“All right,” Ned Stark says. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. No one was supposed to, but I guess it’s my own damned fault for not keeping it to myself. Now, I know that if I told you to forget this you’d try, but I remember – I remember how it was when I was your age, myself. Boys of seven can forget that kind of promise easily, if they don’t know why they’re making it.” He takes in another breath. “Robb,” he says, his voice dropping so low it’s barely audible, “do you love your brother?” Or: in which Robb knows about Jon's true heritage all along.

in which Ned doesn't die but wargs into one pigeon instead. Incidentally, it doesn't stop him from preventing a war and saving both his family and the entirety of Westeros.

in which Tommen discovers a new favorite band, Tyrion pays Jaime a favor, Jaime gets to reconnect with at least one of his children, Brienne is a responsible adult who might want to act up on a few fantasies, Loras and Renly are pro enablers and everyone is down with some healthy dismissal of gender roles.

The maddening thing is: Jaskier is almost sure that Yennefer knows, except that he can’t be too sure that she does, except that all evidence points in that direction, except that outright asking her is completely out of the fucking question, except that whenever she talks to him lately she has that glint in her eyes that promises nothing good, except that - Yeah, except that he could ask, but he has a feeling that going to your best friend’s slash boss’s slash former-idol-of-his-teenage-years-that-he’s-had-more-than-a-crush-on-for-years girlfriend and ask her straight hey, by the way, I have a feeling that you know that I write fanfic about the two of you in my spare time and for that matter I’m actually good enough at it that I have a thousand Ao3 subscriptions, and everyone wonders how my characterization is this good is… not… really a good idea. Or: in which Jaskier, as Geralt's social media manager, has resuscitated the man's career and landed him a girlfriend, so what if he incidentally also writes RPF for the both of them on the side? That is, until they invite him to join them.

Fuck, what has he done until now? Told Geralt… nice things because he thought that he’d like to hear them and was proved right about it, on top of it? One day he’ll have a long chat with Geralt about how much his previous partners had no taste. Right now, though — “What,” he asks, moving closer, “that you’re lovely?” Geralt… doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but a few more tears fall down, and — “You don’t have to lie if —” “I’m not,” Jaskier interrupts him at once, letting his hands go to grasp his face, pressing their lips together to try and start making his point. “Fuck, you are lovely, other than drop-dead handsome, but then again I haven’t been staring at you like that for months for nothing.” Or: in which it turns out Geralt does have a praise kink that hits him harder than he'd thought. Jaskier is more than glad to indulge in it.

“Excuse me,” Tywin Lannister grits through his teeth, “my son is doing what?” Stannis tries to not sigh loudly. It would not do in front of the Hand of the King. “You have the raven, my lord. He says he wishes to resign from the Kingsguard as he has not been here for a full year and does not plan to come back, and that he’s perfectly happy roaming the Stormlands and the Trident along with the last Evenstar.” “The last Evenstar.” “Yes.” “The abomination.” Stannis shrugs. “Technically she is one, but I can assure my lord Hand that she is actually quite competent to discuss with.” He’d know. She had better ideas for actually helping the commoners than most of his advisors. He wishes he could make her one. “Competent. She’s an abomination.” “She’s a useful one,” he shrugs. “Also, your son does not seem to agree.” Or: in which Jaime goes to Tarth to slay a supposed monster terrorizing the Stormlands to do something honorable with his life. It doesn't go like that at all.

“I am really dreaming, then,” he croaks, wishing his lungs didn’t feel like they were about to crack into a thousand shards. “Oh, but you’re not,” Robb says, his hand going to Theon’s cheek, as rough and warm as he remembers it, and he can’t – oh, surely he must be dreaming and whatever gods exist hate him because it can’t be true, it can’t be real – “But I am,” Robb nods. “Real, I mean.” “You can’t be.” “You tried to kill the Night King with arrows,” Robb smiles, “you completely crazy idiot, and you think that there’s much that can’t be real, around here? Rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.” “You won’t be waiting for me in one of the Seven Hells, Robb,” he croaks. “No,” Robb says, “because that’s not where you’re going. Rest.” Or: in which Theon doesn't die and Robb doesn't stay dead either.

“May I ask what does Your Highness mean with… being otherwise involved?” Oberyn sends him a look that makes Loras’s knees go weak. “Well, Ellaria met this one girl in the harbour the other day. Commanding an Ironborn warship or something like that. And they… did like each other.” He shrugs. “She isn’t really the kind of woman I fancy, but as I said, we don’t begrudge each other the occasional straying. Unless we both like them, of course.” “Of course,” Loras replies. “Which means that she… won’t be here?” “No,” Oberyn replies, “most likely for a couple of days. Are you asking just out of curiosity?” “Maybe,” Loras answers, his throat feeling still fucking dry, “it’s not curiosity. But… I think Your Highness should like to stray with me, or have I understood wrong?” Or: in which Oberyn doesn't lose his duel and Loras goes to Dorne instead of staying in King's Landing.

“Brienne of Tarth, yes. I always was better at swordfighting than at about anything else, and — we could say every time he tried to marry me to someone, it went sour.” Her eyes cloud for a second, then she shakes her head. “Then it happened that before he died, Asha Greyjoy showed up at our island for a diplomatic visit.” “I imagine my lady found her an inspiration?” Jaime says, starting to guess where this is going. “Maybe I did. And don’t call me like that. Everyone here likes to, but I’m no lady and I never was. Anyway, she… gave me a new perspective. When the King saw fit to inform me I should come to court so they could find me a marriage, I thought I’d ignore his missive.” “And become a pirate?” “Tarth is in an excellent position for raids,” she says, “and I don’t attack anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“Which brought me to the conclusion that if I am to be all tied up in your quarters for the entire night at least, then you must have decided your prize would not be the loot.” Then he winks again and oh. Oh. Brienne is about to shut him up and say that she would fucking never — she knows she’s ugly and she’s known that throughout her entire life, in between Sister Roelle and every single man she’s met since the age of six. She felt sick when those assholes in Nassau bet on whoever would manage to fuck her when she was putting together a crew and only had a ship and her father’s money to her name, and she would never take for a prize like that someone who’d have no choice about it. She’s about to tell him that if he thinks she’d stoop that low to have someone warm her bed he’s wrong and she’d rather have no one at all instead, but she’s not fast enough, because he goes on, and — “To which I say, go ahead and take it.”

“I happen to think that I would like to see you in my bed. I’m also not in the habit of forcing people into it. If you wish to leave, the door is right behind you. I will also inform you that no one who was in my bed ever regretted it.” Or: where Oberyn seduces the hell out of Jaime.