next-highest vote-getter.

Reaction was immediate. Survivors’ groups praised the Academy’s decision, while some industry insiders questioned whether the move was about integrity or optics. On social media, hashtags like #TheKingIsAMonster and #Oscars2019 trended worldwide within minutes.

The development marks a major turning point in an already turbulent awards season and raises questions about the future of both Baratheon’s career and the Academy’s role in policing itself.


Tyrion hated mornings. He always had. The weak coffee, the over-bright lights, the way executives pretended to be sharper than they were simply because they’d put on a tie before nine. But if he had to be awake at this ungodly hour, the prospect of cutting off Baelish’s head—figuratively, tragically—did have its appeal.

The boardroom looked as joyless as every other he’d sat in: sleek, sterile, soulless. No windows, no warmth, just stale air and a carafe of coffee that smelled faintly of despair. Around the table, a dozen vultures in expensive suits shuffled papers and avoided one another’s eyes. Senior executives, the kind who only earned their titles by learning when not to speak.

Fine. He’d speak for them.

“The evidence is clear,” Tyrion began, his voice flat, stripped of courtesy. He slid the folder across the polished wood toward Legal. “Creative interference. Unauthorised budget reallocations. A sustained pattern of obstruction. Petyr Baelish is a liability—to this studio, and to this film.”

He enjoyed the sound of that last word: liability. Baelish would loathe it.

They opened the dossier with the reverence of priests handling scripture. Inside: emails rerouted through shadow servers, expense reports disguised as riddles, casting notes tampered with out of spite. And there—the jewel in the crown—Baelish’s memo attempting to edge Jon out of the final cut meetings. Tyrion had bolded it. Highlighted it. Practically drawn arrows. Subtlety was wasted on this crowd.

One exec coughed, a nervous, dry sound. Another rubbed his temple, already rehearsing his excuse for not noticing months ago. Legal finally spoke, dissecting the findings with surgical precision. Tyrion caught the glimmer in her eye. Satisfaction. She’d been waiting for this moment, too.

Of course she had. Everyone hated Baelish. They just hated moving first more.

Months of this. Months of feeling the snake’s tail in every budget line, every whispered delay. Oberyn had brought the whispers, Varys had untangled the threads, Jaime had wrapped it all in righteous legality. And now here it was, gift-wrapped for the vultures who had been too afraid to blink until today.

The vote was unanimous. Predictably so. No one wanted to be on record as defending Baelish.

Tyrion didn’t smile. He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. But morning victories always tasted bitter, like drinking wine before the sun was up.

An hour later, the studio issued its statement—polished, perfumed, a dagger hidden in lace.

Effective immediately, Petyr Baelish has been removed from all duties related to Good Queen Alysanne. Following an internal investigation, the studio has determined that Mr. Baelish engaged in conduct inconsistent with the values and creative direction of the project. We remain committed to supporting our filmmakers and ensuring the film’s integrity moving forward.

He read it twice, tossed the copy into the bin. “Conduct inconsistent.” That was one way of describing sabotage, theft, and attempted regicide. Far too polite. Baelish should have been named for what he was: a snake who tried to strangle the film in its crib.

By midday the trades were shrieking:

STUDIO CUTS TIES WITH BAELISH.
FINANCIAL MISCONDUCT CONFIRMED.
TYRION LANNISTER LEADS QUIET COUP.

He poured himself a whiskey. Midday be damned. Varys would call it ceremonial. Oberyn would call it breakfast.

Baelish’s camp sputtered out a denial. Pathetic. Thin as tissue. The lawyers would shred it before dinner.

By nightfall, his name had been scrubbed from records, contracts, press kits. As if he’d never existed. Erased, like chalk washed from a blackboard.

Tyrion exhaled. A small win. Necessary, yes. But victories were never clean. He knew better than anyone that smoke followed fire, and in Hollywood, fire spread quickly.

He let the whiskey sit on his tongue, bitter and warming.
The snake was dead. For now.
The jungle, however, was still full.


The game was always cleaner in the shadows.

Varys glided through Hollywood with his usual precision—never hurried, never loud, never still long enough to be pinned down. A lunch in Westwood, all smiles and small talk. A handshake in Burbank, innocuous to anyone watching. A whispered aside on a studio lot, folded into gossip about box office returns. Every move calculated, every word weighted, his presence like the faint brush of silk you only noticed after it was gone.

He didn’t threaten. He didn’t need to. Fear already lived inside them—fear of headlines, of audits, of reputations curdling in real time. All Varys ever did was remind them of the monsters at the door.

A “chance” meeting with a network head ended with a sudden pause on a Baelish-funded pilot. A cryptic voicemail to a journalist resurrected a dormant fraud investigation. A casual tip to a mid-level producer turned into a hard rethink of their upcoming slate. None of it bore his name. None of it needed to.

By the end of the week, two of Baelish’s co-productions were quietly shelved. A foreign distributor pulled out, citing “strategic realignment.” A hush-money scandal tied to a defunct streaming service was dredged back into the light.

The press feasted.
BAELISH BACKERS BOLT.
A LEGACY OF GREED: THE FALL OF PETYR BAELISH.
OLD SCANDALS, NEW CONSEQUENCES.

Behind the curtain, Varys ensured the whispers became roars. Assistants slipped him copies of expense sheets. Accountants left trails where none should have been. Former interns, invited to “speak anonymously,” found themselves suddenly protected enough to tell the truth.

Hollywood wasn’t turning on Baelish out of principle. Morality had never paid the bills.
It was turning because, at last, it was safe.

And Varys had made it safe.

Baelish’s empire didn’t collapse with spectacle, but with polite emails, calendar cancellations, doors that no longer opened when he knocked. By the time he realised the ground beneath him was gone, he was already falling.


Oberyn always said timing was everything—in war, in politics, and especially in headlines.

Where Varys wove silence, Oberyn thrived on spectacle. He swept into newsrooms and editorial board meetings with the same easy charm he used at cocktail parties: dangerous, dazzling, impossible to ignore. A tilt of his smile, a perfectly arched brow, a word spoken just a fraction too softly. He knew how to leave a room buzzing, replaying his phrases as if they’d thought of them themselves.

He never had to lie. The truth was sharp enough. He simply bent it, angled it, dressed it in the right font, the right headline, the right timestamp on the embargo.

“Make it about the film,” he told a journalist at The New Yorker, his tone equal parts command and caress. “Make it about resilience. About redemption. Don’t wallow in the scandal—there’s already enough mud choking the gutters. Shine a light instead.”

And within forty-eight hours, the tide shifted.

GOOD QUEEN ALYSANNE IS THE MOVIE HOLLYWOOD NEEDS RIGHT NOW.
AFTER SCANDAL COMES HOPE: THE TEAM THAT NEVER STOPPED BELIEVING.
TYRION LANNISTER: THE PRODUCER WHO STEERED THROUGH THE STORM.

Not a whisper of Baelish. Not even a footnote.

A re-cut teaser for Good Queen Alysanne appeared on every feed by Friday morning. New tagline: A future reclaimed.

Gone were the old credits. Instead, slow shots lingered: Sansa, serene and regal in the half-light. Daenerys, steel in her gaze, unflinching. Jon’s hand brushing hers, the ghost of something unbroken in a world that had tried—and failed—to fracture them.

It wasn’t just damage control. It was a love story dressed as a press campaign. A manifesto in two minutes of perfectly timed cuts.

Oberyn watched the reactions scroll by, phone in one hand, wine in the other. Every headline read like a hymn to survival, to integrity, to artistry salvaged from the wreckage. And threaded through them all was his hand, invisible, undeniable.

He smiled into his glass, the deep red catching the lamplight.
“You can bury a scandal,” he murmured. “The trick is making them forget who was buried.”


 

Baelish sat alone in his office—what was left of it. The framed accolades had been removed. His assistant had stopped coming. Even the hum of incoming emails was gone, the silence of his inbox accusatory, each unopened message a little tombstone.

But his mind? Louder than ever.

He lit a cigarette with deliberate care, the flame steady, and drew in a lungful of smoke. The folder on his desk was already crowded with notes—names, patterns, threads running like veins across the page. He saw the hand of Varys in the sudden shifts of tone, the headlines softening, the press releases scrubbed clean. And Oberyn—damn him—Oberyn was everywhere, too flamboyant to miss once you knew where to look.

They were tidying the board, smoothing the rough edges, erasing him as if he had never existed.

Good.
Let them think him gone. He had always preferred being underestimated.

The documentary had been a spark, nothing more. The King Is a Monster was an opening volley, not the war. Renly’s fingerprints were all over it—more reach than he’d let on.

He stubbed out the cigarette and flipped the folder shut. The fury in his chest was sharp, but his hands stayed calm. He had survived worse. He had built empires out of nothing. He would do it again.

One mistake. That was all he needed. One slip, one leak, one headline in the wrong font at the wrong time. The Starks were quiet because they thought they’d won. He knew better.

He poured himself a drink and stepped onto the balcony. Los Angeles glittered below, a sprawl of ambitions burning like a field of candles, some steady, some guttering, some moments away from blowing out.

Every move he made now had to matter. Every word, every silence. He wasn’t playing checkers. He never had. This was chess—slow, patient, merciless. And what unsettled him wasn’t the board. It was the players.

Tyrion Lannister—too clever by half, smug in the knowledge he was five steps ahead.
Oberyn Martell—smiling like a knife, slicing through the press with charm and venom in equal measure.
Varys—silent, methodical, always two threads away from a noose.

And the unexpected pieces: Jon Snow and Brienne of Tarth. A director with final cut rights. A line producer with the loyalty of every crew member. Young, idealistic—dangerous precisely because they believed in something.

Even Jaime. The golden son turned against his own blood, wielding the law like a blade. That one still surprised him.

They had joined forces, messy and fragile, stitched together by necessity. They were holding the line for now. But Baelish had been playing longer than all of them combined. He knew alliances better than anyone—how easily they frayed, how quickly trust soured.

He raised his glass to the skyline. The city looked back at him like a mirror full of teeth.

“The pieces are moving,” he whispered to the night. “And I’m ready. But I won’t forget—everyone’s playing this game.”

A pause. The clink of ice against glass.

“It only takes one misstep to lose the board.”

He drained the drink, the city still burning beneath him, and allowed himself the faintest smile.

Notes:

Yes, I know the Academy has never rescinded an Oscar nomination in its entire messy history. These are the same people who gave Polanski an Oscar (arguably deserved if you do that whole “separate the art from the artist” gymnastics). But honestly? Reality was boring, so I fixed it. If the real AMPAS won’t bring the drama, then fanfic AMPAS will—complete with guillotines, leaked memos, and Christian Bale swooping in like Batman. :)

Chapter 28: Chapter 28 - the teaser and the cup

Chapter Text

The suite was private, tastefully expensive, and mercifully soundproof. Tyrion had insisted. He didn’t trust any place without triple-glazed windows, reinforced locks, and two exits anymore—not since Baelish had started sniffing around with more desperation than finesse.

He was halfway through pouring himself a drink when the door opened without so much as a knock. Varys slipped in, still immaculate from the industry mixer he’d ghosted out of, his expression unreadable. Oberyn followed at his own pace, all languid arrogance, draping himself across the velvet armchair like a prince at court. One leg crossed, a smile curved sharp as glass.

“This is either the start of a coup or a dinner party,” Oberyn said, accepting the whiskey Tyrion handed him.

“Possibly both,” Tyrion replied. “Depending on how much you drink.”

Varys set a slim folder on the low table, as though dealing cards at a game where the stakes were careers. “Baelish’s last investor just walked. Quietly. No Variety notice, no Deadline leak. But the money is gone, and the deal memo dissolved overnight.”

Tyrion smirked. “Chivalry may be dead, but sabotage is alive and thriving.”

“We’re close,” Oberyn said, rolling the whiskey across his tongue. “But letting the studio wash its hands isn’t enough. He’ll pitch some prestige mini-series to HBO, spin himself into relevance if we give him air. We need to kill the story before he drafts a new one.”

The table between them was already a battlefield: scripts annotated to death, printouts of email chains, donor lists marked in red, screenshots of hashtags trending for the wrong reasons, even receipts in Baelish’s assistant’s handwriting. Dots waiting to be joined.

Varys tapped a highlighted name. “We give this to The Hollywood Reporter. Quietly. Off the record, off the books. Let them think they’ve uncovered it themselves. Reporters love nothing more than congratulating themselves for being clever.”

Oberyn swirled his drink lazily. “Meanwhile, I’ll handle the social circuit. No need to blacklist him outright—he just won’t be seen. No Governors Awards table. No BAFTA tea. No Netflix after-parties. Power evaporates when you aren’t photographed holding a glass of champagne.”

Tyrion lifted his own glass, the ice clinking. “And I’ll make sure every outlet in town remembers who actually pulled Good Queen Alysanne from the fire. My press team’s already feeding Variety the line. By the time the ballots are out, Baelish will be a punchline. A financial footnote.” He let the word hang like a blade. “Which is worse than scandal. At least scandal gives you a legacy.”

Different strategies, identical target. No grand takedown, no courtroom drama—just a quiet demolition, brick by brick, until the man who had built a career on being everywhere was nowhere at all.

Tyrion leaned back, eyes flicking between the two men across from him. For the moment, allies he trusted more than anyone alive. The firelight caught the lines at the corners of their faces—conspirators in Armani, sworn enemies of silence.

“Well,” he said at last, dry as ash, “if Baelish didn’t believe in karma before, he’ll certainly be a believer after this.”


The editing suite in central London had taken on the feel of a bunker—low lights, cables snaking across the floor, empty coffee cups stacked on the desk. The air was thick with focus and fatigue, every breath edged with tension.

On the main monitor, Daenerys’s voice carried through the speakers—soft but unyielding. Jon stood at the centre of the room, arms folded, watching the near-final cut of the scene with the concentration of someone weighing more than performance. To him, it wasn’t just cinema anymore; it was defence.

Brienne was stationed at the whiteboard, clipboard in hand, lists written in her steady hand: test screenings, VFX deadlines, PR contingencies, security redundancies. As line producer, she was the safeguard—every possible breach anticipated, every back door sealed. If Baelish tried to interfere now, he’d find the gates barred.

The door opened with a rush of damp London air. Jaime stepped inside, coat still wet from the drizzle, hair unsettled by the wind. He looked as though he should have been in a courtroom, not among reels and timelines, but necessity had dragged him here.

“I spoke to Tyrion,” he said quietly, shutting the door behind him. “He’ll push the board to finalise Baelish’s erasure clause today.”

“You shouldn’t be working,” Brienne said gently without looking up. “You’ve been suspended.”

“I’m not billing hours,” Jaime answered, a flicker of dry humour tugging at his mouth. “Just making calls.”

Jon’s gaze stayed on the screen. He didn’t object—Jaime’s leverage with the board was real, and they needed it—but the tension between them lingered, unspoken. Allies, yes. Friends, not yet.

Brienne handed Jaime a page torn from her notes. “Backers are rallying behind Tyrion’s version of events. Oberyn’s feeding the trades lines about integrity, artistry, vision. They’re echoing it already.”

“And Baelish?” Jon asked.

“Varys has him boxed in,” Brienne said. “No one’s returning his calls. The firewall around Good Queen Alysanne is solid—contracts, PR, release rights. Tyrion’s already drafting the press kit with no trace of Baelish’s name.”

Jaime scanned the paper, brow tightening. For twenty years he had lived in courtrooms, building arguments brick by brick, dismantling others with precision. Two weeks ago, he’d been suspended. Now he was here—no longer a prosecutor, but a producer by circumstance, his shares in the company making him central to decisions he barely understood. It wasn’t lost on him that the skills were transferable: evidence, narrative, pressure points. This was a trial of a different kind.

Jon clicked pause on the playback, Daenerys’s words freezing mid-syllable. He turned, his voice low but firm.

“This isn’t just a film anymore. It’s everything we’ve fought for. If Baelish tries to come back—he’ll find every door locked.”

The silence held. Then Jaime, unexpectedly solemn, said, “Then let’s finish it. Properly. Without him. Without fear.”

They didn’t toast. They didn’t shake hands. They simply turned back to the monitors, each slotting into their role: Jon with the cut, Brienne with the logistics, Jaime with the contracts only he could parse.

Outside, the storm battered the glass. But inside the suite—for the first time in weeks—it felt like the walls might hold.


Baelish hadn’t slept. The bourbon on his desk had gone warm, untouched, the ice melted into a thin amber pool. His phone pulsed with rejections: curt emails, clipped messages, executives who once took his calls now ghosting him outright.

He sat in the half-light, London’s skyline glittering through the window like a world he no longer belonged to. The city used to answer his whispers. Tonight it barely noticed he was speaking.

He had tried patience. Subtlety. Infiltration. The tools that once made him untouchable.

Now? Now he needed chaos.

He picked up the phone himself—no assistant left to filter, no buffer to soften the desperation in his tone. Late-night voicemails to studio execs who once owed him favours. Direct messages to tabloid editors and gossip influencers who thrived on blood. Anonymous tips from burner accounts, shaped with the precision of a man who had built his empire on rumours.

Funding from foreign political groups.
Actors complicit in a cover-up.
Tyrion Lannister rewriting the edit to erase Baelish’s credit.

The lies slid easily from his mind to the page. He told himself it wasn’t fiction—just… persuasion. A chess move. The kind he had always won with. He even caught himself smiling as he hit “send.”

“They think they can play me,” he whispered to the glass, the city a blurred reflection of his own eyes. “I’ll remind them who’s been playing this game longer than any of them.”

Within twenty-four hours, the seeds sprouted. Fringe blogs carried the whispers. Clickbait sites sharpened them into headlines. A podcast host with a taste for celebrity feuds launched an “exclusive leak.”

But something felt wrong.

The noise went nowhere. Publicists stayed silent. Journalists smirked but didn’t write. Executives forwarded the links not with alarm, but amusement. The ripple effect never came. The city he used to command now stood unmoved, watching him drown in his own ripples.

The old certainty faltered. His chest felt tight. He poured the bourbon at last, but the taste turned his stomach.

They weren’t supposed to ignore him. They weren’t supposed to laugh.

The thought scratched at the edges of his calm: Had they seen through him? Had they been waiting for him to crack?

For the first time, Baelish realised he was no longer the spider spinning threads—he was the fly thrashing in a web he hadn’t noticed until it closed around him.

By morning, Varys had six screenshots from burner accounts neatly traced to Baelish’s legal proxy. Oberyn had pulled three strings and the worst articles vanished from circulation. Tyrion didn’t issue a denial, didn’t need to. His silence landed like a gavel.

The alliance, once content to bleed him quietly, now had proof. They had motive. They had momentum.

And Baelish, sleepless in his tower of glass, understood what he had never allowed himself to believe before.

The game wasn’t his anymore.
He was the piece being played.


Text Thread: Private Chat – Sansa  and Daenerys

SANSA:
Have you seen the chaos? Baelish is throwing spaghetti at the wall.

Unfortunately for him, the wall is Kevlar. And Varys.

DAENERYS:
He’s flailing. I’d almost feel sorry for him if I wasn’t too busy watching your mother choose fabric that could blind a man at ten paces.

SANSA:
She showed you the dress?

DAENERYS:
Catelyn Stark is about to outshine the BAFTAs themselves.

It’s this forest-green silk—structured shoulders, sharp neckline, sleeves like discipline incarnate. She did a slow turn and I swear Jorah whispered “my Queen” under his breath.

SANSA:
😂😂
God, I miss her. I needed that laugh.

But also… I think Cersei might reach out. She’s going to try something. I can feel it.

DAENERYS:
Then let her. Varys has her boxed in tighter than a sealed award envelope during embargo.

If she drags you in, she’ll only make the contrast worse—her noise against your silence. People will notice. They already do.

SANSA:
I’m trying to stay calm. It’s just… every time I think we’re ahead, something new detonates.

What if Baelish twists the story? What if someone listens?

DAENERYS:
Then we untwist it. Together.

This isn’t just about Good Queen Alysanne anymore—it’s about truth. And he’s rattled, Sansa. You can hear it in the way he’s scrambling. He’s already made mistakes.

We’re still standing. He isn’t.

SANSA:
That’s easy to say from Winterfell.

DAENERYS:
True. But I wish you could see it here—it’s peaceful. Cold, yes, but beautiful.

Your father brings tea like it’s a civic duty. Your mother offered me soup four times in one afternoon. It’s like the war is happening a million miles away.

SANSA:
I’m glad you’re safe.

And I’m glad you’re with them. Thank you.

DAENERYS:
You’re welcome.

Also, I’m making Jorah teach me how to use that ridiculous espresso machine in the kitchen. It might kill us both, but at least we’ll die caffeinated.

SANSA:
Please film it.
I miss you.

DAENERYS:
You’ll be here soon. And when you are—we’ll drink wine, watch the frost, and burn this whole rotten industry to the ground if we have to.

SANSA:
That’s the plan.
❤️


Sansa balanced her laptop on her knees, the glow of the screen soft against the faint London lights beyond the window. The living room was quiet—Jon was still at the editing suite—and she’d lit one of his mother’s old candles on the table, not for the scent but for the calm. Wrapped in one of Jon’s jumpers, legs folded beneath her, hair tucked behind her ears, she waited. Her stomach had been a knot for days. She hadn’t realised what she’d been waiting for until the call connected.

Margaery appeared first.

She was propped on the end of her Belfast hotel bed, jeans and a pale jumper, sleeves pulled over her hands. The room behind her looked like her—deliberately messy but oddly welcoming: room service left untouched, a half-empty bottle of wine, script pages spilling across an armchair. Her hair was damp, knotted at the nape of her neck; her face, scrubbed down to the barest mascara and lip balm, looked younger, closer to the girl Sansa had grown up with.

Theon dropped into frame beside her. Barefoot, hoodie frayed at the sleeves, mug clutched in both hands. Sansa knew the hoodie instantly—it was from when they were barely out of school, when Theon had refused to throw anything away no matter how worn, and insisted comfort trumped appearances.

“You still have that?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Theon smirked. “It’s comfy. Don’t judge.”

“She’s judging,” Margaery said, eyes twinkling.

Sansa tried not to smile. She failed.

“You look like a washed-up boyband,” she told him.

“And you,” Theon shot back, “look like you’ve been living inside a candlelit Austen adaptation.”

Persuasion,” Margaery supplied with a small grin. “The brooding edition. How’s Jon’s editing dungeon?”

“Unclear if he’s eaten today,” Sansa said. “But he left me tea and a playlist of emotionally repressed folk music, so I can’t complain.”

Theon lifted his mug. “To melancholy men.”

The banter faded, leaving a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable so much as weighted—history pressing at the edges.

“You could’ve called,” Sansa said finally.

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” Margaery answered. Her voice wasn’t guilty, only quiet.

“I didn’t know what I’d say,” Sansa admitted. “But yes. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I missed you,” Margaery said softly. “I missed us.”

Theon didn’t move, for once. Just listened.

“I can’t apologise,” Margaery went on. “Not for this. I did it for Loras. And for every girl Joffrey hurt. But I hate that it touched you. That you had to carry any of it.”

Sansa’s throat tightened. “I understand now. Why you couldn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t risk you,” Margaery said. “But I never stopped being your friend. Never.”

“I know,” Sansa whispered.

Theon cleared his throat, breaking the stillness. “Since we’re in honesty hour—I’ll say it once. You’re safe, Sansa. No one’s going to name you. Varys made sure. I checked.”

“You checked?”

“I check everything,” he said simply. “Especially when it’s about you.”

She looked at them both—her best friend since childhood, her brother in all but blood—and something in her chest finally eased.

“Are you safe?” she asked Margaery.

Margaery gave a practised shrug. “For now. We’ve got contingencies. Renly and I—”

“Wait. Renly fucking Baratheon?”

Margaery’s mouth curved. “He was Loras’ boyfriend. He’s my source. My partner in this.”

Sansa blinked. “Renly? You’ve been working with Renly?”

“He’s less unbearable when he’s plotting,” Margaery said. “More spreadsheets, fewer peacock feathers.”

Theon lifted his mug. “Colour-coded file system. I’ve seen it.”

Sansa exhaled. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.”

“Both,” said Margaery.

“No more secrets?” Sansa asked.

“None,” Margaery promised. “Ever again.”

“And if anything changes—”

“I’ll tell you first,” she said. “Always.”

Sansa believed her.

“When this calms down,” Margaery added, “you’re coming to my loft. I’ve got wine, takeout menus, and your spot on the bed waiting.”

“I’ve missed your giant bed,” Sansa said. “And your snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“She does,” Theon said flatly.

Sansa smiled, then laughed—properly laughed, the sound breaking loose weeks of tension.

“I’m glad we did this,” she said.

“So am I,” Margaery replied.

Theon raised his mug. “To surviving.”

“To surviving,” they echoed.

And for the first time in weeks, Sansa felt like herself again.


 

The editing suite was dim, monitors washing the room in blue. Jon hunched over the console, hair a mess, hoodie no match for the air conditioning that had been set to “meat locker.” Sam sat nearby, headphones loose around his neck, muttering at waveforms as if sheer will might smooth them. Tyrion lounged in the battered leather chair like it was a throne—coat off, tie undone, sleeves rolled.

Jon clicked, scrubbed back, clicked again. Frame by frame. Pixel by pixel.

“I’ve been reading a script,” he said suddenly.

Tyrion didn’t glance up from his notes. “Unless it ends with the villain assassinating a post-production supervisor, I’m not interested.”

“It’s about two women. Friends. Quiet story. Just grief, trust, and trying again.”

Tyrion arched a brow. “So… Good Queen Alysanne, but without the frostbite and ulcer-inducing budget meetings?”

Jon’s mouth curved, barely. “Something like that.”

“You have a habit of pretending you don’t like those kinds of stories.”

“And you have a habit of making me want to punch you.”

Tyrion raised his coffee. “Yet somehow, it works.”

Sam clicked his tongue. “Uh… guys?”

Jon swivelled. “What?”

Sam froze the frame, zoomed in. It was one of the big ones—the raw scene, the one Jon knew would end up in every campaign montage. And there it was. Sitting smugly in the corner of the table in the background.

A paper coffee cup.

Jon groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Tyrion straightened with mock gravity. “And thus, history repeats itself.”

“My money’s on Podrick,” Jon muttered.

Sam winced. “Pod’s usually great with continuity…”

Usually,” Tyrion echoed. “But if this gets out, the internet will crown her #CoffeeQueen before opening weekend. And then we’ll all be unemployed.”

Jon dropped his head to the console. “I survived reshoots in a blizzard, and this is what kills me?”

Sam was already marking the frame. “Don’t worry. We’ll paint it out. No one will ever know.”

“Exactly what the last poor bastard said,” Tyrion deadpanned.

Jon cracked a laugh despite himself. The tension broke for a moment, the absurdity of it cutting through the weight pressing in.

Then the room quieted again.

Jon straightened, voice low. “How much more can we fix before it all collapses?”

For once, Tyrion didn’t joke. He met Jon’s gaze. “It won’t collapse. Not this time. Because we won’t let it.”

Jon nodded, turned back to the console, and hit play.

The footage rolled on. Clean lines. Careful light. The story they’d built, frame by frame.

And they’d hold the line. Until the end.


TeamGQA Group Chat – Private Cup Chaos

 

Jon:

okay. who left the greggs cup in scene 45.

Daenerys:
you’re lying.
not the moor monologue. not that one.

Tyrion:
Plain white. No lid. No dignity.
A tragic relic of Britain’s relationship with caffeine.

Sansa:
At least tell me it was one of the red Christmas cups?
With snowflakes? Something?

Jon:
nope. just despair in cardboard form.

System Message:
Samwell added “cupocalypse_final_FINALseriously_v5” to the shared folder.

Daenerys:
If this leaks I’m moving to Reykjavík.

Tyrion:
Sam howled like a man who’s seen his career flash before his eyes.
Brienne is already drafting policy on beverage proximity.
Podrick has been apologising since lunch.

Sansa:
Leave Pod alone. He alphabetises the snack drawer. He’s innocent.

Jorah:
We’ll fix it. The scene’s too strong to lose.
It’s a frame clean-up, nothing more.

Daenerys:
You’re disturbingly calm about this.

Jorah:
I’ve survived network notes. This is nothing.

Sansa:
I miss you all.
Jon brought home some dailies. I wasn’t supposed to watch them.
But I did.

Jon:
they’re watermarked. i trust her.
she cried in scene 62.

Sansa:
Jon!
…fine. Yes. I cried.

Tyrion:
Excellent. That scene deserves tears, ovations, and eventually a statue in Leicester Square.

Daenerys:
I miss you, Sans. Ireland is beautiful, but Winterfell is very… quiet.

Sansa:
I miss you too.
Also—my mum finally sent a picture of her BAFTA dress.
She’s a menace. I adore her.

Daenerys:
She showed Jorah. He immediately straightened his posture.
The Starks don’t enter rooms. They own them.

Jorah:
It’s an impressive dress.

Jon:
not a dress. it’s a declaration of war by couture.

Tyrion:
Catelyn Stark: red-carpet general.

Sansa:
I just want one night. No headlines. No handlers.
Wine, food, and us.

Daenerys:
It’ll happen. No noise. No press. Just friends.

Jorah:
I’ll bring the wine.

Jon:
i’ll bring salad.

Sansa:
no you won’t. you’re banned from salad.

Tyrion:
I’ll bring generational trauma and an espresso martini.

Daenerys:
Oberyn will arrive with a flaming dessert and a lawsuit.

Sansa:
I love you all.

Jorah:
Soon. We finish the film. Then we reclaim our peace.


The teaser dropped early, without warning.

No fanfare, no cast tags, no glossy countdown campaign. Just a quiet link posted by the official Good Queen Alysanne account—no caption, no context. Within minutes it had detonated across the internet, gathering momentum like a storm surge.

It began in silence.

Snow and salt spray churned against the edge of a cliff. Alysanne—Sansa Stark in character—stood alone in a deep navy cloak, hair braided back, lips parted as though caught mid-breath. The wind tore around her, tugging at the fabric, but she didn’t move. The look on her face wasn’t regal. It was steadier, older, haunted.

Her voice carried over the image, low and clear:
“The crown was never the point. She knew that. She always knew.”

Cut.

Anne—Daenerys Stormborn—appeared beneath a flickering light in a university stairwell. Her coat hung open, her face drawn, eyes sharpened by sleepless nights. At the base of the steps stood Professor Reid—Jorah Mormont—hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the floor. He didn’t speak. He didn’t leave. The silence between them hummed with meaning.

Then the rhythm fractured into flashes: Alysanne walking through a candlelit corridor, shadows leaping along the walls. Jaehaerys—Daario Naharis—half-submerged in mud, shirt torn, fury in his eyes as he fought. Anne pressed into the corner of a car, holding her breath, her palm flat against the door as though to steady the world. Reid pacing an empty lecture hall, rain smearing the glass behind him. Alysanne before a sealed letter, her fingers frozen on the wax, unable to break it. Anne and Reid facing each other in a hotel hallway, the air between them heavy with intimacy that was both restrained and dangerous.

And then—

Jaehaerys and Alysanne, a stone corridor lit with fire, breath misting in the cold. He leaned closer, just an inch. She tilted towards him. The kiss landed—brief, desperate, inevitable.

The score swelled once, sharp and aching.

Cut to black.

White text lingered against the silence:
GOOD QUEEN ALYSANNE
Two timelines. One crown.
Coming soon.


 

TeamGQA Groupchat

 

Jon:

it’s live.

Tyrion:
my laptop fan just screamed and died.
we’ve killed the machine with thirst traffic.

Daenerys:
I have never looked this clinically furious and this well-lit at the same time.
I am a goddess.

Sansa:
I’m going to be sick. My dad sent me a screenshot and said I looked like his mother before she told someone off.

Tyrion:
not inaccurate.

Jorah:
The Reid shot—take four, wasn’t it? The silence made it mean more.

Jon:
yeah. you dropped your eyes in take three. four carried the weight.

Tyrion:
sam just dropped his tea. it’s everywhere. do we send help?

Daenerys:
do not send help. he’ll start quoting Virginia Woolf again and none of us have the stamina.


From Twiitter

#Jonsa Group Chat  

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:
i have nothing to say except I AM DECEASED. they opened on the cliff. THE. CLIFF. WITH HER CLOAK.
jon snow i love your mind you soft angsty director goblin

@sansaAlysanne01:
his camera wasn’t just filming her. it was in love with her. every second was a prayer. every shot, a goddamn poem.

@snowismyfire:
i need a cigarette and i don’t even smoke. that hallway shot of anne and reid? that wasn’t acting. that was WAR.

@fireandice456:
the teaser had no names, no scandal spin, no press padding. just silence. just grief. just power. jon snow is SILENTLY ERASES joffrey from the narrative and i salute him.

@sansastarkGQA:
and replacing him with sansa in a cloak and daenerys in a navy trench. feminist reclamation of grief + legacy and i am feral.

@Khaleesiandqueen:
no bc dany’s voice when she said “tell me you remember”??? it was like she’d been holding her breath since 2012. devastating.

@jornaerysownsme:
the chemistry between anne + reid?? it wasn’t loud, it was STILL. like they’d already had the conversation years ago and we were watching the aftermath. jorah mormont i love your weathered face.

@ sansastarkGQA:
can we talk about the kiss?? the actual kiss?? firelight. too close. too fleeting. like maybe it never happened.
but WE SAW IT.

@sansaisagoddess:
not to sound unhinged but jon snow loves his leading lady so much it radiates from the shadows. every cut, every close-up. he wants us to feel her.

@jonsnowdeservedanoscar:
and let’s not pretend sansa didn’t direct him with her eyes. she delivered pain + poise + poetry and i am going to ascend in the cinema.

@sansaAlysanne01:
it’s giving literary prestige. it’s giving “i wrote you a role so you could say all the things you never got to say.” it’s giving JONSA.

@fireandice456:
also us pretending we’re stable while joffrey is being ERASED from hollywood in real time like we didn’t manifest this for YEARS??

@snowismyfire:
baelish is flailing, the academy pulled joffrey’s nom, tyrion is three steps ahead, and they dropped a teaser that basically says: we don’t acknowledge you. we ascend without you.

@sansastarkGQA:
someone pls check on jon snow. he’s probably still in the suite staring at sansa’s face like it’s the north star.

@Khaleesiandqueen:
he’s definitely texting tyrion like “hey… is it bad i cried colour-grading the turnaround shot?”
and tyrion replying “YES. finish the fucking movie.”

@ sansastarkGQA:
i want the making-of doc. give me footage of sansa bullying jon about lighting + jorah teaching dany how to slow-blink emotionally.

@jornaerysownsme:
also WHEN is dany getting her flowers?? give her the supporting actress campaign NOW. she held every beat like it was a secret she was scared to share.

@sansaisagoddess:

this isn’t just a film anymore. it’s a reckoning. it’s vindication. catharsis in 120 minutes and i am not ready.


From Tumblr

  Post by @Mrandmrsmuir

I don’t even know how to type this without spontaneously combusting but—
THE HALLWAY SCENE.

The way Reid looks at Anne like he’s already lost her. Like he’s been losing her forever, in every life, in every word she speaks.
The way Anne doesn’t look back at him. Because if she does, if she even lets her eyes flicker toward his, they’ll both unravel right there in the silence.

I’ve said it before and I’ll scream it until my lungs give out: this is not a love story. This is a regret story. This is a “you were the first person who ever understood me, but we met too late and the world was merciless” story. This is academic longing wrapped in pressed coats and flickering lights.

And can we talk about the colour palette? Reid in charcoal, Anne in that navy trench—two storms barely contained, all restraint and devastation. They’ve already spoken the words that matter, and now they’re only walking through the echoes. Ghosts wearing the memory of themselves.

Jorah. Jorah Mormont. That man did not blink. He stood there, silent, and you could feel the ache radiating off him. He said nothing and it was everything. I have drafted five sonnets and an academic paper about his jawline in that one shot.

And Daenerys—our Anne. She looked like a woman holding back a scream she’s swallowed for a decade. The tremor in her hand. The set of her shoulders. The flicker of her breath.

“Tell me you remember.”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. I REMEMBER HER FINGERS trailing the edge of the desk. I REMEMBER the stillness, weaponised. I REMEMBER the breath she never took, the one she refused herself.

They were everything. Everything.

You can keep your kings and crowns. Give me the doomed academics whispering about grief in narrow hallways under flickering lights, choking on restraint and decades of unsaid words. Give me that kind of ruin.

#jornaerys #anne x reid #daenerys stormborn #jorah mormont #good queen alysanne #helovesherandsheloveshim #no one is okay #love stories built on silence #academic yearning #we could have had it all #jon snow we thank you for your service

Reblog by @academicangst:
slaps table THIS IS EXACTLY IT. “regret story” has ended me. i’m deceased.

Reblog by @allmyfandoms:
the hallway scene made me want to lie down in the road. i’ve been in grad school hallways like that. nothing good ever happens under those lights.

Reblog by @gifgoddess:
[reaction gif of someone silently screaming into their sleeve]
tags: #anne’s hand #the lighting #i’m going to eat drywall

Reblog by @seventeenpowerpoints:
“academic longing wrapped in decorum” i am PRINTING this and hanging it in my office.

Reblog by @dragonqueenstan:
listen. when she said “tell me you remember” i blacked out. i am still on the floor. my ghost is typing this.

Reblog by @softnorthstar:
they’re not in love they’re in tragedy.
they’re not a couple they’re a curse.
they’re not a romance they’re a wound.

Reblog by @mrandmrsmuir (OP, adding in tags):
#yes i am still screaming #i will never know peace #also jorah mormont i want to fight you and marry you at the same time

 


The teaser played on loop, muted on the television across the Mayfair flat. A glossy screen in a room that smelled of leather and lemon polish. Cersei sat forward on the cream sofa, bourbon glass sweating beside her, arms braced on her knees. She wasn’t watching the screen. Not really. She was watching the silence.

There were no names. No scandals. Not a whisper of her son. No denials, no accusations. Just cinema—elegant, devastating, deliberate.

They had outmanoeuvred her.
And she didn’t even know how.

Sansa Stark, radiant and untouchable, in every fucking frame. Daenerys Stormborn, carved out of tension and restraint, her scenes honed like weapons. The imagery spoke of grief and legacy, of ruin and endurance. It didn’t need to say Joffrey’s name. Everyone watching already knew.

Her phone lit up again. Headlines stacked against her like a deck she couldn’t reshuffle:

Academy Revokes Baratheon Nomination: A New Precedent in Hollywood Ethics
Petyr Baelish Removed from GQA Credits—Studio Cites Financial Misconduct
The Queens of Awards Season: Stark and Stormborn Usher in a New Era

Her scowl deepened as she scrolled, thumb stabbing the glass. PR silence. No counter-narrative, no sympathy spin. Nothing.

She stood abruptly, bourbon still untouched, and crossed to the tall windows overlooking Mayfair. Outside, the city was quiet, sleek, indifferent—cars gliding, lights glowing—like it didn’t care she was losing her grip.

Baelish wasn’t answering her calls.

Tyrion, that snake, had clearly positioned himself behind the studio’s decision. The Starks had gone to ground. Not even Catelyn had commented since her brief, immaculate statement after nominations. And Sansa—

Sansa hadn’t said a word.

It was a strategy. It had to be. Silence as theatre. Absence as power. Someone was pulling the strings. Someone had choreographed this campaign.

She considered the usual suspects. Oberyn Martell? Too noisy. Varys? Possible. But this was cleaner. Elegant. Ruthless in its patience.

She didn’t even think of Margaery Tyrell.

The Tyrell girl was still filming in Belfast, wasn’t she? No history of scandal, no reputation for trouble. Just another polished heiress with a squeaky-clean CV, represented by Varys, photographed at charity galas. Harmless. Forgettable. Not even worth her attention.

Cersei returned to the sofa, phone heavy in her hand. Sansa’s contact glowed on the screen. A call? A text? Something to frame herself as a grieving mother—misunderstood, dragged through the mud by association. A sympathy play.

Her thumb hovered. She didn’t type.

On the muted television, Anne turned away from Reid in the stairwell. Alysanne kissed Jaehaerys in firelight.

No monsters. No mothers. Just the new royalty.

Cersei lifted the bourbon at last and drank.

She had no idea who was behind this.
And that terrified her most of all.


In Winterfell, the fire crackled softly, casting golden shadows across stone walls and rugs worn soft by generations. The sitting room held a kind of stillness that only belonged to old houses, where the weight of memory steadied every breath. Outside, London and Hollywood tore themselves apart; here, the world was narrowed to hearthlight and tea.

The Stark family sat together, the quiet warmth of the room a refuge from the circus unfolding beyond their ancestral halls.

Ned leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze fixed on the flames as if they alone contained the map of everything. His voice was low, measured, but laced with quiet certainty. “Years of patience. Of waiting, watching. And now, the board is set exactly as we intended.”

Across from him, Catelyn sat curled in her favourite chair, a mug of tea cradled between her hands. Steam rose to touch her face, blurring her expression for a moment before she lowered the cup. She sighed, the sound rich with long-suffering exasperation. “I still hate this part. The campaigning. The politics of it all.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting over the rim with dry amusement. “I’ll have to attend the BAFTAs now, won’t I?”

Ned turned, the faintest of smiles softening the stern lines of his face. “Yes, my love. I’m afraid you will.”

Catelyn let out a laugh—low, warm, unguarded—and for an instant, the world outside was held at bay. The industry’s scandals, its feuds and whispers, seemed like smoke carried on some distant wind, too far to touch them here. Within these walls, with the firelight painting their faces gold, it was just them. Just family. Just peace, hard-won and fiercely kept.


Meanwhile, across the hall in one of Winterfell’s quieter wings, Daenerys and Jorah sat together, the fire painting the room in amber light. Rhaego lay curled between them, his small breaths deep and even beneath the heavy wool blanket. The muted television flickered on, headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen, but neither of them paid it any mind.

“It was only a matter of time,” Jorah said, his voice roughened by the hour. His arm stretched along the back of the sofa until his fingers brushed her shoulder.

Daenerys leaned into him, her hair spilling against his shirt, her fingertips idly tracing the veins along his wrist. “Strange,” she murmured. “The world feels like it’s burning—and for once, we’re nowhere near the flames.”

He drew her closer without thinking, the gesture protective but also possessive, his palm settling at her hip. “We’ve walked through enough fires,” he said quietly.

Her smile was small, private. She rested her cheek against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding her. For a long moment, they simply listened: to the hiss of logs, to the snow tapping against the window, to the boy’s breathing between them.

“I keep thinking about that first rehearsal,” she whispered eventually. “You were standing in the wings, watching me.”

He chuckled low in his throat, lips brushing her hairline. “I remember. You didn’t look at anyone else.”

She tilted her face up toward him, eyes searching. “And now?”

He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “Now, I don’t have to watch from the wings.”

Her hand slid to his jaw, thumb grazing the rough line of stubble, and for a moment, he simply closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. Then he bent his head, slow and certain, and kissed her—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that carried all the weight of years survived and everything still to come.

The fire popped. Rhaego stirred, sighed, then settled again. They drew apart only enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his, his fingers tangled in the ends of her hair.

Outside, the snow kept falling against the ancient stone. Inside, the world had narrowed to warmth, to breath, to the quiet certainty of being found.

Chapter 29: Chapter 29 - dominoes

Chapter Text

The city stretched wide beneath his London flat, a sprawl of glass and steel stitched with light. From this height the streets looked ordered, almost serene, as if the chaos and compromises that fed them had been scrubbed away. Honest, he thought. A lie, but a comforting one.

Jaime leaned his shoulder to the window, the mug in his hand cooling untouched. Rain slid down the glass in thin, restless threads, distorting the skyline into something softer, less precise. He welcomed the blur.

Down there, Joffrey’s name was ash. The fall had been swift and absolute—Oscar nomination rescinded, invitations cancelled, glossy profiles pulled overnight. No more smiling photographs, no breathless copy. Just silence, raw and punishing.

And Jaime? Suspended.
Not accused. Not condemned. Merely placed in a holding pattern: no verdict, no voice. Official purgatory. It was worse than open attack. You could fight slander. You couldn’t fight nothing.

He told himself he had left. Walked away from Cersei, from Joffrey, from the family’s rot. But it clung, a smoke that sank into the lungs and stayed. He had let it happen, told himself Tyrion was safe, that it was enough.

It wasn’t.

Brienne was still in London. Tyrion still bent himself into knots, keeping Good Queen Alysanne afloat against Baelish’s poison. And Jaime—Jaime was here, watching from behind glass, half out of the fight, half pretending he wasn’t needed.

He thought of the boardroom, of Tyrion’s stubborn faith. Of Brienne’s silence, which had never been indifference but something sharper—belief.

Could he rebuild from this?
Not a reputation. That would always wear the stain.
But himself?

For the first time in years, the question did not feel like a curse. It felt like a choice. And the answer, at last, might belong to him.


Margaery Tyrell sat cross-legged on the edge of the hotel bed, a half-empty glass of Barolo slack in her hand. The storm that had rattled Belfast through the night had blown itself out, but the air still smelt of rain. Beyond the window the city lay damp and hushed, that peculiar quiet that came only after something loud had passed through. For a moment she could almost pretend the chaos hadn’t touched her.

Almost.

The muted television flickered, headlines rolling without sound. Joffrey’s name dragged through the mud. Statements. Retractions. Fury dressed up as spin. Her work. Their work. And yet none of it felt like the victory she had once imagined.

She hadn’t poured her soul into this for applause.

Across the room, Theon Greyjoy slouched barefoot in the armchair, hair mussed, shirt creased, a glass untouched between his hands. The blue light sharpened the wreckage of his face, the map of a man broken and remade too many times. He hadn’t asked when she began this path—had only followed, steadying her when she faltered, carrying the weight when she couldn’t.

He watched her now with quiet eyes.
“Do you feel better?”

The words hung between them like smoke. No accusation. Just curiosity. He already knew the answer.

Margaery let her gaze slip back to the screen, then down to the dark red in her glass. She traced the rim with her fingertip as if it might reveal some hidden truth. “I don’t know.”

Vengeance was supposed to taste like triumph. Instead it tasted like exhaustion—like ash lodged deep in the bones.

Theon leaned forward, elbows to knees. “You did the right thing.”

A brittle laugh escaped her, small and sharp. “Did I?” It wasn’t for him. It was for herself.

Everything had begun with Loras. The boy who had called her Meg when no one else dared. Who lit up rooms and cut through lies with a glance. She had sworn she would make them pay. But justice wasn’t clean. It didn’t mend the ache. It didn’t bring back the dead.

“You didn’t just do this for Loras,” Theon said, reaching for her hand. His voice was steady. “You did it for Sansa. For every girl after her. Every silence forced. Every name buried.”

Her fingers shook against his, but she squeezed back.

It hadn’t begun with love between them—just grief, two ruined bodies clawing warmth out of cold. But love had crept in anyway, slow and stubborn. And it terrified her. To love was to risk losing again.

She tipped into him, cheek resting on his shoulder. He smelt of soap and wool, of something grounded and real—a man who had endured too much and still stayed soft. “I thought this would fix everything,” she whispered.

“It won’t.” His lips brushed her temple. “Nothing brings him back. But you gave him justice. And you gave yourself a future.”

She closed her eyes. She hadn’t seen beyond this point; every plan had ended with Joffrey burning, the industry split wide. But Theon had always looked further—through wreckage, past grief.

“You won’t lose me, Margaery,” he said.

Her voice cracked. “Promise me.”

He turned her face towards him, thumb light on her cheek. “I swear it.”

Her breath hitched, but she believed him.

“I don’t want to wake up one morning and realise I spent so long trying to destroy something that I forgot how to live.”

“Then don’t,” he said simply. “Live.”

She kissed him—soft, deliberate. Not passion, not desperation, but vow. Grounding. Beginning.

When they drew apart, she leaned her forehead to his, their choices hanging between them like smoke.
“We did this,” she murmured. “And now we survive it.”

Theon nodded. “Together.”

And for the first time since the war began, Margaery Tyrell allowed herself to believe in an after. In peace. In love.
In tomorrow.


The room looked built for predators.
White walls. Leather chairs. Cold chrome fixtures. Windowless. Soundproofed. The sort of place money rented when a conversation needed to stay buried.

Baelish had been summoned here for what they’d called a final conversation.

He’d expected tension, perhaps a lecture from Tyrion, and had dressed for it: crisp suit, polished shoes, smirk worn like armour. But when he stepped inside and saw the three of them waiting—Tyrion seated at the head of the table, Oberyn draped in shadow by the minibar, Varys standing sentinel in silence—he understood.

This wasn’t a conversation.
It was an execution.

Tyrion didn’t rise. He tapped a folder with two fingers, eyes lifting.
“Close the door, Baelish. It’s drafty.”

Baelish obeyed. Slowly. Quietly. He hated being the only one left standing, but he didn’t sit. Not yet.

“I assume you know why you’re here,” Varys said, voice so soft it could almost be mistaken for kindness.

Baelish smirked. “You want my resignation. You could’ve sent an email.”

Oberyn laughed—sharp, bright, cruel. “Darling, you’re not being asked. You’re being told.”

Tyrion leaned back, folding one leg over the other, arms sprawled along the chair’s edges like coiled serpents. “We debated whether to summon you at all. Thought about simply leaking everything to the press. But Varys argued you deserved the professional courtesy of being gutted in private.”

Baelish’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve made threats before.”

Varys tilted his head, almost pitying. “This isn’t a threat. It’s notice.”

He tapped the tablet on the table, turning the screen toward Baelish. One swipe, and the evidence began to scroll—financial reports, falsified invoices, offshore transfers, shell accounts linked to old embezzlement scandals. Every thread traced, every knot untangled.

Tyrion’s voice was steady, relentless. “Two million skimmed from the budget. Attempts to edge Jon out of his edit. Payments to a fixer for fabricating stories about Daenerys and Sansa. Sabotaged negotiations. Leaked scripts.”

“I didn’t leak scripts,” Baelish snapped.

Oberyn’s reply cut like glass. “No. Your assistant did. From your phone. Five minutes before your face unlocked it.”

Baelish stared at the screen. The web he had spun for years lay unpicked in front of him, thread by golden thread.

Tyrion reached for the decanter at his elbow, poured himself a measure of scotch, and set the glass untouched on the table. The gesture was enough. “You played well, Baelish. But every schemer meets someone better.”

“You think I won’t fight this?” Baelish’s voice had dropped to something dangerous, a blade behind cloth.

“You won’t,” Varys murmured, almost tender. “Because you’re clever. And because we’ve already filed with three studios, two boards, and one government agency. Deny it, and the avalanche begins.”

Oberyn finally moved, pouring himself a drink. He took a slow sip, then approached, glass in hand. “You wanted to sink Good Queen Alysanne. Wanted control. Now you’ve nothing. No seat, no leverage. You’re yesterday’s story, Petyr—and no one rereads a bore.”

Baelish looked to Tyrion. “What do you want?”

Tyrion set his untouched scotch aside, eyes cold. “Vanish. Resign. Fade from the press. Stay silent, and the evidence disappears. Resist…” He flicked the folder across the table. “It all goes public.”

Baelish studied the folder. The tablet. The faces across from him. He’d made a career of reading rooms, and this one told him the truth. He was finished.

“You don’t want me dead,” he said, voice low.

“No,” said Varys, stepping behind him. “We want you irrelevant.”

Silence stretched. Then Baelish’s mouth curved, though it never reached his eyes.
“I’ll walk.”

“Good,” Tyrion said. “Your exit package is already with your lawyers. Break the terms once, and it vanishes too.”

Oberyn raised his glass in a mock toast. “To the end of a very long, very slimy chapter.”

Baelish turned for the door.

“And Petyr?” Varys’ voice followed, soft as silk. “If you so much as whisper Sansa Stark’s name, even your shadow will stop returning your calls.”

Baelish left without another word.

And just like that, the man who once believed himself indispensable was taken off the board—quietly, permanently.


The door clicked shut. Silence pressed in.

Tyrion exhaled, slow, and finally took a sip of the scotch. His hand trembled, only slightly, but enough for Oberyn to notice.

“Well,” Oberyn said, collapsing into a chair with feline ease. “That was satisfying.”

“Necessary,” Varys corrected, smoothing his cuffs as though brushing away Baelish’s presence.

Tyrion stared into his glass. “Satisfying and necessary aren’t always the same thing.”

Oberyn leaned over, plucked the glass from Tyrion’s hand, and drained it himself. “Tonight they are.”

For the first time that evening, Varys allowed himself a thin smile. “The board is lighter without him.”

Tyrion rubbed a hand across his face, then let it drop. “Lighter, yes. But the game isn’t over.”

“No,” Varys agreed. His gaze flicked between the three of them, and for a rare moment, there was warmth in it. “But we play it together.”

The tension broke, fragile as glass, but it broke.

 


It was raining in London when the knock came.

Sansa padded barefoot across her flat, Jon’s hoodie loose on her shoulders, hair damp from sleep. Brienne stood outside in the corridor, her grey jumper dark with drizzle.

“This was left at the front gate,” she said, holding out an envelope. “I saw someone drop it. Didn’t recognise them.”

Sansa took it. No return address, just her name in careful handwriting she hadn’t seen in years.

“Do you want me to stay?” Brienne asked.

Sansa shook her head. “No. Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Brienne lingered a moment, then nodded and walked back down the stairwell.

Inside, the flat was warm, the low hum of Jon’s editing suite steady in the background. Sansa stood in the hall with the envelope in her hand, uneasy.

She opened it.

 

Sansa,

I think it’s time we talked. You know things now. I believe we can still find a way forward.

Discretion matters, for both our sakes.

You know how to reach me.

– C
*

Her fingers tightened, creasing the page. Polite words, but every line poisoned.

She set it by the kettle, filled it with water, and reached for her phone.

Sansa: She made contact.
Sansa: Brienne intercepted the drop. At my flat. She knows where I live.

Replies came almost immediately.

Margaery: I’ll take care of it.
Tyrion: Do not respond. Keep the letter. I’ll handle the rest.
Tyrion: If she wants to play, we’ll set the rules.

Sansa sat down at the table, drawing her knees up. The letter lay limp beside her.

Jon didn’t come in. He knew when to leave her space—that was how she knew he loved her.

She didn’t answer Cersei. But she memorised every word.

This time she wasn’t alone. She had allies. She had a voice.

Let Cersei come.

They were already building without her.


Margaery hadn’t expected her morning to begin with a threat. She’d braided her hair, fed the stray cat that had claimed her Belfast suite, and was reaching for coffee when Sansa’s message arrived.

A photo of an envelope. No return address. Handwritten.
Brienne had seen the delivery.

It reeked of Cersei.

Now Margaery sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, laptop perched on a pile of scripts, facing Varys on her screen.

He was immaculate as always—grey cardigan, city skyline blurred behind him. Calm, precise. But his eyes were sharp.

“She really sent it by courier?” Varys asked, tone almost incredulous.

“She did. Brienne intercepted it.”

“Then she’s desperate,” he said. “Cersei knows exactly what I can do. She wouldn’t risk this unless she was cornered.”

Margaery’s jaw tightened. “She thinks Sansa is the weak link.”

“She always has,” Varys said smoothly. “She’s wrong.”

He tapped his keyboard. A file appeared in Margaery’s inbox: CCTV stills of the courier, timestamped, geolocated. A note linking the drop to a burner office tied to one of Cersei’s old firms.

“She’s sloppy,” Varys went on. “Her tracks aren’t hidden. That’s not strategy. That’s panic.”

Margaery leaned back against the headboard. “Then we turn it. I’ll speak to one of the desks at the Observer. No comment, just a question planted in the right ear: Why was Sansa Stark targeted now, after the documentary? Enough to shift the air against her.”

“And I’ll work the phones,” Varys said. “By the time anyone tries to spin it, the conversation will already be poisoned. If she breathes Sansa’s name, the response will drown her out before it lands.”

Margaery nodded. “And the letter?”

“Have Brienne scan and hold it. We don’t use it unless we must. For now, the point is simple—she knows she’s being watched.”

A small smile touched Margaery’s lips. “I almost hope she tries again.”

“Of course you do,” Varys said, with a flicker of wry fondness. “But don’t mistake this for strength. It’s not power—it’s the sound of it slipping away.”

The call ended.

Margaery sat with the dark screen a moment, then picked up her phone.

Margaery: Tell Brienne to keep the envelope safe. We’ve got it covered. Cersei blinked. That’s the last time she will.

She hesitated, then added another line.

Margaery: Also—you were radiant in the teaser. Even Varys noticed.

A shard of light in the middle of the fight.

Cersei was desperate. They weren’t. And that made all the difference.


Tyrion read the forwarded image of the envelope in his office, the rain streaking across London’s glass towers behind him. He set down his glass of wine untouched, studying the handwriting. Elegant. Cold. Familiar.

So Cersei had played her card.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly. This wasn’t strategy. This was desperation dressed as theatre. And if there was one thing Tyrion knew, it was how to use desperation against her.

He picked up his phone and typed back to Sansa.

Tyrion: Varys and Margaery are right. Do nothing. Let me take it from here.

He paused, then added:

Tyrion: She wanted you unsettled. Instead, she’s shown her hand. And she’s running out of them.

He set the phone aside, reaching finally for the wine. A small, grim smile touched his face.

If Cersei wanted a fight, she’d get one. But not on her terms.


The flat was quiet, rain still tapping softly against the windows. Outside, London blurred in grey sheets, the sky low and heavy. Jon had gone out for a walk—fifteen minutes, he’d said. Just long enough to give her a moment alone. It had become their rhythm lately: brief pockets of space carved out of the chaos.

Sansa sat cross-legged on the sofa, Jon’s oversized hoodie wrapped around her like armour. Her phone lay in her palm, its glow painting her face in cool light.

She hadn’t opened this contact in more than a year.

Cersei. Just the name. Stark, impersonal.

No messages remained. The old call log had long since emptied. She’d never deleted the number—not because she wanted to keep it, but because part of her hadn’t dared. A thin thread still tied her to that chapter of her life. To Joffrey’s mother. To the woman who smiled on red carpets and whispered encouragement while tightening her grip.

Even now, the name looked back at her like a dare.

Her jaw tightened. Her thumb hovered.

Cersei had tried again with that letter—veiled, polite, poisonous beneath the civility. A gesture meant to unsettle.

But Sansa wasn’t that woman anymore.

She pressed Delete Contact.

Confirmed.

The name vanished. Quietly. No fanfare. Just silence—and a weight lifting she hadn’t realised she still carried.

Her phone buzzed. A new message.

Daenerys: Brienne said she saw the courier leave. Varys is handling it. Don’t worry.

Sansa smiled, small and genuine.

She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she let her gaze wander across the flat: the books stacked by the sill, Jon’s scribbled notes from the edit suite, the battered coat he’d left draped over a chair. Ordinary clutter. Ordinary life.

The rain outside slowed, the sound thinning to silence. A shaft of pale light broke across the damp window, tentative but clear.

This was her life now. Messy. Honest. Real.

The last ghost was gone.

And she wasn’t looking back.

 


The flat was quiet, the kind of quiet Jon had learned to hold onto. Outside, rain tapped against the windows, soft enough to fade into the walls. He sat at the dining table, pages from the edit spread in front of him, but his eyes weren’t on them. They kept drifting to her.

Sansa stood by the window, a mug cooling in her hand, his hoodie loose on her frame. She didn’t turn when she spoke.
“I never thought we’d be here. After all of it… it still feels like the struggle doesn’t stop.”

Jon set the notes aside. He heard the weight in her voice, the same ache he carried.
“We’re still fighting,” he said. “But it isn’t always headlines and scandals. Sometimes it’s just remembering what’s worth holding on to.”

That made her look at him.
“And what matters to you, Jon?”

He didn’t hesitate. He rose, closing the distance between them. “You. The people I choose to stand beside. With everything else falling apart, it’s easy to lose sight. But with you, I remember.”

Her hand slid into his, cool from the mug. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, grounding himself in her touch.
“With you, I’m not alone anymore,” he said.

The quiet stretched, shared. She opened her mouth, but he touched her cheek first, stopping her.
“I know.”

Her breath caught. “You don’t.”

He smiled—unguarded, rare. “I think I do.”

He leaned in. The first brush of his lips was tentative, testing. She answered without words, tilting closer, deepening the kiss until there was nothing left between them.

Her fingers curled into the back of his neck, pulling him in. His hand slid to the small of her back, warm under the fabric, anchoring her against him. The kiss broke only for breath, their foreheads pressed together, their laughter quiet and close.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured.

Her eyes held his. “I’ve never been more certain.”

The second kiss was slower, hungrier. They undressed each other in fragments, clothes slipping to the floor without thought. Jon’s hands skimmed over her waist, her spine, every line familiar but never taken for granted. She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, her palms flattening against his chest, steady and wanting.

By the time they reached the bedroom, they were already lost in each other. The cool sheets gave way quickly to warmth, to skin against skin, to the press of her body arching into his.

They moved together with the ease of people who had long since learned each other’s rhythm, but there was nothing routine in it. Every kiss landed like a vow, every touch pulled them closer. Her breath stuttered against his throat; his name spilled from her lips, low and urgent. He caught her hand and laced their fingers together, pressing them into the mattress, holding on as though the world outside might fall away.

Her laugh, soft and surprised, escaped when his mouth found the curve of her shoulder. The sound loosened something deep in him. He kissed her again and again—her collarbone, the hollow of her throat—until her hands pulled at him, urging him back to her mouth.

There was heat in it, yes, but also something steadier: the certainty of knowing they could lose everything else and still have this.

Later, when the world had gone still again, she lay across him, her head rising and falling with his chest. Jon smoothed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering at her temple.

“I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Not with you,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he told her. “Not with me.”

Her hand tightened in his, fingers lacing with his own. The rain outside had eased. The flat was dark, but her weight and warmth against him felt like light.

“I think we’ll be all right,” she said.

Jon drew her closer, his hold firm. “We’ll face it together.”

And for the first time in years, he believed it.


Rain streaked the tall windows of Cersei’s Mayfair flat, silver rivulets cutting through the city lights. Outside, London bustled and blinked as if nothing had changed, as if her empire weren’t fracturing beneath her feet. The BAFTAs had turned their backs. The Academy had rescinded the nomination. And her golden son’s name—once spoken with awe—was now muttered with disgust.

She turned from the glass, heels striking hard against marble. Joffrey slouched on the leather couch, his phone clenched in one hand, eyes raw from anger and sleepless nights.

“They’re behind this,” Cersei said. Her voice was low, venom coiled tight. “The Starks. They orchestrated it. Timed it perfectly. Just when you had the industry in your palm.”

She poured herself whisky, neat, two fingers. She didn’t offer him any. He sulked like a child—and in her eyes, that was all he looked like now: a boy dragged from his pedestal.

“If they think they’ll take control of Hollywood, they’re wrong. Good Queen Alysanne will never see the light of day if I can help it. If I can delay it, it will fade into irrelevance.”

“They’ve already poisoned the narrative,” Joffrey snapped, hurling his phone onto the table. “Everywhere I look, my face is plastered next to the word ‘monster.’”

Cersei sipped her drink, calculating. “Then we poison theirs. Not with fury—fury is sloppy. With precision. We strike the film. Undermine the buzz. We make the public question the Starks’ integrity. Paint them as power-hungry manipulators, not heroes.”

“And the documentary?” Joffrey’s voice cracked with fury. “It’s out there. They know.”

“They know fragments,” Cersei said coolly. “We can discredit it. Leak stories about it being unvetted, biased, stitched together from rumour. Confusion is all we need. People will believe what suits them—so we give them something else to believe.”

A grin twisted across his face, bitter and eager. “Make them pay, Mother. Make them regret ever crossing me. Stop the film before it comes out.”

Cersei studied him. Fury burned through him, all sharp edges and blind need. Useful, yes, but volatile. Dangerous even to himself.

“You’ll leave the strategy to me,” she said, her tone clipped. “You will make no public statement. We let the press chew on this, then we step in and correct the record—with our version.”

Joffrey scowled but leaned back. “Fine. But don’t let them get away with it.”

“They won’t.” Cersei’s fingers tightened around the glass. Her eyes glittered in the half-light, hard and certain. “The Starks think they’ve won. But the game isn’t over. Not while I’m still here to play.”


It was raining. Of course it was. London seemed to do nothing else this time of year, and Tyrion Lannister had learned to match its mood sip for sip. He nursed a mug of coffee—cold, bitter, long abandoned—and leaned over the sprawl of documents on his desk like a general poring over battle plans.

The office walls looked like the inside of a conspiracy theorist’s head: whiteboards, corkboards, colour-coded notes, strings of tape linking press clippings to timelines, NDAs to budgets. To an outsider, it might look mad. To Tyrion, it was clarity.

Jon had left twenty minutes earlier for the edit suite. Brienne was buried in post-production schedules, driving the team to keep the delivery airtight. Oberyn was working his charm offensive with the press. Varys, no doubt, was orchestrating his invisible empire with polite phone calls that had very sharp teeth.

And Tyrion—Tyrion was waiting.

Because Cersei would strike.

She couldn’t help herself. She would crawl across broken glass to claw back Joffrey’s reputation, her family name, her own brittle pride. She’d never attack outright. She’d plant whispers in trade papers, lean on guild contacts, seed doubt through weak-willed studio executives about whether Good Queen Alysanne was too “political,” too “timely,” too “dangerous.”

Predictable. Always.

Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered to the empty room, “Any minute now. Cue the dramatic overreach.”

He wasn’t afraid. Not quite. But he knew better than to underestimate her.

Let her try. They’d braced for this. Varys had statements polished and ready to drop. Oberyn had journalists prepped to torch any narrative she seeded. Brienne had every delivery deadline locked in, every invoice squared, leaving no margin for sabotage.

And Jon—Jon was cutting like a man possessed. The rough cut was already strong. Strong enough that when the studio executives saw it later this week, they’d know they had something real on their hands. Once they bought in, it would be harder for Cersei to sink the film, no matter how much poison she poured into the press.

Tyrion’s eyes drifted to the board, to two pinned photographs.

Sansa, cloaked in furs, chin lifted with that serene, regal poise she carried on screen. Daenerys, as Anne, fire in her eyes, grounded and unflinching. Two women separated by centuries in the story, yet united in resolve.

They had built something worth defending.

He took a grim sip of his cold coffee. “She’ll come hard,” he muttered, “but she’s out of tricks. We’ve run this game longer than she realises.”

His phone buzzed. A message from Oberyn.

Tell your sister to bring her A-game. We’re not just playing defence anymore.

Tyrion smiled, the kind that never quite reached his eyes.

“Finally,” he said to the empty room.

Let the next move come. They were ready.


The rain hadn’t stopped. It pressed against the windows in a steady patter, a whisper beneath the hum of the city. The dining table still bore the remains of their meal, plates pushed aside, glasses half full.

Sansa sat at the end, her fingers curled around a glass of wine she hadn’t touched. Across from her, Tyrion and Jon traded the kind of dry, weary banter that passed for conversation these days—Tyrion’s acerbic jabs at post-production deadlines, Jon answering with tired sarcasm and the occasional eye roll that softened into something like fondness.

But Sansa’s thoughts were elsewhere. The envelope Brienne had intercepted days ago was still folded in her bag, heavy with Cersei’s handwriting. The threat—her game—was never far from her mind.

“She’ll try to delay the film,” Sansa said suddenly, cutting through their back-and-forth.

Jon looked up, concern flickering in his eyes. Tyrion leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, as though he’d been waiting for her to voice it.

“Of course she will,” Tyrion said. “A whisper in distribution, a favour called in at a guild, some convenient leak to the trades. Her options are dwindling, but that won’t stop her.”

Sansa met his gaze, steady. “Then we move first. If she so much as touches the release calendar, we go legal. No hesitation. No reaction—just a clean, prepared strike.”

Jon gave a slow nod, impressed.

Tyrion studied her, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You’ve learned.”

“I had good teachers,” Sansa said. Her voice didn’t rise, but the weight of it lingered.

Tyrion raised his glass in a half-toast. “To elegant revenge. And airtight paperwork.”

Her lips curved, and she clinked her glass against his. For once, the wine didn’t burn.

“We fight back,” she said. “But on our terms.”

Jon reached under the table and laced his fingers through hers. She let him hold on.

Tyrion watched the gesture, then turned the conversation with deliberate ease. “Speaking of terms—the rough cut tomorrow.”

Jon exhaled, sitting back in his chair. “Yeah.” He tried for casual, but his shoulders betrayed him. “It’s solid. Brienne’s locked the schedule, the sound team are ahead, and I’ve cut it as close to final as I dare. Still… it’s the first time the suits will see it.”

“And you want them dazzled,” Tyrion said.

Jon shot him a look. “I want them convinced. If they believe in the film, it’ll be harder for her to touch it.”

Sansa’s thumb brushed against the back of his hand. “They’ll see it, Jon. What you’ve built. What you all built. They won’t be able to deny it.”

He glanced at her, tension in his jaw softening. “You sound sure.”

“I am,” she said simply.

Tyrion leaned forward, eyes bright despite the late hour. “She’s right. If the cut lands the way I think it will, tomorrow we shift from playing defence to going on the attack. Cersei can’t kill what’s already alive in the room.”

For the first time that evening, something close to anticipation settled between them, quiet but electric.

Outside, the rain kept falling. But in the small flat, with the wine low in their glasses and the future crowding close, the war felt—if not winnable—at least theirs to fight.


The city beyond his window glimmered with wet neon, London’s familiar blend of grit and polish. Jaime stood at his desk, jacket abandoned on the back of a chair, shirtsleeves rolled, tie hanging loose like a noose he hadn’t quite shaken off. His desk was a battlefield of motions, filings, and contract addenda—the tools of a quieter war.

He tapped a pen against the wood, eyes on the contract rider he’d just finished.

Distribution rights: locked.
Emergency injunctions: drafted.
Contingency clauses: watertight.

Cersei wasn’t going to sink Good Queen Alysanne. Not through legal channels. Not through favours pulled in backrooms. And not by dragging Sansa back into the shadows.

Not while I still have weight to throw around.

He didn’t start when Brienne entered. She never knocked. Not with him.

“Everything’s filed,” she said, placing a thick envelope on his desk. “I reviewed the rider myself. There’s nothing they can exploit.”

Jaime flicked through the pages until he reached the clause he’d insisted on:

Any party found to have acted in bad faith to impede the distribution of the film shall be subject to civil and criminal liability under defamation, tortious interference, and misrepresentation statutes.

Legalese, yes—but sharpened into a blade.

“I don’t want her dragged into this,” he said, quieter now but unyielding. “Sansa. She’s done enough. If Cersei tries to make this about her, she’ll find me in the way.”

Brienne poured herself a glass of water, watching him steadily. “She’ll try anyway.”

“I know.”

He leaned against the desk, staring at the floor. For years he had stood in court as a Crown Prosecutor, fighting cases that mattered. He had done good. But he had also bent the rules, buried scandals, shielded his family when he should have exposed them. And Sansa…

The memory sat heavy. Her hair wet, her robe clutched tight. The fear in her eyes when he told her she couldn’t win. The way she deleted her own evidence under his watch because he’d convinced her it was hopeless. His voice had been calm, kind even, as he broke something in her that Joffrey’s violence hadn’t managed to touch.

He had protected Joffrey then, not her.

This—this was the counterweight.

“She deserves to move forward,” he said, more to himself than to Brienne. “They all do. And Cersei’s not going to poison that.”

The silence stretched, steady as the rain on glass, until Brienne nodded once.
“You’re doing the right thing.”

Jaime gave a dry chuckle. “Not something I’ve heard often.”

“You hear it now.”

He opened a drawer and drew out a sealed legal envelope, already stamped and addressed. The final piece: a binding agreement with the film’s parent company, transferring temporary power of attorney for all litigation related to Good Queen Alysanne directly to him. He’d already signed it.

“I’ve closed every door she might reach for,” he said, sliding the envelope into his bag. “If she files anything, it triggers an automatic injunction. And she’ll have to come through me.”

“She’ll be furious.”

“She always is.”

Brienne’s mouth curved, faint but certain. “You’re changing.”

“No,” Jaime said, switching off his desk lamp, reaching for his coat. “I’m finally becoming who I should have been all along.”

He slung the bag over his shoulder, paused in the doorway, and looked back at her.
“Come on. I owe Sansa and the others a quiet night before tomorrow.”


 

Later that night, Sansa’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. She hesitated before picking it up—Brienne’s name lit the screen.

Brienne:
He made sure it was airtight. The film is safe. Distribution’s locked, and Cersei can’t touch it.

Sansa:
You mean you did that?

Brienne:
Jaime did it. I just helped keep things quiet.

Sansa:
Why would he?

Brienne:
Because he’s trying. He’s not doing it for credit. He just wants to protect what matters.

Sansa:
He didn’t even tell me.

Brienne:
He didn’t want thanks. Just to make sure no one could use you or the film as leverage.

Sansa:
I can’t forget what he was part of.

Brienne:
I know. And so does he. That’s why he’s doing this. He can’t undo it, but he isn’t the man who stood beside Cersei. Not anymore.

Sansa:
Maybe. I just need time.

Brienne:
Take it. You’ve earned it. The rest of us will keep watch.

Sansa set the phone aside, staring at the rain sliding down the window. She wasn’t ready to forgive Jaime. But she could no longer deny he was trying.


The lights dimmed, the hum of the projector filling the small private theatre. Tyrion shifted in his chair, coffee in one hand, notepad in the other—not that he needed it. He wasn’t here to take notes. He was here to watch.

Not the film. He’d seen it a dozen times in the edit suite. He knew Good Queen Alysanne frame by frame. No, Tyrion was watching the suits.

Four of them, flown in from Los Angeles and New York, their umbrellas still dripping in the foyer. One British, old guard, looking faintly offended that anyone in Belfast could make cinema worth his time. They sat with arms folded, phones tucked reluctantly away, expressions neutral.

Jon had introduced the screening with clipped words, nerves poorly hidden: “This is a rough cut, but the spine is there.” Then he’d taken his seat beside Tyrion, shoulders tight enough to snap.

The film began.

Sansa’s first appearance drew silence—her chin lifted, regal in furs. Daenerys followed, sharp-eyed and restless as Anne in the modern scenes. Executives leaned forward without realising it, arms uncrossing, attention caught.

By the midpoint, Daario and Sansa’s chemistry had the room tilting in. By the Iceland sequence, one of the Americans muttered, “Christ, this is stunning,” forgetting himself.

Tyrion didn’t look at Jon. He didn’t need to. He could feel the tension rolling off him. But Tyrion knew. They had it.

When the credits rolled, the silence lingered—long enough to matter. Executives didn’t give praise easily.

Finally, the British one cleared his throat. “For a rough cut,” he admitted, “remarkably strong. Festival-ready, I’d say.”

Another nodded. “If you hold this through delivery, you’ve got a contender.”

Jon sat frozen, as if he hadn’t heard. Tyrion leaned forward, folding his hands over his notepad. “Gentlemen. Ladies. You see the point. This isn’t scandal or politics. This is cinema. And you’d be wise to stand behind it.”

There were nods. Enough.

When the lights came up, Jon’s hands were white-knuckled on his knees. Tyrion clapped his shoulder, almost kind.

“Relax, Director. They liked it.”

Jon blinked. “You’re sure?”

“I was watching them,” Tyrion said. “Trust me. They’ll sell their grandmothers before they let this die.”

He allowed himself the smallest sip of triumph. Cersei could spit and claw all she liked. But the film was alive now, in the eyes of the suits.

And she couldn’t kill what was already breathing.


“You’re both officially banned from ever leaving mugs on set again,” Tyrion declared, pointing a fork like a dagger as he sank into the dining chair.

Sansa was already laughing, curled on the bench by the window with a half-glass of wine. “We did not leave the coffee cup.”

“You say that,” Tyrion said, chewing a mouthful of pasta, “but Samwell’s been combing every frame of this movie like it’s the Zapruder tape. He found a reflection in a doorknob yesterday that nearly gave him a coronary.”

Jon snorted from the stove, ladling sauce into a pan. “He’s gone full trauma response. He’s got checklists for continuity, object placement, shadows, ghost interference—”

“—haunted lattes,” Tyrion finished.

“He nearly sent me a Google doc titled Suspicious Steam Behaviour,” Jon muttered, deadpan.

Sansa giggled. “You’re both terrible.”

Jon passed Tyrion a fresh glass of wine, then sat down beside Sansa with his own plate. The kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme. It had been another long day—post-production meetings, legal briefings, PR fireproofing, and about twelve conversations with Oberyn that all somehow involved the phrase optics, darling.

But here, in the golden lowlight of their small flat, things were quiet.

Almost too quiet.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair, the humour still on his face, but something sharper behind it. “She’ll make her move soon.”

“She already is,” Jon said, the amusement gone from his voice. “We’ve seen the whispers. Tabloid chatter. Studio nerves.”

Sansa set down her wineglass. “She’s trying to reach people who owe her favours. Cersei doesn’t attack directly. She poisons the well first.”

Tyrion nodded. “Varys is monitoring the comms. Oberyn has three gossip columnists in his pocket and is somehow texting two lawyers and a reality show runner-up. We’re still ahead.”

“And the screening helped,” Jon added. “They were convinced. You saw it.”

“Oh, I saw it.” Tyrion’s smile was wry. “Half the room forgot how to breathe by Iceland. They won’t admit it yet, but they know they’ve got a contender. That makes it harder for her to meddle. Not impossible. Harder.”

Jon leaned forward, voice steady. “We’ve got the strategy. We’ve got the film. We’ve got people who believe in what we’ve done. But if we splinter—if we panic, or start second-guessing each other—she wins. She’ll find a crack and wedge herself in. And that’ll be enough.”

Sansa’s hand brushed Jon’s under the table. Pride flickered beneath her calm expression.

Tyrion’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, then he drained his glass. “Jaime’s been moving his own pieces too,” he said lightly, as though commenting on the weather. “Shoring up the legal flank. He won’t let her reach you through the courts.”

Sansa blinked but said nothing. Jon gave a brief nod, taking it in, then looked back at Tyrion.

“We hold the line,” Jon said.

Tyrion raised his glass in a slow salute. “To holding the line.”

Jon touched his glass to Tyrion’s. “To finishing the fight.”

Sansa clinked hers against both, the faintest smile tugging her lips.

The room fell quiet again—but this time it was a peaceful quiet. The kind that said they were ready.

And Jon knew: Cersei might have influence. But they had each other. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.


The room smelled faintly of bergamot and old books. Varys sat alone in the muted glow of his private workspace—one of several scattered across the city. This one was arranged with quiet elegance: a wall of monitors, a small mahogany desk, and a single tea service laid out with ritual precision. He stirred his cup once clockwise, then again. A habit. Calming. Measured.

Onscreen, headlines flared like firelight.

Cersei Lannister Makes Quiet Visit to Paramount Offices
Insiders Say Delays Possible for Good Queen Alysanne
“Overreach or Retribution?” Industry Weighs In

He didn’t bother to read the full articles. He knew their sources. He knew how the whispers had been seeded, and by whom.

He sipped his tea slowly and tapped the screen. A new page unfurled: names, photographs, studio affiliations. Three bore faint red dots—Cersei’s old points of leverage. People she had ruled with fear and favours. But fear, Varys knew, was a currency with an expiration date.

Not one of them had returned her call.

He tapped again, dispatching a pre-written message to a contact in Los Angeles. Polite, carefully phrased, sharpened just enough to bite: We trust you’ll remember your commitments. Integrity is a lasting reputation. Fear is not.

The reply came almost instantly.

Understood. Nothing moves. The film stays on track. She’s boxed out.
P.S. The tea set in your last parcel was divine.

Varys allowed himself the faintest smile.

A knock at the door. He pressed the intercom. “Come.”

Tyrion entered, rain dripping from his coat, fatigue in his eyes. He crossed the room and collapsed into the armchair opposite with the sigh of a man who’d had too many meetings. “Well?”

“She’s moved.” Varys gestured to the screen. “Calls made. Hands shaken. Threats implied. Subtle, of course. She’s not a fool—merely… desperate.”

“And?”

“We’ve already clipped her reach. I spoke with the unions yesterday, the distributors last week. Quiet nudges. Nothing that raises suspicion. Simply insulation.”

Tyrion tipped his head back with something like relief. “Gods, I love when you talk like that.”

Varys arched a brow. “Shall I continue in that tone, or do you prefer something more salacious?”

“If I wanted salacious,” Tyrion muttered, “I’d be downstairs with Oberyn. No, this—this is poetry. Tell me she’s losing.”

“She is,” Varys said, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “She just doesn’t know it yet. Which, of course, is the best kind of victory.”

Tyrion exhaled, slow and pleased. “You’re a menace. And I mean that with devotion.”

“I prefer the word prepared,” Varys replied, lifting his cup.

Tyrion’s expression sharpened. “And if she shifts tactics?”

“She will. Not yet, but soon. When the quiet hands fail, she’ll look to legal backchannels, perhaps a smear on Sansa. We’ve already placed our allies accordingly.”

Tyrion raised his glass—his was whiskey, not tea—and tapped it lightly against Varys’s porcelain.

“To elegant sabotage.”

Varys’s smile was ghost-thin. “To control.”

They sat together in silence, listening to the rain.


Oberyn Martell sprawled across the battered velvet couch in Tyrion’s office as if it were a chaise longue in some Mediterranean villa. His boots were damp from the rain, but they were up on the armrest anyway. Tyrion had long since stopped complaining.

Varys sat opposite, serene as ever, posture immaculate, teacup cradled like an oracle’s crystal. Tyrion stood by the whiteboard, arms folded, glass in hand, the war room’s maps and notes glowing in the lamplight.

The three of them together again. The men Cersei hated most. Oberyn savoured the irony.

“She’s spinning,” he said, voice smooth, accent curling around the consonants like silk. “And desperation, my friends, is always the beginning of comedy.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Unusually chipper for someone who’s had Variety ringing you three times in an hour.”

“Ah, but none of them were about me.” Oberyn’s smile flashed, lazy and wicked. “They were about her.”

He sat up suddenly, languor snapping into focus, and pulled out his phone. A flick of his thumb, then the headline glowed in the lamplight:

Sources Say Lannister Camp Threatening Legal Action Against Good Queen Alysanne Release
Is This Hollywood’s Last Attempt to Save a Fallen Prince?

“She’s already leaking through proxies,” Oberyn said, eyes alight. “Classic Cersei. Smear the film. Call it political. Say the documentary was revenge. Say Sansa was in on it. Say anything.”

Varys steepled his fingers. “She has no proof.”

“She doesn’t need proof,” Oberyn countered. “Not with the right headlines. But what she doesn’t see—” He rose and walked to the window, a dark silhouette against the rain-slicked city lights. “—is that the press doesn’t want to protect her anymore. They want blood. And if she keeps scratching, I’ll make sure it’s hers they get.”

Tyrion tilted his glass, amused and faintly awed. “You have a plan, I presume?”

“I always have a plan.” Oberyn turned back with a grin, all teeth and charm. “We let her make the first lunge. A whisper campaign, soft rumblings. And then we leak our story. Not about her son. About her.”

“You mean to hand them a villain,” Tyrion murmured.

“The mother of the monster,” Oberyn said, his voice silk over steel. “A woman who pulled strings, shielded her boy, tried to bury a film about truth and justice. Hollywood adores a villain. Let’s give them one they know.”

Varys inclined his head, calm as ever. “If she chooses war, we make her infamous for it.”

Oberyn crossed back to the desk, rummaged through his satchel, and laid a folder down with theatrical flourish. “Press lists. Editors who owe me favours. Publicists desperate for redemption arcs. I’ll start feeding breadcrumbs. By the time she realises, the banquet will be set.”

Tyrion glanced between them, the smile that spread across his face equal parts dark and delighted. “Agreed. If Cersei insists on playing dirty, then the world will see her as she is.”

Oberyn lifted his glass. “To theatre, scandal, and beautifully executed revenge.”

Varys touched his teacup against it, faint smile curving. “To control.”

Tyrion raised his whiskey last, the toast dry as the burn in his throat. “And to the end of House Lannister’s PR machine.”

They drank.

Outside, the rain fell steady against the windows. But inside, the storm had already broken.


From Social Media

DAY ONE — 10:43 a.m.
Tweet — @indiefocusfilm
🚨 EXCLUSIVE: Legal whispers suggest attempts to delay Good Queen Alysanne may trace back to powerful insiders protecting their own. Stay tuned. 🎥🔥

11:12 a.m.
Instagram Story — @hollyhush
✨ RUMOUR MILL ✨ A certain mother of a disgraced actor spotted in quiet meetings with execs. Damage control… or sabotage? 👀🍷 #HollywoodTea

12:07 p.m.
Tweet — @OberynUnfiltered
You can always tell when someone’s losing power. They start gaslighting the press.
#GoodQueenAlysanne #LetItBurn

DAY TWO — 9:00 a.m.
Variety — Breaking Feature
“The Queen Behind the Curtain: Has Cersei Lannister Been Pulling Hollywood’s Strings?”

  • Multiple sources confirm attempts to suppress distribution of Good Queen Alysanne.
  • Experts call it the most aggressive case of interference since the late Weinstein era.
    Pull Quote:

“If this was about integrity, she’d make a statement. But it’s not. It’s control. And fear.”

12:30 p.m.
TikTok — @thefilmoracle
🎬 Viral edit (700k views in under an hour):

  • Clip: Cersei whispering to execs.
  • Clip: Headlines disappearing.
  • Cue: Lana Del Rey’s Born to Die.
    Caption: “The fall of Hollywood’s last queen. #TheRealVillain #LetTheFilmSpeak”

DAY THREE — 10:20 a.m.
Tweet — @dragonsnroses
First she lost BAFTA. Then the Academy dropped Joffrey. Now she wants to silence truth-telling cinema? Nah.
We’re not letting Good Queen Alysanne die.
#CerseiCoverUp

12:03 p.m.
Exclusive Leak — @FireandLoyalty (PR blog)
Confidential memo from Lannister legal counsel shows direct pressure on streamers. Final line reads:

“This film damages our family legacy. It cannot be allowed to premiere unchallenged.”

Private DM — Oberyn → Tyrion

“Consider the first knife drawn.”

DAY FOUR — Public Sentiment Turns.

Tumblr — @sansaisagoddess
Cersei really thought she could bury Sansa Stark. She forgot one thing:
🔥 We remember.

Top Comment — @jonsnowdeservedanoscar
“She’s the only villain left, and we’ve got all the receipts.”


[Group Call Active – 8:03 PM]

Tyrion: I’m drinking out of a mug that says This is Fine. Appropriate, don’t you think?

Jon: Sam confiscated that from the editing suite. Said it was provoking trauma.

Daenerys: While you’re making jokes, Rhaego re-enacted Catelyn’s BAFTA speech with a spatula and one of Jorah’s scarves.

Jorah: In fairness, it was a better performance than Joffrey ever gave. Nearly as good as Catelyn’s.

Margaery: Jokes are fine. But let’s not pretend the battlefield is clear. Cersei will come. She always does.

Sansa: She’s already moving. Quietly. Legal pressure. Whispers in the back corridors.

Varys: I’ve intercepted three of her calls to executives. She’s pushing a scandal angle—claiming the Stark name is compromised. Unfortunately for her, I have the NDAs she signed.

Oberyn: The Stark name? Compromised? Please. Catelyn is the industry’s darling, Ned is perfect arm candy, Robb’s about to be a father, Sansa’s just wrapped a film, Arya’s an international fencer. It’s a dreadful headline.

Tyrion: She’s running out of narrative. A dangerous place for someone like her.

Margaery: And that’s when she bites. Don’t mistake cornered for harmless. She’ll come for the film next. The message.

Daenerys: Let her. We don’t retreat.

Jorah: We’ve all faced worse. This isn’t about one film anymore. It’s about who holds the story.

Jon: We keep it. We don’t fracture.

Margaery: Exactly. We’ve brought the truth into the light. We don’t let her erase it.

Sansa: We won’t let her.

Varys: She can cast shadows. We’ll keep the lights on.

Tyrion: Then to the last wall. We hold it.

Oberyn: And if she comes for us?

Margaery: Then she finds out exactly how many of us are standing here.

[Group Call Ends – 8:17 PM]


Then – Eighteen Months Before

It was raining when Margaery stepped into the diner—a tired chain café along the Southbank where the coffee was weak, the fryers never slept, and the windows stayed fogged no matter the season. She’d picked it precisely because it was forgettable. A place no one would remember.

Her coat left a dark pool on the tiles. The sunglasses—pointless under a flat London sky—hid eyes that had cried themselves empty long before. She ordered coffee. No cream. No sugar. Just heat, just bitterness.

When Renly slid into the seat opposite, she didn’t flinch. But something inside her dropped, heavy and sudden.

“Renly Baratheon,” she said, flat as stone.

“You were expecting a ghost?” His voice was light, but his hands told another story, tugging at his gloves with deliberate care.

She studied him. “You were Loras’s source?”

“I was more than that.”

Silence settled thickly over the table. It didn’t invite interruption.

“I loved him,” Renly said at last. The steadiness of his voice was undercut by something brittle, as though he was holding himself together by sheer will. “And it’s my fault he’s dead.”

The words hit like a blade. Margaery drew in air, spine going rigid, fingers digging into the edge of the table as if the wood might keep her upright. Her eyes betrayed her. The tears came quietly, without sobs, without theatrics—slow and heavy, the kind you shed at a grave too late.

“No,” she managed. Her voice was raw. “It was the Lannisters.”

Renly didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and set a small USB stick on the table.

“He left this with me. Said if anything ever happened…”

Margaery’s hand trembled as she opened her handbag. She drew out an identical drive and placed it beside his. Two pieces of plastic between them, holding the weight of a life cut short.

“He left one for me too.”

They stared at the pair in silence.

“I don’t know what’s on yours,” Renly said.

“I don’t care.” Her whisper was fierce, barely held together. “I want blood.”

“Then we start with the truth.” His tone softened, conviction threading through it.

She met his gaze, her jaw tight. “He believed in something. Loras. Even at the end.”

“So do I.”

A beat. Then another.

Renly’s eyes didn’t waver. “Shall we begin, then?”


 

Eighteen months.
That’s how long they’d worked on it. In secret. In silence. In fury. In grief.

Margaery had never wavered. Not when the first editor walked away. Not when sources vanished without warning. Not when the threats began arriving, dressed up under false names.

He’d protected her identity as if his life depended on it. Because it did. Because hers did.

And now—they’d won. The documentary had torn down the golden lie. It had pulled back the curtain and let the rot spill into the light. Joffrey was finished. Cersei… not yet. But soon.

He lifted his glass to the rain tapping against the window.

“For you, Loras.”

He had never stopped loving him. He never would.


The fireplace was the only light in the room, throwing restless shadows across the paneled walls. The faint scent of eucalyptus drifted from the wood. She hated eucalyptus. Jaime had once liked it.

Lancel stood by the door, rain still clinging to his coat, a folder in his hands.

“I assume you have something worth interrupting my evening for,” Cersei said coolly, swirling the last of her wine.

He stepped forward and placed the file on her desk. “It’s about Good Queen Alysanne. And about Jaime.”

Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass, but she didn’t move.

“He filed a shareholder motion at Stag and the Lion. Added a clause giving him full protection rights on the film. Retroactive. It cleared the board last week.”

Cersei set her glass down with deliberate care. “That’s impossible. I would have been informed.”

“He avoided the usual channels. Waited until the documentary dropped. Tyrion renegotiated his production contract, and they pushed it through a secondary firm. By the time it surfaced, it was already binding.”

She stared into the fire, the silence stretching.

“And Casterly Rock?”

Lancel nodded. “He leveraged his shares there too. With both companies tied, operational control is in Tyrion’s camp. You’ve been locked out.”

The glass exploded against the wall.

“He used our name,” she snarled, rising. “Our company. And handed it to Tyrion?”

Lancel didn’t answer.

“He chose them.” Her voice cracked, fury breaking into something rawer. “He chose them. Sansa. That whore of a film. Tyrion.”

She spun on him. “Where is she? Where is Sansa Stark hiding?”

“No one knows,” Lancel said. “Her socials have been dark since the documentary. No press. No leaks. Varys has buried every trace.”

Cersei’s nails dug into the leather armrest. “She doesn’t get to vanish. She was his fiancée. She was one of us.

“She’s said nothing about Joffrey,” Lancel answered. “Not then. Not now. The press has noticed.”

“She’s being clever,” Cersei hissed. “Staying clean while the rest of us burn.”

“If we drag her into it, it risks backfiring,” he said quietly. “Public sympathy is with her. Any attack will look like retribution.”

“It is retribution.”

“Yes,” he said. “And it will look like it.”

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “Do you still work for me, Lancel?”

“I do. That’s why I’m telling you the truth. We tried to bury the film. It only made it stronger.”

Cersei lowered herself back into her chair, every movement slow, deliberate. The fire spat behind her.

“He said he’d never come back if I let him walk out that day.” Her voice thinned. “I thought he didn’t mean it.”

The memory surged: the shouting, the slammed door, Jaime’s refusal to look at her after Joffrey’s humiliation of Sansa online. She had told herself it was theatre, another of Jaime’s ultimatums that would collapse under his guilt. But he hadn’t come back. Not the next day, not the next week. He had gone to Belfast instead, and while she was left to manage the fallout, he had built something new without her. He had chosen other people. Other loyalties.

Her jaw locked. Jaime had been hers—her closest ally, the only one who knew how to navigate both blood and business. And now he had turned that knowledge against her.

“He meant it,” Lancel said.

Her mouth twisted. “They’ve circled the wagons. I can’t touch the film. I can’t reach the girl. I can’t even trust my own brother.”

There was no reply. There could be none.

“I built this empire,” she whispered.

“And they’re tearing it down,” Lancel murmured.

He left her there. The fire burned low. She didn’t move to stoke it.


Tyrion Lannister leaned back in his chair, whiskey glass resting against his chest, as though the answer might float up through the amber. His office was its usual battlefield—takeaway cartons stacked like fortifications, corkboards scarred with red-marker deadlines, a whiteboard where Oberyn had written, in all caps: Cersei is gonna Cersei.

They were all here. Jon, laptop balanced on his knees, the glow of the final export file lighting his tired face. Brienne by the door, arms folded, her expression steady as always. Oberyn stretched across the desk with the grace of someone who considered rules optional. Varys, half-shadowed in the window seat, calm as a still pond.

Tyrion took a long swallow before he began. “You’ve heard that Jaime’s been helping. Brienne saw enough of it to text Sansa, and I’d wager Jon got the full report over dinner. What you don’t know is the extent.”

Jon looked up, brows knit. Brienne’s chin lifted, faintly defensive.

Tyrion set the glass aside. “He’s been preparing this since the last day of shooting in Belfast. While the rest of us were celebrating, Jaime was crawling through contracts and bylaws. He found the leverage Father insisted on when the company was first structured—the morals clause. He invoked it. Claimed Cersei’s involvement was reputational poison, and for once, no one could argue.”

The silence sharpened. Even Oberyn stopped twirling his glass.

“Her authority was suspended,” Tyrion continued. “Not her shares—she still owns them—but her ability to act as an executive. Jaime then used his fifty percent across Stag and the Lion and Casterly Rock Media. On its own, still a deadlock. But paired with Renly’s financing power? Enough to cut her out. Legally, cleanly. She can’t touch the film.”

Jon exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. “So it’s locked?”

“Locked,” Tyrion confirmed. “Jaime signed distribution contracts himself. And distributors don’t care who owns which shares. They care whose name is on the paperwork. That name is his. He’s now executive producer in every way that matters.”

Varys inclined his head, approval flickering in his eyes. “He outplayed her.”

“Like a Lannister should,” Tyrion said, allowing himself the faintest smile. “Brutal, efficient. Father would have been proud—though Jaime may prefer never to hear me say that.”

Brienne shifted slightly, her voice quiet but resolute. “He made his choice. And she’ll never forgive him for it.”

“No,” Tyrion said. “She won’t. But she also can’t undo it. And that’s what matters.”

He looked around the room—Jon taut but steadier now, Brienne unreadable, Varys already plotting the next countermove, Oberyn smiling like a knife—and felt the rare solidity of certainty.

The film was theirs.
And Cersei couldn’t touch it.


The blinds sliced the Mayfair skyline into strips of dying light. Cersei stood at the window with whiskey in her hand, the taste bitter as rust.

The door opened. She didn’t turn.

“You’re late.”

Renly Baratheon strolled in as if the office belonged to him. Sharp suit, sharper smile. He poured himself a measure from her decanter without asking, the easy insolence of a man who knew he couldn’t be touched.

“I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy,” he said. “Time to sit with the loss.”

Cersei turned, her grip tight on the glass. “If you’ve come to gloat, don’t forget whose name is still on the building.”

Renly raised his drink. “Your brother locked you out of it. Your father would be proud. Or spinning in his grave. Delicious either way.”

Her mouth twisted. “So this is what you do now? Tyrion’s errand boy? The Starks’ pet?”

He didn’t bite. He set his glass down and placed a slim file on her desk. Her name printed neatly on the tab.

“You remember Loras Hightower,” he said.

She gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “The journalist? He asked too many questions. He was nothing.”

Renly’s eyes didn’t move. “He was everything. And you had him silenced. You think you buried him. All you did was give me reason.”

Cersei’s jaw locked, but she didn’t speak.

Renly tapped the file with one finger. “You’ll want to be careful. Inside, there are things you don’t want out. DNA tests. Qyburn’s prescriptions. Pictures of the girl your son left bleeding in a hotel room. Enough to make sure your name never recovers.” His voice was quiet, deliberate. “If you so much as breathe on that film or Sansa Stark, every page goes public.”

Her chest felt tight, but she forced her voice into ice. “You think you can frighten me?”

“I don’t care if you’re frightened,” Renly said, adjusting his cuff. “I care that you understand. I don’t bluff, Cersei. Not when it comes to him.”

He turned for the door. “Enjoy your evening.”

The latch clicked behind him, leaving her alone with the whiskey, the dying light, and the file she couldn’t bring herself to touch.


They hadn’t planned to go out. It was past nine, the air sharp with cold, the kind that found skin no matter how tightly you pulled a hood. But after days inside—wrap drinks that turned hollow, endless silences in the press, the blast radius of the documentary—they needed air.

Not staged air. Not PR-approved walks with a telephoto lens at the other end.

Real air.
The kind that filled your lungs like a promise.

Jon’s flat was only a few streets behind them, wedged between two bookstores and a Turkish café that seemed to glow all night. It had become their hideout. Coffee by day, wine by night, walls humming with safety. Tonight, though, Jon had simply said, “Come on.” And she had followed.

Now they walked the South Bank in silence, the Thames catching light in long, fractured ribbons. The river moved like it remembered everything.

Jon’s hand was around hers, fingers calloused, thumb brushing once, then again, like a quiet reassurance. His hood was pulled low, his stride easy, but she could feel the coil in his shoulders—months of filming, months of shielding her, months bent over the edit of Good Queen Alysanne until his eyes were raw.

She squeezed his hand once. Not to comfort. Just to say: I’m here too.

“You know,” she said, her voice soft against the wind, “I used to walk here after auditions. When no one knew who I was. When I didn’t know if I could make rent, let alone a career.”

Jon angled her a glance. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d look at the river and pretend I was someone else. Someone who belonged.”

He didn’t answer straight away—he rarely did when he was really listening. Then:

“I used to come here after cutting shorts no one watched. Pull an all-nighter, walk out at dawn, sit on the pier and tell myself the water didn’t care if the cuts were good. Some nights, I almost believed it.”

They stopped by the railing. The metal was cold beneath her free hand, the bridges throwing soft gold across the water. A late boat passed, low hum trailing ripples.

Sansa leaned into him, shoulder brushing his. Not pressure—just gravity.

“I didn’t think we’d get here,” she said quietly.

He looked down. “Here?”

“To this. Us. Something that feels like peace. I kept waiting for it to collapse.”

Jon’s smile was small, weary but real. “It did. A few times.”

Her laugh slipped out, low and honest. “True.”

A beat. Then—

“I love you,” Jon said.

She turned, their faces inches apart beneath their hoods. Not sudden. Not dramatic. But it landed with weight.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

His other hand came up, tucking a strand of windblown hair behind her ear. He studied her like something precious and volatile at once.

“Move in with me,” he said. “Not just while this blows over. Not just to hide. For real. Always.”

Her breath caught, then steadied. She nodded.
“Yes. God, yes.”

He pulled her in, chin resting lightly on her hair. She closed her eyes, let herself believe in the steadiness of him.

This was the boy who had directed her through her hardest role. Who had watched her come apart and waited until she put herself back together. The man who had guarded the truth with everything he had, and never asked for more than what she offered.

This was home.

The city stretched out behind them—loud, indifferent, alive. The industry would roar back. Cersei would make her move. Another fire would catch somewhere.

But here, on the edge of the river, Sansa felt untouchable.

“This city nearly broke me,” she said.

Jon didn’t hesitate. “Then we build something stronger.”

Beneath the lights, with their hands locked tight and the water moving beneath them, they began.

 


The lights were off.

Renly stood by the window, jacket undone, tie loose, watching the city carry on beneath him. Cars bled red along the slick streets, neon signs blinked through the drizzle. London didn’t care who won or lost.

He had won. Cersei was cornered, her power stripped.

And it meant nothing.

“I did it, Loras,” he said quietly. “She’s finished.”
The words sat flat.
“You’re still gone.”

He moved back, lowered himself onto the sofa. Elbows on his knees, jaw tight. Grief had no schedule. He wore it like a uniform when he had to, but nights like this stripped it raw again.

The phone buzzed.

Margaery.

He answered.

“Well,” she said, her voice soft with humour, “if it isn’t the man of the hour. Is she still smashing mirrors?”

Renly almost smiled. “She’s out of moves. Her last card was worthless.”

A pause. Then: “But you don’t sound like you’re celebrating.”

“Margaery… I’m worried about you.”

She sighed. “We said we wouldn’t do this.”

“I know. I know what we swore. If one of us falls, the other runs with it.” He paused. “But I meant more than that. You’re all I have left of him. You’re not just his sister. You’re my partner in this. My best friend.”

The line was quiet for a long moment.

“You’ve protected me,” she said finally. “And I’ve protected you. We’ve both kept the vow.”

“We have,” Renly agreed. His voice softened. “And I’ll keep keeping it. I won’t let them touch you.”

Her breath caught faintly. “If I let myself think about it, I’d be afraid.”

“That’s why I think about it for you,” he said.

A small laugh slipped down the line, fragile but real.

“If I weren’t me,” Renly added, “I’d give you the boring life Loras used to dream about. House, children, all of it.”

“You’d be awful at it,” she said.

“I’d try.”

They both laughed, just for a second.

Then Margaery steadied. “We’re not done, are we?”

“No,” Renly said. “But we’re ahead. And I’ll keep us ahead.”

They stayed on the line, saying nothing more. Two cities apart, still bound by the promise they’d made: if one fell, the other would keep going.


The fire burned low, casting soft amber across the stone walls. Shadows danced over old tapestries while, in the corner, Rhaego stacked and toppled his wooden blocks, laughing as they clattered across the floor. The sound was light, unburdened, untouched by the noise beyond Winterfell’s gates.

Daenerys sat curled sideways in the armchair, a throw over her legs, tea cooling in her hand. Jorah was beside her, long legs stretched toward the hearth, eyes fixed on the boy. Their fingers brushed against each other on the armrest, the kind of small contact that spoke louder than words.

For a time there was only the fire and Rhaego’s laughter. A hush of safety, rare and fleeting.

“Do you ever wonder what he’ll think of all this when he’s older?” she asked quietly. “The life we’ve built for him?”

Jorah didn’t rush his answer. He watched Rhaego with quiet reverence, as though still astonished the boy was theirs.

“I think he’ll be proud,” he said finally. “Of you. Of us. He’s growing up knowing he’s loved. That’s more than most children get.”

Rhaego abandoned the blocks for his stuffed dragon, curling around it like a secret. Daenerys smiled faintly.

“The world still feels like it’s burning,” she murmured. “And then I look at him, and everything else goes quiet. He’s the only thing that matters.”

Jorah’s hand covered hers, warm and steady. “We’ll keep him small for as long as we can. That’s the gift we give him. A childhood without the weight we carried.”

She thought of the choices behind them, the ghosts neither of them could erase. But here, with Rhaego humming to himself, the weight shifted. Lighter. Chosen.

“I want more for him than I ever had,” she whispered. “More than you had. A future that belongs to him.”

“He won’t inherit our ghosts,” Jorah said, thumb brushing her knuckles.

The silence thickened—not heavy, but full. Daenerys turned toward him. The firelight caught the silver in his hair, softened the lines at the edges of his face.

“I’ve been thinking about what’s next,” she said. “When we go back. When the industry starts pulling again.”

His gaze stayed on hers. “What do you want?”

“I want us,” she said. “Not scraps between shoots and flights. Not being played for headlines. We’ll still take the projects we care about, but on our terms. I want Rhaego to grow up seeing us happy, not stretched thin.”

He kissed the back of her hand, slow and certain. “You’ve always seen further ahead. Let me help make it real.”

Her shoulders eased. “We’ll plan. We’ll coordinate. And we won’t sell us to anyone. We’ll just live.”

Jorah gave a small smile. “You’ll be off charming the world in that rom-com, being everybody’s sunshine girl. And I’ll be in Scotland, doing my good-man act in some sci-fi. Playing the hero — which still feels like a miracle.”

She laughed, quiet but genuine. “Then we’ll make sure the schedules fit. So when the cameras stop, it’s still us.”

“You, me, Rhaego,” he said. “That’s the only future I want.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I need you, Jorah. Not just tonight. Always.”

His thumb brushed her cheek. “And you’ll have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

They leaned in slowly. When their lips met it was soft, steady, the kind of kiss that carried certainty rather than urgency.

When they drew back, foreheads touching, Daenerys whispered, “No more running.”

“Only us,” he said.

In the corner, Rhaego had fallen asleep, the dragon tucked under his arm. The fire smouldered low. Daenerys and Jorah stayed where they were, holding on, already making plans for the noise ahead.

Together.


The desk was a battlefield of contracts and filings, all clipped and highlighted in angry bursts of neon. Jaime sat hunched in the chair, sleeves rolled, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d already ditched the tie. A pen was gripped tight in his hand like it could hold the chaos in place.

He skimmed another page, muttered under his breath. “Profit participation, cross-collateralisation—why the hell can’t they write any of this in plain English?” He let the paper drop, exhaling sharply. “I didn’t train for this. I’m no producer.”

The door creaked open. Brienne stood there, arms folded, posture loose but watchful.

“You’ve spent all afternoon in here,” she said. “You’ll go blind before you finish.”

He didn’t look up. “I thought courtrooms were dense. Turns out, studio contracts make criminal cases look like fairy tales.”

Brienne stepped inside, leaning against the desk. “And yet you’re still here.”

At that, Jaime pushed back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “Because if I don’t stay, she wins. I’ve spent my whole life cleaning up Cersei’s messes. I won’t let her bury this film, not after everything they risked to make it.”

Brienne’s gaze softened. “You’ve already done more than anyone expected. You found the loopholes, pulled the strings, locked her out. The film is safe because of you.”

He shook his head. “It’s safe for now. She’ll try again. She always does.”

“She might,” Brienne allowed. “But you’ve built walls she can’t climb. And if she tries, she’ll find you standing there first.”

He gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “I never thought I’d be standing for anything outside of court. Now here I am, drowning in contracts, pretending I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re not pretending,” she said firmly. “You’re learning. And you’re fighting. That’s what matters.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and the sharpness in his face eased. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Brienne replied, resting a hand lightly on his forearm. “Show up. Do the work. Keep going. You’ve done it your whole life. This time, you’re just on the right side of it.”

Something shifted in him at that. Jaime leaned into her touch, closing his eyes briefly, like he could draw strength from the steadiness she offered so freely.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Brienne tilted her head, searching his face. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re doing this yourself. I’m just reminding you of it.”

For a moment, the silence was warm. Then he leaned forward, closing the space between them. The kiss was unhurried, certain, as if neither of them needed to prove anything.

When they pulled apart, Brienne rested her forehead against his. “I love you, you stubborn man.”

Jaime smiled faintly, weary but true. “Good. Because I don’t think I could do this without you.”

“You’re not without me,” she said simply.

He let out a breath, some of the weight lifting. The papers were still piled high, the problems unsolved. But for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like he was carrying it alone.

Together, they turned back to the desk. And this time, Jaime believed they could face it.

Chapter 30: Chater 30 - wrapping

Chapter Text

Rain streaked the windows of the hotel suite, a soft staccato that sounded almost like applause. The fireplace crackled in the corner, amber light slipping across velvet and dark wood. The décor was discreetly expensive—money worn lightly, never loud. A vase of pale roses sat on the low table, edges curling but still fragrant, their scent mixing with lavender clinging to Margaery’s scarf.

She sat with her usual composure, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a cup of tea cooling at her side. Navy today: quiet authority, unshowy elegance. Across from her, the journalist—one of the sharper ones, all courtesy on the surface, a nose for blood beneath—flipped through her notes. The piece was meant to tie into Margaery’s indie film that had travelled the festivals, and to keep her visible while the miniseries continued filming.

“The film’s done well,” the journalist began. “There’s a lot of talk about your next steps, but you’ve been quieter since starting the series.”

Margaery allowed herself the faintest smile. “I find quiet useful.”

They moved through the motions. Craft. Character. Playing a police agent against type. Margaery gave polished answers: a hint of vulnerability here, a brush of candour there. The trick was always to seem open while giving nothing away.

Then—

“Apologies if this is off-topic,” the journalist said carefully, “but The King is a Monster—it’s all anyone is talking about. Have you seen it?”

Margaery didn’t avert her gaze. She held the woman’s eyes.

“I have,” she said evenly.

“And?”

“I think it’s important.”

The journalist shifted forward. “Given your proximity to some of the people involved… may I ask if you’ve spoken to Sansa Stark? Considering she was Joffrey’s ex-fiancée—”

The atmosphere altered. Not a word, not a movement, but the warmth drained from the room, replaced with something sharper.

Margaery smiled. Serene. Cutting.

“I don’t think anyone should assume what a woman has or hasn’t said about a man like that,” she replied, her tone velvet over steel. “Least of all in the middle of a press tour about an unrelated project.”

The journalist hesitated, pen hovering, then nodded. Backed off.

After a pause she tried again: “The documentary’s creators have stayed anonymous. No credits, no interviews. Do you have any theories?”

Margaery leaned back, fingertip brushing the rim of her teacup.

“I think whoever made it knew exactly what they were doing. And exactly what it would cost.”

The woman scribbled quickly, chasing the cadence.

Margaery tilted her head, voice calm, almost kind. “Some stories don’t need a signature. They speak loudly enough on their own.”

The rest of the interview softened into safer ground—stage work, lighter roles, what scripts might come next. When it ended, Margaery rose, walked her guest to the door with perfect manners. Her parting smile was flawless, but cool.

The latch clicked shut.

She crossed back to the settee. The tea was stone cold. The fire had burned low. She folded her hands in her lap and sat a moment in the hush.

Let them speculate. Let them write their theories, run their headlines.

Her name would not be on it.

But tomorrow morning, her words would be everywhere.

And that was enough.


The boardroom gleamed like a set that had been scrubbed of history—dove-grey walls, a refinished oak table, glass polished until the city outside looked like a backdrop. Even the air felt different, cooler, as though the building had been purged.

Tyrion sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, a glass of water untouched at his side. Around him: executives, lawyers, producers, and—by his insistence—a handful of younger creatives, invited for the first time. Symbolism mattered. The new order had to be seen as well as spoken.

When the low hum of side talk died, Tyrion spoke.

“We’re not here to grovel,” he began. “We’ve done that already—bled our apologies into headlines, endured the punchlines. Now we build.”

He clicked the remote. The screen behind him lit with bullet points. Concrete. Unflinching.

“Every project we greenlight will have certified intimacy coordinators. Transparent finances for producers. A third-party channel for grievances. And no more NDAs to bury misconduct. We bury abusers, not their victims.”

The room shifted—some nods, some unease. One executive muttered about insurance premiums.

Jaime cut in before Tyrion had to. “We’ll absorb the cost. Contracts are locked. Distribution is protected. No one here wants to be the face of resisting reform. And I won’t allow it.”

His tone brooked no answer. The murmuring stilled.

Tyrion advanced the slides again. This time: film posters, mock-ups, loglines.

“A biopic reclaiming a woman erased from the studio era. A first-time Black woman director with a script strong enough to shake a few foundations. And a project designed to terrify the old guard—a political drama that refuses to flatter them.”

Gasps. Raised brows. It wasn’t the usual “safe slate.”

Varys leaned forward at just the right moment, his voice smooth, deliberate. “Call it disruption until the Academy finds a more elegant word. The point is not just what we make, but how we look making it. Optics matter. These stories position us as leaders, not followers. They make us untouchable in the conversations that count.”

Light laughter, uneasy but loosening the tension.

And then Oberyn rose. Sleeves rolled, smile sharp. He moved to the screen and changed the slide.

Sansa Stark’s face filled the boardroom, crown tilted, gaze unflinching. Bold red text across the image:

LET THEM COME FOR HER CROWN.

“This isn’t just a costume drama,” Oberyn said, his voice silk over steel. “This is the film you’re afraid to market loudly. Don’t be. This is the reckoning. The survivor’s story. The industry’s reflection. You can either whisper about it—” He let the pause hang. “—or you can own it. And make them talk.”

The silence was long, taut. Then someone at the far end muttered, “That’s… bold.”

“Good,” Oberyn said, with a grin. “Let them choke on it.”

When the meeting finally adjourned, it was to the rare sound of genuine applause. Younger execs lingered to shake hands. The older ones left with pinched expressions, but without protest.

As the room emptied, Tyrion sat back, studying the three men flanking him. Jaime, upright and steady, no longer running from his name. Varys, immaculate, his gaze already two steps ahead. Oberyn, still smiling like the whole thing was theatre—and perhaps it was.

They weren’t saints. They weren’t saviours. But they had outlasted the storm. Now they were shaping the house in their image.

“Not bad,” Jaime murmured.

Tyrion smiled faintly. “Let’s see what the headlines say.”

“They’ll say what we tell them to say,” Varys replied, perfectly calm.

Oberyn lifted his glass. “To scandal and survival.”

They left the boardroom together. No fanfare. No speeches. Just steady steps into the hum of the studio.

The new order didn’t declare itself.
It simply arrived.


Variety

 Joffrey Baratheon’s Toxic Social Media History Comes Back to Haunt Him Amid Documentary Scandal

 The actor’s controversial past tweets resurface in a new light after The King is a Monster documentary, leaving fans and insiders questioning his conduct both on and off set.

 

The fallout from The King is a Monster has been swift and unforgiving for Joffrey Baratheon. The anonymous documentary—already shaking Hollywood with allegations of abuse, manipulation, and systemic cover-ups—has cast new scrutiny on the actor’s notorious social media history. What were once dismissed as bratty outbursts from a privileged young star are now being reinterpreted as part of a larger pattern of gaslighting and entitlement.

Industry sources confirm that more former collaborators are stepping forward with accounts of Joffrey’s behaviour on set—stories of hostility, intimidation, and inappropriate conduct. Against this backdrop, his resurfaced tweets have taken on a sharper, darker resonance.

Tweets Resurfaced

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic:
"Loved the selfie, uncle @TlannisterforReal. You fellas look happy and cosy. Very cosy. Good for you #SansaStark and #JonSnow you look positively glowing together!"
— now widely read as a jealous, passive-aggressive swipe at Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, posted during her breakout role in Good Queen Alysanne.

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic:
"As someone who has been accused of getting roles because of nepotism, I absolutely resent similar remarks about Sansa. She didn’t get the role because she is Ned Stark’s daughter. There are many ways in which a young, beautiful actress, with no experience and virtually no résumé can get a starring role in such a production. Well, if one excludes talent (lol) and luck (lol)...."
— now criticised as an attempt to discredit Stark’s acting ability while overlooking his own privilege.

@JoffreyBaratheonAuthentic:
"As Sherlock Holmes said: once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth. I think I know what the truth is."
— a cryptic post that, in hindsight, reads like an effort to spread innuendo and redirect blame.

Industry Reactions

@RenlyBaratheonOfficial (producer and LGBTQ+ advocate):
"Hollywood must evolve. It’s no longer enough to look the other way. The industry was built on men like Joffrey Baratheon, who used their power to ruin lives. It’s time for change. #RevolutionInHollywood"

Renly Baratheon’s public condemnation carried weight. As a respected producer with a reputation for championing diverse and inclusive projects, his support for the #RevolutionInHollywood movement has amplified calls for systemic reform—placing him in sharp contrast with his former in-law.

@KhalDrogoSrOfficial (veteran stuntman and prop designer):
"The truth always comes to light, and when it does, there’s no escaping it. It’s time to face the music, Joffrey. No more hiding behind your privilege. #ToxicHollywood #Exposed"

 

With sponsors withdrawing and his representation reportedly “reviewing options,” Joffrey Baratheon’s career appears to be in freefall. For many, the resurfaced tweets are not just bad jokes aged poorly—they’re symptoms of an abusive dynamic the industry can no longer afford to ignore.

“Context changes everything,” one PR veteran told Variety. “What once read as arrogance is now evidence. And in this climate, evidence matters.”

As the storm around The King is a Monster continues to gather momentum, Baratheon’s downfall may signal not only the collapse of a once-touted career, but also the beginning of Hollywood’s reckoning with its culture of complicity.


The Hollywood Reporter

 Stag and the Lion Restructures as Jaime Lannister Consolidates Control

 

The scandal that toppled Joffrey Baratheon has triggered a power shift inside Stag and the Lion, the production and distribution company co-founded by Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister. Once a fixture of prestige releases and awards campaigns, the family-run banner has been forced to confront its future in the wake of The King is a Monster.

Multiple sources tell THR that Jaime Lannister, a former Crown Prosecutor and longtime shareholder, has consolidated operational control of the company after a series of quiet legal manoeuvres. His sister, Cersei Lannister, previously the most visible figure at the studio, has been effectively removed from decision-making.

“Jaime Lannister has stepped into an executive producer role on Good Queen Alysanne,” one insider familiar with the matter said. “That gives him oversight not just on this film, but also on the studio’s release strategy. It’s a line in the sand — Stag and the Lion under his watch will look very different.”

The restructuring comes as Good Queen Alysanne enters the final stages of post-production. Directed by Jon Snow and produced by Tyrion Lannister, the film has already drawn strong early reactions from studio executives who viewed a rough cut last week. According to two attendees, the screening “exceeded expectations” and was described as “a major awards contender.”

At a recent board session, Tyrion Lannister reportedly presented a package of reforms aimed at insulating the studio from further reputational damage. Among the measures: mandatory on-set intimacy coordinators, independent grievance reporting, and an end to NDAs designed to silence misconduct claims. “This isn’t just about optics,” one executive said. “The studio has to show it can change structurally.”

Oberyn Martell, who has been advising on PR and strategy, framed the moves more bluntly: “This is about survival. Hollywood doesn’t forgive cover-ups anymore. Stag and the Lion has to be the studio that breaks the cycle, not repeats it.”

The reforms have been met with cautious optimism from younger staff and creatives, many of whom were invited into the boardroom for the first time. “It felt different,” said one junior producer. “Less about damage control, more about rebuilding.”

Whether the strategy will succeed remains to be seen. But insiders agree on one thing: with Joffrey Baratheon’s career effectively over, Petyr Baelish out of the picture, and Cersei Lannister cut from the chain of command, Stag and the Lion is entering a new chapter — one shaped as much by survival as by reinvention.


The flat was a mess of cardboard and memories. Half the wardrobe was already dismantled into boxes, coats and dresses folded with military precision, though Jon had slipped three jumpers in lopsided just to make her twitch. The rain on the window blurred the city lights, turning London into streaks of gold and red.

Sansa crouched by the dresser, wrapping picture frames in old newspaper. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder, and she felt oddly light—like she’d shed something invisible just by filling these boxes.

“Do we really need to take all of this?” Jon asked from the kitchen doorway, holding up a copper pan like it was contraband.

“It’s Le Creuset,” she said firmly.

“It weighs more than my entire editing kit.”

“It’s coming,” she said, snatching it from him. “You can carry it.”

He gave her a long-suffering look, but his mouth betrayed the smile threatening there. “You’re bossy when you’re happy.”

She smirked. “And you like me happy.”

He did. She could see it in the way he hovered at the edges of the room, pretending to sort through books but stealing glances at her, at the life they were packing into cardboard. It wasn’t glamorous, wasn’t staged for anyone’s camera, but it was theirs.

When he crouched beside her to tape another box, their shoulders brushed. She didn’t move away. Neither did he.

“You sure about this?” he asked, quiet, serious now.

Sansa slid her hand over his, pressing gently. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And the words didn’t frighten her. They steadied her.


The key turned with a familiar click. They shuffled in under cover of night, both carrying more than was sensible, the hall echoing with the scrape of cardboard against brick. Jon’s flat had always been small, stubborn, like him. But tonight, it stretched wider, warmer, because she was here.

He dropped a box by the wall and nearly tripped over her charger cable, snaking across the floor. “Bloody hazard,” he muttered.

“Don’t blame me,” Sansa said, nudging the door shut with her hip. “If you gave me a drawer, I wouldn’t have to improvise.”

He shot her a look. “You’ve been improvising since Belfast.”

It was true. Her scarf hung from his chair. Her tea bags had colonised the cupboard. A lipstick-marked mug sat abandoned in the sink. Even before tonight, his flat had begun to look like theirs.

“Consider this official, then,” she said, tossing her coat onto the sofa. “I’m home.”

Jon crossed the room and stood over her, folding his arms in mock severity. “You realise this means dividing up space.”

Her brow arched. “Space?”

“My side of the wardrobe. My bathroom shelf. My—”

She laughed, cutting him off. “Your side of the wardrobe? You’ve been living out of three identical black jumpers since film school.”

He tried to glare. Failed. “And the bathroom shelf?”

“Empty, except for that aftershave you’ve had since 2014.” She leaned in, conspiratorial. “I threw it out weeks ago.”

He groaned. “Knew it.”

Sansa curled onto the sofa, grinning at him with an ease that made his chest ache. For years, everything had been fight or flight, survival or silence. But this—her teasing, the boxes stacked in the hall, the unspoken certainty in her eyes—this was peace.

Jon sat beside her, his arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She fit there like she always had.

“You know,” she murmured, “I never thought I’d end up here. Not after everything.”

Jon pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in. “We did. We’re here.”

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze, her voice steady. “Together.”

And for the first time, Jon let himself believe it wasn’t temporary. That the girl with perfume in his cupboards and boots in his hallway wasn’t just visiting. She was home.


The car rolled to a stop at the kerb, tyres whispering against wet tarmac. London air pressed damp against the windows, carrying the faint tang of rain and petrol. After days in Winterfell—stone corridors, draughts under the doors, silence thick enough to muffle thought—the city felt louder, sharper, almost unreal.

Jorah opened his door first, stepping out with care, Rhaego draped across his chest. The boy was heavy with sleep, his fist wrapped around the tail of his toy dragon. Jorah adjusted him gently, one big hand cradling the back of his head, the other steady at his waist.

Missandei slipped out behind them, tucking her scarf tighter, her soft laugh still echoing from something Rhaego had mumbled in the car. She carried the bag with his scattered crayons and half-finished colouring books, the sort of luggage you never packed properly but always carried anyway.

Daenerys lingered on the pavement a moment longer. The street was quiet—no paparazzi, no curious neighbours, just the hush of London winding down for the night. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been bracing until the absence hit her. No one waiting. No flashbulbs. Just her own front door.

She unlocked it, the familiar weight of the key cool in her palm, and the door swung open with its usual low creak. The house smelled faintly of lilies—Missandei had left them before they flew north—and underneath that, cedarwood from the old furniture. Nothing had moved in their absence. It was still theirs.

Inside, Jorah laid Rhaego carefully on the sofa for a moment to tug off his shoes. The boy stirred, muttered something incoherent, then tucked the dragon tighter under his chin. Daenerys crouched beside him, brushing a curl from his forehead.

Missandei dropped her bag in the hallway with a sigh and called over her shoulder, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Jorah caught Daenerys’ gaze above Rhaego’s head. His smile was faint, almost disbelieving. She felt it mirrored in herself—the relief, the gentleness, the quiet.

She whispered, almost to herself, “We’re home.”

Jorah leaned down, pressing his lips to her temple before scooping Rhaego back into his arms. “Yes,” he said simply.

Together, they moved further into the house. Missandei’s footsteps padded toward the kitchen, the rattle of crockery already beginning. Rhaego’s breathing slowed again, evening out. Daenerys let her bag slip from her shoulder, the soft thud against the floor the last sound of their journey.

The fire would be lit soon, the tea poured, their son asleep upstairs. For the first time in weeks, there was no performance, no hiding, no storm.

At last, they were safe.
At last, they were home.


Variety – Live Blog Coverage

11:19 p.m. – Best Actress
Gary Oldman takes the stage to present Best Actress, the category that’s been Catelyn Stark’s to lose all season. Close, Colman, McCarthy, Aparicio — all formidable, but Stark swept the precursors and arrives as the clear frontrunner.

The clips roll. Then the envelope opens.
“And the Oscar goes to… Catelyn Stark, Lady Stoneheart.”

Standing ovation. Stark rises in a forest-green Dior gown, elegant and unflinching. She kisses her husband Ned Stark before walking to the stage, visibly composed.

11:22 p.m. – Catelyn’s Speech
Stark thanks her director, cast, and crew first. Then she pivots, voice steady but warm:

“To my children — Robb, Sansa, Theon, Arya — you are my heart. And to my husband, Ned Stark — I love you.”

The room softens, the camera catching Ned in the audience, misty-eyed. Then, with the same steel that carried Lady Stoneheart:

“This industry has given me a home, but we all know it needs to be better. We must tell stories with integrity. We must create safe spaces. We must hold each other accountable. The work matters, but the people making it matter more.”

Diplomatic. Sharp. Applause breaks into a standing ovation.

11:26 p.m. – Backstage
Pressed to elaborate, Stark demurs with a cool smile: “I said what I meant, and I meant what I said.”


Catelyn Stark – Acceptance Speech (Transcript)

“Thank you. Thank you so much.

To my director, to my extraordinary cast, to every member of the crew — this belongs to all of us.

To my children, Robb, Sansa, Theon, Arya — you are my heart. And to my husband, Ned Stark — I love you.

This has been the role of a lifetime, but tonight I want to say this: as a community, we need to do better. We need to tell stories with integrity. We need to create safe and respectful sets. We need to hold each other accountable. The work matters, but the people making it matter more.

Thank you.”


The Guardian
Joffrey Baratheon under police investigation following documentary allegations
By T. Mott, Arts and Culture Correspondent

London police have launched a formal investigation into actor Joffrey Baratheon following the release of The King is a Monster, a documentary that has already upended this year’s awards season and sent shockwaves through the British film industry.

Detectives confirmed that multiple women have come forward since the film’s release, alleging incidents of assault and battery during Baratheon’s career. The claims do not centre on sexual assault, but rather on what one source described as “a pattern of violent and coercive behaviour surrounding intimate encounters.”

The Metropolitan Police said in a statement:

“We are assessing reports from several individuals relating to incidents of alleged assault. Inquiries are ongoing and no charges have yet been brought.”

Baratheon,  had been nominated for an Academy Award earlier this year for his work in My Beautiful Boy, but the Academy rescinded his nomination within days of the documentary’s release. The BAFTA organisation likewise revoked his invitation to last month’s ceremony.

The documentary, which premiered online details accusations of abuse from former partners and colleagues, painting a portrait of an actor shielded by privilege, powerful representation, and a culture of silence in the film industry.

In the days since, several women have spoken to police. Their accounts, while not identical, describe a recurring pattern: consent given for sexual encounters that then escalated into physical violence, including choking, slapping, and the use of objects without consent.

A former colleague, who asked not to be named, told The Guardian:

“It wasn’t the sex. It was the cruelty around it. He wanted to scare people. He wanted to leave a mark.”

Baratheon’s representatives have not responded to repeated requests for comment.

The scandal has further destabilised Stag and the Lion, the production and distribution company co-founded by Robert Baratheon and Tywin Lannister, where Joffrey’s mother, Cersei Lannister, held significant influence. Earlier this month, the board confirmed that executive control has shifted to Jaime Lannister and his producing partner, effectively locking Cersei out of decision-making.

For now, police say their investigation is in its early stages. But within an industry already reckoning with systemic abuse and complicity, the case of Joffrey Baratheon signals that silence is no longer guaranteed.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 31: Epilogue - Ends and beginnings

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The rain had passed, leaving London streets slick and gleaming in the late light. From his office window, Jaime Lannister could see them glimmer like black marble, though he wasn’t looking. His focus was on the stack of contracts spread across his desk—profit splits, distribution clauses, words that blurred together until they felt more like punishment than work.

He rubbed at his temple, glasses sliding down his nose. Producing films still felt like wearing someone else’s clothes: stiff, uncomfortable, never quite fitting. He’d left the courtroom behind, thinking he’d find freedom. Instead, here he was, drowning in rider clauses and budget breakdowns.

A knock. He didn’t need to ask.

Brienne stepped in without waiting for permission, rain still on her coat, her hair damp. She crossed her arms, blue eyes fixed on him. “You’re brooding again.”

Jaime tossed a script aside with theatrical flair. “Brooding? No, no. I’m embodying the tragic nobility of a man forced to choose between two terrible options: spreadsheets or death.”

Her mouth twitched. “You look like a sulky child who lost his toy.”

“Tragic nobility, sulky child—it’s all interpretation.”

Brienne shook her head but came closer, leaning against the edge of the desk. Her presence always shifted the air, made it steadier somehow.

“You miss the law,” she said quietly.

He exhaled. “I miss knowing what the hell I was doing. Courtrooms, motions, evidence—that was ground I understood. This?” He gestured at the contracts. “This feels like wandering through fog.”

She tilted her head. “You’ve kept a film alive that your sister tried to bury. You’ve learned more in months than most producers do in years. That doesn’t sound like failure to me.”

He scoffed. “You’re giving me far too much credit.”

“No,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “I’m not.”

Something loosened in him then. He covered it with his usual smirk. “So, what—you think I can do this?”

“I think,” Brienne said, leaning in slightly, “that you’re better than you believe you are. And that you’re far less unbearable when you stop sulking.”

Jaime pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “You wound me. I thought we’d retired the insults.”

“We have,” she said, softer now. “That was encouragement.”

Her hand found his, steady, warm. She squeezed once before letting go, and Jaime—who had faced judges, criminals, and worse—felt undone by the simple certainty of it.

“You make me better, you know,” he said, almost surprised to hear it aloud.

Brienne’s lips curved into the smallest smile. “Good. Because I love you. And I’d rather not be in love with a man sulking over rider clauses.”

He laughed—real, unguarded. “Then I’ll try to sulk less.”

“Try harder,” she said, but her hand lingered on his cheek now, thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. He leaned into it, his smirk softened into something truer.

“Fine,” Jaime murmured. “Let’s get to work. Together.”

And they turned back to the desk—still out of their depth, still figuring it out, but no longer alone.


Months had passed since the industry burned—since The King is a Monster dropped like a thunderclap and Joffrey Baratheon’s fall from grace sent shockwaves through Hollywood. What had once seemed impossible—a reckoning for the untouchable—had unfolded in real time, and the aftermath was still being felt in every boardroom and backlot.

The old order had cracked. Power vacuums yawned where dynasties once stood, alliances shifted overnight, and a new guard began to step into the light. Whether it would be better remained uncertain. Hollywood’s memory was long enough to preserve its scandals but short enough to forget its lessons. Still, the name Joffrey Baratheon was a stain now, spoken only in hushed tones or invoked as a cautionary tale.

Studios erased him from their rosters. Publicists refused to return his calls. Former co-stars who had once fought for his attention now acted as if they had never met him. If he walked into a room, it emptied. If his name appeared in a headline, it was only to chart the slow collapse of his career.

Cersei had vanished into self-imposed exile, her empire crumbling alongside her son’s. For decades she had ruled the industry with ruthless efficiency, wielding influence like a blade, silencing rivals and cementing her family’s dominance. But one documentary—one clean, devastating strike—had undone what years of competitors and enemies could not. Projects she had shepherded dissolved overnight, her closest allies cut ties, and the woman once feared in every studio corridor was now little more than a relic of a corrupt era.

Baelish fared no better. He tried to crawl back, working back channels, floating shadowy deals, whispering his way into rooms. But his name was poison now. Investors flinched, actors balked, executives walked away. The aura of strategic brilliance he had spent a lifetime cultivating was gone, replaced by the stench of liability. The whispers of his past misdeeds, once easy to dismiss, grew louder by the day. For the first time in his life, Petyr Baelish had no moves left.

And yet, Hollywood endured. It always did. The machine turned on, headlines shifted, the next wave of executives arrived with slogans about change. Films were still made, stars still anointed, awards still polished for the season ahead. Perhaps little had truly changed. But for the first time in years, there was the faintest sense that the rules of the game had bent, that the powerful had been reminded they were not untouchable.

For those who had waited in the shadows, who had carried the weight of silence for far too long, that small shift was something.

Not everything. But enough—for now.

 


Text Exchange – Group Chat: Good Queen Alysanne

Tyrion: Well, you beautiful, tortured artists, we finally have a trailer.

Daario: Is it actually good, or are you just desperate for attention again?

Daenerys: Ignore him. Is it good?

Sansa: By “good,” do you mean something that isn’t just Jon and Tyrion bickering over colour grading?

Jon: It wasn’t bickering. I was… passionate.

Sansa: Of course, my love. Passionate.

Daario: You two are nauseating.

Tyrion: And yet you can’t look away.

Jorah: Where are we watching this masterpiece?

Daenerys: Our place. 8 PM sharp. Don’t be late.

Tyrion: I am never late. Unlike Jon, who requires bribes to leave his editing cave.

Jon: Lies.

Sansa: You’ll survive, Tyrion. Barely.

Jorah: Bring wine. The expensive kind.

Tyrion: Fine. But I’m keeping the best bottle for myself.

Sansa: As long as you pour me a glass first.

Jon, Daenerys, Daario: And me.

Tyrion: This is why I drink.

Davos: Just saw this. I’m on location in Croatia, so you’re spared my commentary for one night.

Tyrion: Finally, some peace.

Davos: Don’t worry, I’ll watch it on my phone between takes. If Jon cries, I expect proof.

Sansa: He won’t cry.

Tyrion: He absolutely will.

Jon: Mutiny. All of you.

 


Daenerys and Jorah’s new house smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wine. London’s skyline pressed against the windows, the city a wash of gold and glass, indifferent to the little gathering inside. Jon sat on the sofa with Sansa tucked against his shoulder, her fingers threaded tightly with his. He could feel the thrum of his own pulse in his grip. Months of editing, months of waiting, months of watching the walls close in—and now the trailer was finally ready.

Tyrion had made an occasion of it, of course. He perched on the arm of a chair with his wine balanced precariously, looking smug, like he’d planned the whole evening down to the last drop of cabernet. Jorah had Daenerys folded under his arm, his thumb idly tracing the inside of her wrist. Daario sprawled in an armchair opposite, looking like he was only there to be entertained, though Jon knew him well enough now to catch the flicker of curiosity beneath his calm exterior.

The lights dimmed. Davos’s cut appeared on the screen. And then—silence.

Jon forgot to breathe.

The ballroom opened first, endless candles reflected in marble floors, every flame like a dying star. Sansa—as Alysanne—stood at the centre, crown glinting, her face a mask Jon knew by heart but had never seen rendered like this. Regal. Remote. Untouchable. The score swelled—Ramin’s work, mournful and immense. It pressed into Jon’s chest like a tide.

Then it shifted. The siege. Stained glass shattering into colour and ruin. Screams. Fire. Alysanne’s gown torn, her knees in the mud, eyes wide with grief. The cut slipped into Anne and Professor Reid, Daenerys and Jorah, their confrontation raw with fury, drawn together like two magnets who knew they would tear each other apart. The rhythm built, image over image, collapse over collapse, until the final line bled through the dark:

“What we leave behind is never truly gone.”

The screen cut to black.

For a moment, the only sound was breathing—everyone’s, shallow, uneven.

Then Daario gave a long, low whistle. “Alright,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll admit it. That was… impressive.”

Jorah grinned, the boyish kind of grin Jon had rarely seen from him. “Told you Davos was a genius.”

Sansa hadn’t moved. Her eyes were fixed on the black screen, her hand still in Jon’s. He turned to her, gently pressing his thumb against her knuckles. “It’s real now,” he said, voice low.

Finally, she looked at him. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth—small, but steady. “It always was.”

Jon swallowed hard, but didn’t trust himself to answer.

Tyrion, never one to let silence linger too long, clapped his hands once, sharp and bright. “Well, then,” he said, glancing around at them all—the tired, battered, ridiculous family they’d somehow become. “There’s only one thing left to say.”

He raised his glass. “See you all in Toronto—for the press conference of Good Queen Alysanne.”

Laughter broke the spell, easy and relieved. Jon let it wash over him, let the warmth of Sansa’s shoulder against his steady him. For the first time in months, he believed it: they’d done it.

The fight was over. The film was alive.

And so were they.

Notes:

Seven years. 293,000 words. 560 pages. Somewhere along the way, Quiet on the Set stopped being a fic and became… well, basically a novel. What even is my life?

This story has been my constant companion. Even when writing felt impossible—when health got in the way, or real life knocked me flat—this fic kept cooking in the background. Characters wouldn’t shut up. Backstories kept expanding. Catelyn Stark ran her Oscar campaign with pure class. Jaime and Brienne fell in love (if I ever write a sequel, expect a lot of flashbacks). Renly and Margaery bound themselves together in grief and fury. Even when I wasn’t writing, the story was still alive, demanding to be told.

Quiet on the Set became my playground. My escape. My way of stitching together love stories, betrayals, red carpets, and whispered conspiracies into something sprawling and, hopefully, worth the ride. I didn’t mean for it to spiral this far, but I’m glad it did.

To everyone who read, commented, screamed in the tags, or just lurked with quiet loyalty: thank you. You made this lighter, funnier, more alive.

And yes—because I can’t stop—I already have another Hollywood AU on the way: The Marriage Pact. It’s a fic about shooting the TV show The Marriage Pact. Everyone’s back, but this time it’s less industry plotting and more about juggling parallel storylines: the messy, meta show itself and the beloved chaos of the cast and crew behind it. There are surprises. There’s indulgence. There’s all the fun of peeling back one more layer.

So here’s to long fics that turn into accidental epics. To characters who refuse to leave your head. To stories that save you when you need them most. And to the small satisfaction of knowing that, unlike George R.R. Martin, I actually finished my book;)