raised on the moon and the river (teen wolf/game of thrones drabble fic)
Stiles has always been a Tully. That's what his mother tells him, before he goes to bed, and he wraps a finger around a red haired curl.
'Family, Duty, Honor,' she says, and he lives by those words. He puts his mother and father first, no matter what he does, and when he loses his mother to the sickness, his father is foremost.
Stiles is a Tully, his mother says, even if his name is Rivers.
-
Derek has always been a Martell. It runs through his blood, even though it had been so long since Derek had stepped foot in Dorne. Laura and he keep on the move, and have, ever since Hill Preserve burned to the ground, and that side of the Hale lineage.
Even after Laura is killed, Derek keeps moving.
'Unbowed,' he says, 'unbent,' he swears, 'unbroken,' he wishes and moves.
He has the entirety of Westeroes.
Derek is a Martell, he always has been, and he will never stop.
-
Stiles runs.
Derek moves.
-
"You're a bastard," Derek says, and Stiles glares.
"I'm a Tully."
"You're a Rivers."
"Aye," Stiles says, and smiles. "And a Tully."
(Later on, it'll make sense to Derek.)
-
They walk and then ride horses, and then walk some more. Stiles never shuts up. He talks about the food he makes for his father, the food his mother makes for him. About his first time atop a horse, the first time he was thrown. He talks about House Tully and his mother and Riverrun. He speaks most about his cousin, the Lady Lydia, and his brother-not-by-blood, Scott.
He asks about Derek's sigil - the direwolf and the spear through the moon - and Derek explains about how he's descended from both Starks and Martells. Of how he's hundredth in line to inherit Winterfell. Of how the blood of the first men runs through his veins.
(Derek doesn't talk about the call of the moon and the way the trees speak to him.)
-
"Winter is coming," Derek says, and the words themselves seem ice cold on his tongue. Stiles shivers, even under his furs.
"Aye," Stiles agrees, staring at the quickly darkening sky. "Camp?"
Derek says nothing, and simply rolls out his bedroll, placing it under a nearby tree. (He can hear the whispers already.)
"Will it snow?" Stiles asks, as if Derek will know, even though Derek is from the desert. But, Derek has been to Winterfell, and the Wall, and journeyed through the North.
He stares at the clouded sky.
"I expect," he says, and doesn't expect Stiles to drag his bedroll next to Derek's. "What are you doing?"
"It'll be cold," Stiles murmurs, bundling his furs over his blankets. "We'll share body heat."
Derek stares, but relents and lets the other man lay next to him.
It's been a long day, and a longer ride. They're both asleep within seconds.
(When Derek wakes up, his arms around Stiles, and his head is fitted snugly in the crook of his neck. It's snowed.)
-
Stiles is warm.
Derek hates it. Hates how Stiles smiles and reminds him of Dorne, of the trips to Sunspear, of the years in Winterfell. He hates how Stiles can smile and make Derek feel light.
Stiles is warm.
And Derek is still afraid of being burned.
-
"This is where we part ways," Derek says. Stiles pauses.
One road leads north, to Winterfell, where the last remainder of Derek's family resides. The other leads to Riverrun. To Stiles' father.
They should move. It all should be easy. There was never nothing more to this. Derek and Stiles met in King's Landing. They decided to travel because Stiles had passage through the Kingsroad, and Derek would ward off any unwanted travelers.
"Aye," Stiles says, and Derek can see his jaw clench. "So it is."
"Goodbye," Derek says, and taste the wrong with the word. He can't move.
Stiles nods. "Good luck."
"Right," Derek says, but they both stand. "To you, as well."
And there is silence.
"You could come with me?" Stiles says suddenly, and it's a question, Derek knows it's a question. Stiles avoids his eye. "The Riverlands aren't that bad. You'd love Riverrun."
"I can't," Derek says, and watches as Stiles' eyes flicker towards him, and sink to the ground. "I have to go to Winterfell."
"I know," Stiles says, smiling slightly. He looks up at Derek. "I wanted to ask, nevertheless."
And it happens, then. Stiles walks away, satchel tugged over his back, and he hasn't even said goodbye, not properly at least. He hasn't shaken Derek's hand - he hasn't even thanked him.
Derek has a twisted feeling of betrayal.
His hands tighten, and he walks the path to Winterfell.
(When he tries to sleep, the trees hiss at him, scream at him, and he thinks he hears Laura telling him he's craven for letting Stiles go.)
-
The Starks open their doors to him, clap him on the back, give him new clothes. They promise to help him rebuild. They offer everything they have.
Derek's thankful, he is. It's more than he could ever wish for.
But he finds himself near the nearby river every day.
The Lady Stark sits with him, red hair around her shoulder, blue eyes sharp. He thinks out of everyone, she symphatizes with him most. After all, she built Winterfell from nothing but ashes with only her husband and thirty men. She sits with him, blanket on the grass to protect her dress, and asks him who he's missing.
He never says anything, and she tuts, and runs her hand through his hair, and leaves.
(But he knows who he's missing. He knows it like he knows the sky is blue, and the trees grow up, and the wolf howls.)
The lone wolf dies, Stiles had said, all those months ago in that small tavern. But the pack survives. The way I see it, we have a better chance if we travel together.
It takes awhile, but Derek starts his way back towards the Riverlands.
-
Derek sees Stiles first, across the hall of the banquet room. Derek knows, even though he's never seen them before, that the two people he's talking to are Lady Lydia, and Scott.
(He thinks to turn back, when he sees Stiles' lips lift up in a smile. He can start back to Winterfell, pretend he never left.)
But then, Stiles looks up, and the smile drops off his lips (and Derek's heart beats in his chest painfully, seizing, walk away walk away now) only to be replaced by an even bigger one. Then, Stiles is walking forward, jogging forward, sprinting forward to clear the distance, and Derek thinks to open his arms, to catch him and never let go, but Stiles has to stop to dart around a collection of people, and slows to a walk in front of Derek, only a few feet away.
"Hello," Stiles breathes.
Derek nods. "Hello."
Then Stiles is grinning. "I never thanked you."
"No, you didn't."
"I'd like to thank you," Stiles nearly whispers, and moves forward. "Thank you, Derek, for escorting me back to the Riverlands."
"You're welcome," Derek says, nodding slightly. Stiles' lip lift upwards, and then he moves and Derek runs to wrap his arms around Stiles, and press him close, and his lips are hot on Stiles, kissing him like he should have kissed him when Derek walked one way and Stiles walked another.
The room cheers.
Derek pulls back, and Stiles grins.
"Stiles?" Derek asks, breath hot against Stiles' lips. "You're a Tully."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "That's what I've been trying to tell you this entire time. Now, come eat. You have a lot of people to meet."