Chapter Text
Marching orders received.
And she was quick about following them through to the letter – as much as she despised them and their rules.
But she knew what would come, what would follow if she didn’t. If she hesitated even for a second.
She had the scars as reminders.
She wasn’t keen for more.
She was older now.
Wiser.
Tears wouldn’t help.
She’d gotten too old for those to be considered ‘cute’ or ‘endearing’, or, best of all, in the scheme of things ‘mitigating’.
Now she was just another file number, another problem to be shuffled off from this hell, to what she could only assume would be another.
A teenage foster kid wasn’t worth a damn.
She wasn’t worth a damn.
And not a god damned fucking day went by when someone didn’t make sure she knew it.
With all that in mind, while her true mind worked overtime to supress how devastating this all felt, she shoved, as fast as she could – she could see the social worker’s eyes on her, watching her – every single thing she owned into a non-descript black, plastic rubbish bag.
Most people wouldn’t think so, but at this moment, under this time pressure, under those eyes, which were finally taking her from this house, she was overwhelmingly glad that she owned next to nothing.
Beyond what she was currently wearing, two t-shirts, a crusty bomber jacket, a pair of jeans too long in the legs, four pairs of undies, a spare, ill-fitting bra, and a handful of mismatched socks mad their unceremonious way into yet another black sack.
She’d given up attempting to be poetic, and comparing the rubbish bags to a void, an abyss, an unknown, years ago.
She’d wised the fuck up.
Rubbish in. Rubbish out.
That’s what she thought now.
When she got to wherever this skeezy dude was taking her, she’d dump her crap on the floor – it may stay there for a while, likely not for long – then she’d be packing it up again.
Because nobody cared.
Truly.
Who the fuck cared about a teenage foster kid who was such a disappointment that her own brother (and let’s not even get into that now – let’s save that for later when there was some emotional energy for it… so… never), couldn’t even be assed to come and take her out, despite being of age, and more than financially and legally able.
Yeah – they all thought – she knew they did – there must be something seriously wrong with that chick. Her own kin doesn’t want her.
Whatever.
Rubbish bag packed, she slung it over her shoulder in a manoeuvre so practised (she’d perfected it at the age if three), it was almost seamless. Then she strode out the door and climbed into the dented, social worker panel van without a backwards glance.
They weren’t looking after her longingly to say goodbye, she thought – she was right, they’d turned around some ten minutes ago and were already absorbed in the game – so she wouldn’t look back after them.
She didn’t have much.
Truth be told, at seventeen all she really had was her pride and a whole lot of resentment sitting on her shoulders. But, she did have her pride – she wouldn’t look back at them. And she wouldn’t ask him where she was being sent to now.
Honestly, her main concern was that the sweaty asshole would try to fuck her somewhere between this hell and the next.
Not that she would let him.
“Bro,” Robb fairly yelled even though he was basically atop his lap by the time the final phoneme left his lips, “Ya hear? Another raggedy anne is comin’ to school tomorrow.”
Jon tried to shove him off – but he didn’t succeed – Robb moved when Robb wanted to move.
“Yup, another discarded dolly.” He snarled.
“What’s the damn point of father being head of the City Council if he can’t even keep rejected retards out of our schools?” Robb rhetorised grandly.
Jon tried very hard to hide his wince at his cousin’s degrading and offensive terminology – he was damned fucking lucky that he had had family that was willing to take him in. And every day he trod carefully so that none of them knew how much he fucking hated their attitudes and politics.
Well, all of them except Arya – but for all her strength of belief, she wasn’t yet strong (or tall, or old) enough to stand by him and protest. Nor would he want her to be at odds with her own family for his sake – regardless of how much she proclaimed that she wanted to be.
“Ha,” Robb snarled a derisive chuckle, “She’ll be easy at least, all those trash can kids are. As long as they remember to double bag it, our bros will at least get a lay out of her, right?” he guffawed, smacking Jon on the shoulder.
He felt a grotesque chill at the touch, but he wouldn’t, no, he couldn’t, speak up. His bed was made when his parents died when he was ten – and now he had to live here, For better…
But actually for worse.
Please don’t get him wrong – he loved his uncle and aunt. He adored Arya. And the younger kids were a treat.
But Robb…
Robb with his entitled, fuck-wad ways. Just because the Starks were rich as Croceus (not that Robb would know who that was, even though they had a lesson on him two days ago).
And Sansa with her nose-in-the-air, ‘I am a lady’ bullshit. The kind of bullshit that made her think it was okay to literally spit on girls she believed were below her…
It was hard to deal with that, alright. Hard to deal with knowing his own cousins would sexually violate him and spit on him if he was a girl, or kick the shit out of him as he was, were he not their blood – and to hear about them planning to do the same to some other poor kid…
Well, sometimes it was far fucking too much.
It was times like this that he needed his secret escape.
Doing his best not to draw attention to himself, he snuck away and secreted himself in his luxurious bedroom – his sanctuary.
And there, he sat down at his antique oak desk, and began to write.
Write his escape.
His escape where there were monsters, an Undead Night King and his army, but there were saviours too – a white knight, who could stop the threat, he was sure… if only he could figure out how…
Shoved out of the van and through another non-descript door of another non-descript home, after being grunted at in welcome by another set of unknown threats (also known as foster parents), Dany made her way to her sanctuary, her room.
She was pleasantly surprised to see that there was only one other girl there – a gorgeous, copper tyke of about ten who called herself Missy and insisted Dany do the same.
She would get to know that little sweetheart, and, of course, the lay of the land soon.
It was necessary for survival, after all.
But for now, she needed to escape.
And so she drew…