Daenerys: Year 302
The only daughter of Aerys II Targaryen and the only sister of Rhaegar I Targaryen had always known that she would be sold into marriage one day. Or given, that was a more proper term, a prettier one, unless the speaker were the giftee, of course. Nor did Daenerys ever believe that she was any more special than all the other Targaryen princesses who had come before her, except she'd known a life outside of the Red Keep and the royal court. But if anything, she thought of her mother Rhaella, a Queen, but only made so after she had been forcibly married to her brother Aerys. Could she have ever suffered the same, having to take Viserys's hand in marriage, and carry his children and suffer his...inconstancies, for the rest of her life?
So there was at least one blessing she could give thanks to, that Lancel Lannister, spineless little twit as he was, was not prone to Viserys's habits of occasional, or not occasional, bursts of tantrums, nor did she ever see him acting outright cruelly to those he did not deem unworthy of his stature and undeserving of his respect. Still, the new Lady of Casterly Rock had always assumed that Rhaegar, when he did choose whom she was to marry, would go out of his way in finding a better man than most for his beloved sister, whom he'd raised as his own daughter. Daenerys would have preferred instead a man like Dickon Tarly, for one, having met him during her half fortnight of marriage and court in King's Landing, quickly understanding that the heir to Horn Hill was one of the few prospects Rhaegar would have considered for her, based on his political situation. Perhaps her brother thought she valued the title, her position and castle, more than the man himself. If so, how little did Rhaegar truly know her, or was it that he coveted Casterly Rock more than Horn Hill, thinking little of the kind of man she would want to marry?
Or how much had she changed, her brief foray into freedom and escape from her family legacy seeming so far in the distance already? She missed Daario, though he had been wearing upon her patience on the day she received the raven informing her of Rhaegar's restoration, and could not help but force back a chuckle picturing in her mind the sellsword's reaction upon meeting her new husband.
"Lord Gawen is here."
"To discuss the marriage of his daughter Jeyne," Daenerys asked the girl, a Lefford. She had handmaidens now. It was similar to the palaces of Essos, where Rhaegar had tried bestowing her the same experiences as she would enjoy as a Princess of the blood in Westeros, except the women who served her on behalf of the princes and magisters were slaves, whether they were openly acknowledged as such, in Volantis or Lys, or not, hidden away by couther titles in Pentos.
"If my lady does not feel well, I will tell Lord Lancel that he can attend to it on his own."
Daenerys shrugged off the suggestion. "I will attend," she said, forcing herself to rise from her chaise, waddling uncomfortably from her chambers into the Great Hall, the Lefford girl watching over her charge carefully with every step she took. After a great pause, it would seem that the Targaryen line would continue, though the lady Margaery still remained without child. But Rhaegar had his son now too, a raven had informed her several fortnights before, and the realm had their new heir in the infant Baelor Targaryen despite her older nephew's attempts to distance himself from the dragon.
Daenerys wondered once her child came whether to give it a Valyrian name, or one that would be more common to the Westerlands. Lancel would be biddable, as always, perhaps that was his best trait, for herself at least, and Daenerys's future lay not in King's Landing and the Iron Throne, much less the Summer Isles or the walls of Qarth, which she hadn't yet seen and may never yet see...but in Casterly Rock, and the lands of her husband. As such, naming Lancel's heir something disagreeable like Tytos or Gerion would certainly make her life in this dreary castle more agreeable for the next fifty years, give or take.
"The claimant is Lord Gawen Westerling," Lady Genna Lannister announced, once Daenerys arrived and took her seat beside her husband. Lancel's aunt had been pleasant to her, attending to her nephew's court and paying all the right compliments to Daenerys and her condition, but she knew that Genna's true intentions in travelling the short distance from Lannisport were to protect Lancel's fragile position as acting Lord Paramount, and from his wife who was the King's sister, if need be.
"My lord," the older lord said, bowing to Lancel, "Princess. My beloved daughter Jeyne, the jewel of my wife's eye, was betrothed three years ago to Ser Hal Banefort, and married her husband lawfully, before the Septon and the Gods, ten and seven moons prior..."
And while Gawen Westerling loved his wife, or claimed to at least, it appeared that her fellow highborns of the Westerlands did not, for the Lady Sybell Spicer was descended from merchants, men whose trade was looked down upon in Westeros where they were revered and elevated into princehood in Essos. Which meant that all of House Westerling's brood now descended from merchants as well, which meant Jeyne Westerling, a very pretty and pleasant girl, they told her, would now be considered a bad match for marriage despite her loveliness in form and temperament, despite her family's wealth and formerly good name.
Ser Hal had been the third son of Quenten Banefort when the betrothal had originally been agreed to. Then his eldest son Rynold died trying to subdue an Ironborn raid, but that still left Lord Percy, a second son, who'd been sailing south to the Arbor in order to court a Redwyne daughter when his ship sank in a particularly harsh storm three moons before. All of this left Hal Banefort as heir to his house, already married to supposedly lowborn blood, and threatening to pass the Westerling curse down to all the heirs of House Banefort for all years to come.
"...and they love each other," Gawen continued, "they truly do, tis a rare thing, to be honest, in marriages, yet Lord Quenten contests that the marriage was not lawful."
"Who was the Septon who presided over the wedding," asked one of the Sparrows, their presence affixed to the Great Hall of Casterly Rock and other castles great and minor, Daenerys figured, thanks to the endeavors of her brother.
"Septon Willis," the old, bearded lord replied, "late of Lannisport."
"He supported Polis for High Septon," the Sparrow interrupted rudely, "a known whoremonger, and the patron to the unlawful reign of Sansa Stark. His judgment cannot be considered sanctified in the eyes of the Gods, and therefore the marriage is invalid."
"But...milord," Gawen pleaded, ignoring the Sparrow and turning instead to Lancel, "such a pronouncement may disqualify more than half the marriages in the Seven Kingdoms..."
"So be it," the Sparrow pronounced coldly, "justice delayed is itself a crime before the Gods."
He was a thin and willowy man, whom they told her had been but a baker himself in Lannisport before his conversion, and a patron to the city's brothels at that, who now stood casting judgment upon a girl whose only crime was to possess merchant's blood several generations removed. Some Sparrows she figured to be truly devoted, an unfortunate condition, but at least sincere. Others might claim yet not be free from human desires. Daenerys could not tell which befell this Sparrow who presumed to speak for the heir to Casterly Rock, but she could guess, considering the fact that Quenten Banefort had not bothered to attend this decision which would so greatly impact his family, and wonder whether the arrangement had been arranged with the Sparrows long beforehand.
"But my daughter is with child..."
"Then the child will be a bastard," Lancel replied sternly, though Daenerys knew he was merely a boy pretending to be stern.
"My dear husband, surely you must consider..."
Even the Lady Genna seemed aghast at the decision. "My Lord, must we subject the marriages of so many of your vassal lords and ladies to such judgments..."
Her dear husband did not bother to look at Daenerys, soon to be the mother to his child, when he spoke. "I myself have sinned, and sinned gravely. I have confessed, repented, found forgiveness in the mercy of the Mother."
"Then the Mother may forgive others," Daenerys said gently. Lancel had been besotted by his new wife not so long ago, and definitely on their wedding night. But this day only confirmed to Daenerys that he had been actively shunning his wife ever since she'd told Lancel that she was carrying his child. It would seem that the Sparrows had replaced her as Lancel's object of affection in the meantime, though it surprised Daenerys the suddenness and intensity of his newfound devotion to the order.
Or perhaps it was the mention of Queen Sansa that agitated the man to such stubbornness. Lancel refused to ever speak of her, or their illicit affair, which seemed quite innocent in the end, according to what Lady Genna told her, though the older woman may very well be biased in favor of her nephew.
"The Mother's mercy is not for me to decide, or proclaim," Lancel interrupted her, and Daenerys exchanged a wary look across the table towards Genna, and received a...sympathetic one, perhaps, in return. "The Gods speak for themselves, through the voices of their Sparrows."
Gods, Rhaegar gave me the worst of husbands. I thought I'd married a fool, when in fact he's a fool and a fanatic.
Watching the downtrodden man depart the Great Hall, Daenerys rubbed her stomach, and prayed for a son. Perhaps her voice would not be heard in Casterly Rock for some time to come. Perhaps she was doomed to witness such injustices every day, fighting a losing war against her husband and his newfound favor towards the Sparrows. But war was a drawn out thing, wasn't it? Rhaegar had taught her that, fighting his for twenty long years before surprisingly emerging victorious in the end. And so would she, for the future of her child, her new lands. For her life, and no one else's.
Sansa
The Queen strained to reach one delicate finger forward, picking up a black piece resembling a dragon, and knocked away triumphantly an elephant sitting on Jeyne Poole's side of the cyvasse board.
"Does this mean I win," Sansa asked with a smirk.
"Hells if I know," her oldest and most faithful friend replied with a shrug, picking up a trebuchet and setting it in an open spot next to Sansa's king piece. "It's your board, that prince from Essos gave it to you as a wedding gift."
"Right, don't remind me." Taking another piece with her left hand, this one looked like horse with a knight sitting atop it, Sansa handed it to the child cradled above her right arm. Baelor grabbed unknowingly at the cyvasse piece, holding it in his hands for a second or two before dropping it onto the ground with a thud. "I wish Lord Tyrion were here. He could probably teach us how to play this thing.
"A lot of things would be easier if they didn't send Lord Tyrion to the Wall," Jeyne muttered, picking up the horse and setting it on a random spot on the board, different from where it lay before. "I don't have to act as my Queen's secret Hand, for one."
"I thought I was Her Grace's Hand," a voice called genially from beside the entrance to the Godswood garden, and Sansa turned her neck to smile at Trystane. Though his back was turned to her, she could hear the smirk embedded in his fine voice.
"I'll give it to whichever one of you kills the most of my enemies," the Queen replied, not entirely unseriously, taking a spearman and knocking down Jeyne's king piece. The game was useless, her so called victory meaningless, but it was a good excuse for privacy, and a better pretense towards protecting the perceived innocence of their privacy. So was nursing her firstborn child, and as Sansa's eyes glazed over Baelor's silver hair, she gave thanks that his purple eyes remained closed for the moment. That it bade the men of the court to leave her alone, she thought most uncharitably, was the only use she had for her first child.
I hate him. I shouldn't, but I can't help it. I should love him. But he bears the blood of the family who slaughtered one half of mine, and keeps the rest hostage.
"I spoke to Lord Monford today," Jeyne volunteered, her dark eyes looking around the garden nervously.
"About his son?"
"I did ask," Jeyne replied. "I told him I'd heard whispers, that there was talk about betrothing Lord Monterys to Lady Shireen. I told him I believed it to be a good match."
Shireen was supposed to be betrothed to Bran. The agreement would be in place now, if it weren't for Rhaegar. But Bran may never be allowed a wife, Sansa worried, and neither would Rickon, not until she'd overthrown Rhaegar and all his supporters.
Then she'd marry Trystane, and he'd father more children with his Queen, the heirs to House Stark and all seven kingdoms. Yet what of her very Valyrian firstborn son, even were she to change his name to Stark? Would she send Baelor to the Wall, far before the boy would reach his maturity, to join his cousin Jon? Would that be so he did not threaten an inheritance Sansa never meant to give him, or because she would not be able to stand the sight of Rhaegar's youngest son?
"There's no weaknesses to him, is there?" Sansa sighed. "That's the problem."
Of all of Rhaegar's Small Council, Monford Velaryon, Tyrion's replacement as Master of Law, appeared to them the only possible candidate for the moment. Surely the men who'd accompanied their prince for twenty years in exile, Lewyn, the Lord Commander, the Spider, Master of Whispers, and Connington, Rhaegar's Master of War, could never be induced to abandon the man now that they'd won him an Iron Throne. Neither would Tarly or Kevan Lannister, one more repeat of treason being more than enough to seal their reputations throughout all Seven Kingdoms, if not their fate...hopefully under Trystane's sword, if Sansa had anything to say about it. As for Mace Tyrell, from what she'd heard, the Lord of Highgarden hadn't been the most zealous of all her traitors, and she would like to give the man the benefit of the doubt, if only for the sake of her affections for both his children.
"The realm hasn't seen a proper Grand Tourney in six and ten years," she'd mentioned very casually to him, when Mace Tyrell had visited her chambers several moons before to give his blessings to the Queen and her newborn prince. "It's a shame, I was far too young to remember that grand scene at Riverrun, when all the realm came and partook in the good tidings of the castle of my grandfather."
The Reach was the key, they'd decided, a small rebellion consisting now of only three youths, none older than seven and ten. Their greatest enemies lay in the south, yet in the manors of the archtraitor Tarly also sat her aunt and cousins, the key to unlocking the tens of thousands of northmen who would come to her aid the moment they were freed, along with Bran and Rickon. One glorious army marching could rally her uncle Edmure's men, perhaps even the Knights of the Vale, especially if she could weaken Rhaegar's position from inside the Keep. This gave her four kingdoms, assuming Renly Baratheon's word was true, to counter the Crownlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and possibly the Iron Islands, if Rhaegar somehow come to yet another deal with the wicked Greyjoy kings.
Out of all these enemies, the Reach was the most powerful...but just how solidly did they stand behind the Tyrells and Tarly's? Sansa intended to find out at Mace Tyrell's tourney. With any luck, she could speak discretely to Renly and uncle Edmure, gauge just how firm their positions lay in their respective kingdoms.
And there was the convenient fact that Highgarden wasn't all that far from Dorne either. Sansa had never met Doran Martell, the man who held her sister, the man who'd betrayed her father...yet also the father of the man she loved today. How much of a difference could that make? For now, Trystane did not know himself, having not set foot in his native land for more than five years, since before the last war.
Trystane's arrival in the capital had been a mildly comforting thought at first, little more. She'd asked him about Winterfell, about her family, and delighted in listening to his stories of sweet Myrcella and Tommen, of trying to tame her youngest yet wildest cousin Rykka.
"Jon should be here, not me," Trystane confided to her, one of the first nights he'd been assigned to guard her chambers. "I know you would wish he were here to protect you..."
"It's for the best," Sansa admitted sadly, knowing in her heart, for some unknown reason, that she could trust this young man, possibly because she had so few whom she could confide in these days. "Rhaegar would seek to use him, to corrupt him, until he's no longer a northerner...no longer a Stark."
"That night," Trystane recalled solemnly, "we'd received the raven from King's Landing. Jon had raged. 'Send me,' he screamed to Lord Benjen. 'The North will fight for Lady Cersei and her children. The North will fight for their Queen. Declare me an outlaw...' Jon thought he could gather enough men anyway, then march south, but Lord Benjen talked him down, told him it would never work, that he'd be falling right into Rhaegar's trap."
"I trust Jon," Sansa said, thinking that perhaps she could trust too a man who'd so befriended her oldest cousin. "He would have fought an impossible war though."
Her uncle was right. Where could Jon have marched? Against King's Landing, and take a city that's never been taken by siege, where her outlaw cousin would be outnumbered against the armies of three kingdoms? And that was only half the travel through hostile lands compared to a march against Horn Hill. He could sail there, Sansa supposed, had her uncle the ships, and supposing then that Jon could sneak under the noses of the Lannister fleets, the Greyjoy fleets, and the Redwyne fleets, one after another...an even unlikelier prospect.
No, she had to accept that overthrowing Rhaegar, freeing herself, if not just her family, was a risky and unlikely thing that would take years, if ever.
It hurt, knowing that the best thing for Jon's soul, if not his place in the realm, was to condemn himself to a lifetime of exile. He deserved better. Every single Stark who'd suffered because of Rhaegar and Littlefinger and Varys deserved better. Perhaps she could absolve him of his vows, if she could overthrow her husband.
It was in that bleak moment that Sansa realized that she felt better about her chances with Trystane by her side. Not because of who his father was, but because of the way he looked at her, when they were alone, away from prying eyes. Because the North had left its mark on Trystane, more than Sansa or her siblings even. Because the North was her home, her true people, a culture and way of life she'd forgotten, to her detriment and regret, but whose imprint was still fresh upon Trystane.
"I...," Jeyne's voice interrupted shakily. "Lord Monford's wife has returned to Driftmark. She is sickly, they say. I...I think, the way Lord Monford looks at me, I think I can..."
"No," Sansa's voice commanded, remembering how it felt like to be a Queen, though she'd never reigned truly. "I won't have you selling yourself on my behalf, Jeyne."
There were some lines she would never allow herself to cross, but Jeyne did not agree.
"How else can we get rid of him then?"
They'd judged his position the weakest, because though he'd declared for Rhaegar during his first rebellion, Monford Velaryon had not fled into exile after the war. Her Council stripped him of his lordship, but let him keep his castle on the island of Driftmark, leaving him still lord in all but name. It was meant as a conciliatory measure, her unc...Littlefinger had once explained to her, and though Sansa knew now to distrust every word the man had spoken to her during his ill-gotten tenure, it would seem his treachery did not cover as far as Driftmark. House Velaryon remained loyal to House Stark, because they did not need to raise their banners in war again, because House Stark appointed on their own the very same men who would so lawfully hand her rightful crown over to House Targaryen. And so Lord Monford was called to the capital to serve as Master of Law, though possessing little in personal ties binding him to either of the only two families to have ever claimed successfully the Iron Throne.
"Surely he has enemies," Trystane whispered, all while standing guard. "We'll find them, once all the realm gathers at Highgarden."
"I'm not sure," Sansa said thoughtfully. "Driftmark is well accustomed to isolation. And Lord Monford seems too canny to make enemies needlessly."
It seemed all would agree that the Master of Laws was very capable in his position. Sansa knew that she could not wrangle her own men onto Rhaegar's Small Council, not under the Spider's watchful eyes, anyway, which meant the only chance she stood, at least to begin with, was to position dull and incapable men into her husband's inner circle...truly venal ones, were she to be blessed with a rare bout of luck. There was Jonos Bracken, for one, who'd shown up in King's Landing boasting with all but his words how he'd refused to rally for the Tully banners when Edmure called them, believing now that he somehow deserved a place in court for his lack of fealty.
There were other possibilities too. Fossoways, perhaps, their reputations weren't great. Sansa didn't think much of Ralph Buckler either, the Lord of the Bronzegate had been most eager to flatter and kiss the feet of his new king, which meant that he was probably not amongst those Renly spoke of, that she could rely upon in the Stormlands. Littlefinger had taught her well, so it would seem. Such unreliable men planted into the Keep could begin to slowly undermine Rhaegar's reign, just as they'd done so against her, but first they needed to pry away one by one his existing and rather solid Small Council.
Baelor was full, and Sansa handed her son into Jeyne's waiting arms, before pulling her dress back over her chest. Her friend doted on the boy more warmly than Sansa ever did. Jeyne did not know the loathing she couldn't help but feel for her son, because that was one secret she'd been careful to hide from everyone, save Trystane.
"Third drawer," Jeyne whispered despite their privacy, "by your closet."
The Queen nodded in understanding. She took the moon tea for Trystane, but Sansa would drink it for Rhaegar as well. The moment she'd laid her eyes upon Baelor for the first time, gazing into his sick purple eyes, Sansa had sworn she'd never again give birth to one of Rhaegar's dragonspawn, even if it meant sharing her husband's bed again and again until he'd finally given up. Fortunately, Rhaegar had not sought her out on the nights after Baelor's birth. Perhaps he'd taken the Red Priestess's prophecies to heart. Certainly he'd been more sullen since that encounter, rarely leaving his chambers, not even to sit on his Iron Throne, though his advisors seemed to do a frustratingly good job governing Rhaegar's kingdom for him.
The dragon will have two heads, and never be, Sansa thought, allowing her heart its secret gloat.
"You'll like the gardens, I'm sure. I heard them say Highgarden has the prettiest flowers in Essos or Westeros."
Sansa's heart ached for Bran. Though he hadn't been maturing into the greatest of swordsman, Bran always savored his lessons in the courtyard. Her brother hadn't climbed or crawled about the castle walls since he'd been a child, but Sansa could tell that her eldest surviving brother loved being outside, riding, or running and playing games with the pages and squires in the castle...anything except being cooped in a small room for most of the day.
Behind her, Meryn Trant coughed impatiently. They brought him and Rickon out of the Hand's Tower only once a day now, under Ser Meryn's watchful eyes, before returning her brothers back to their captivity. The Queen had to personally write her requests to Randyll Tarly any time she wished to see her brothers, and oftentimes the man ignored her entirely. Not today, at least, and Sansa was thankful for the opportunity to visit her own blood, before leaving for the tourney.
Taking Bran into her arms, Sansa noted yet again how he stood taller than her. "Maybe I'll make Rickon the Lord of Highgarden, once this is all said and done." She was careful to whisper her words, which Rhaegar and his men would call treason, directly into Bran's ear, though she doubted Ser Meryn was watching them all that carefully anyway. "Or maybe I'll give him Casterly Rock, and you can have both Highgarden and Dragonstone."
"That would be difficult to manage," Bran said. Sansa knew it was not right for her to make such unlikely promises, giving her brothers false hope when any prospects of victory loomed still so far away. But they had far less freedom than she, still a Queen by name, and until her position strengthened, dreams were the only things Sansa I Stark, always the sole and rightful Queen Regnant and occupant of the Iron Throne in her mind, could possibly bestow her brothers.
"If anyone can, it'd be you."
"I wish I can help you more. Grandpapa told me I was supposed to protect you, my sister, my Queen."
"A Queen's duty is to protect her people," Sansa replied, "her family first. I'm the one who failed, Bran. But I'm trying, believe me, I am."
Letting go, she took Rickon into her arms, rubbing her fingers through his thick mane. Though his hair resembled their mother's, Sansa remembered their last visit to Winterfell, where uncle Benjen had remarked that her youngest sibling was the one who reminded him the most of a young Jon, grown into a man who'd just ensured that he'd remain a true northerner until his dying day.
"They say they'll have merchants from Volantis in Highgarden, that they can carve all sorts of trinkets, paint them colors you can't even imagine. I'll bring you something, I promise..."
"Your Grace," Ser Meryn interrupted, "I'm sure the King is expecting your return."
He's not, Sansa replied angrily in her mind, but she'd learned better than to argue with men like Meryn Trant. There was something about this particular man too, she thought, the way he looked at her, whether it was loathing his helmet concealed, or something else, but Sansa knew that left alone in a room with Ser Meryn, she was kept safe by only the threat of the worst violence to be inflicted upon a Kingsguard who'd dare to harm a Queen he was sworn to protect.
Fortunately the Queen found Trystane awaiting her in her chambers, to help her forget her annoyance and uneasily at Ser Meryn, or her sadness towards the brothers she was about to abandon, if only briefly for a few fortnights. Alas, he was standing guard, which meant he could not spend the night in her bed, but she fell into his arms anyway, claiming his soft lips for herself, despite the risk that they could be caught, without Ser Balon keeping watch nearby. Suddenly, she started crying, her chest heaving in wretched sobs over and over again, despite her attempts to regain control over herself, despite the fact that the Queen did not like revealing her deepest vulnerabilities towards anyone, not even Trystane.
"Shhh," Trystane whispered, pulling her carefully into her chambers, looking both ways down the corridors before shutting the door, though not entirely. "I know it seems so difficult now...but I know you'll win. You're the strongest woman I know."
Feeling the grip of his strong arms tighten around her, Sansa wanted to shove Trystane into her bed and take him now, damn Rhaegar, damn his whitecloaks. She needed him, so badly. But the risk was not worth it. Not when it could mean his death, and the collapse of all her plans.
"Then why do I feel so weak," she bemoaned instead, "so useless?"
"Because you're alone. Because we're alone," he corrected, "we're surrounded by enemies."
"This was my home," Sansa said, opening her eyes, looking around at the chambers which had once belonged to her mother. She'd occupied her father's chambers during her brief reign, until Rhaegar stole it from her. "Now I'm a prisoner. So are Bran and Rickon." It was nothing she and Trystane did not already know. And saying the words did not make her feel better. Biting her lips, Sansa absorbed the quiet rhythm of her lover's breaths, one after another underneath his armor, until she felt calm again.
"I need you to be strong for me, Trystane."
"I promise you, my Queen." Because they stood at close to the same height, he had to lift his head to kiss her on her forehead, before letting her go, and resuming his place guarding the entrance to her chambers. "One day at a time, remember? Seven Kingdoms once pledged themselves to you. We'll get them back."
It's what she told herself every night, so that she could fall asleep. But tonight, he would not lie there beside her, to assure her of it.
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Author's Notes: Sorry for the long "delay", though it wasn't really a delay. I'd gotten a few trollish responses in the last few chapters I posted...I say trollish, even though said reviewer posted a rather long response defending himself (though the reviewer couldn't help a few passive aggressive remarks in the post amidst offering his praise...I'd remembered a much more trollish review on my last story posted here, where the reviewer, rather comment anything even about the story itself, ranted more about S8 and the show ending).
It wasn't my intention to stop posting at that point. But I don't post these chapters here to aggravate myself, which was what I as doing, having to defend this story and its choices with every chapter's author's notes. And rather seek out aggravation where I needn't, I procrastinated instead, even while continuing posting in much more productive and enlightened forums such as AO3 and others, until it seemed way too much to catch up here.
Well, I've got some extra spare time during this quarantine/shelter in place etc, so I figured I'll bite the bullet and catch everything up here on FFN. Be aware, there'll be a bevy of chapters coming, long ones, traumatic ones, etc. To those who were enjoying this story, I apologize for the interruption, and I hope you were able to find it nevertheless on AO3. And I will note that going forward, to save myself the time and aggravation, I won't be responding to any reviews I don't feel like responding to.
Most importantly, I hope that everyone stays safe and healthy out there.
