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.

“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.