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captainelliecomb · 2 years

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AGOT Bran I

Late to the Party: ASOIAF

Summary: The North north of the Wall might have brought us cold, inhuman death and the old tales coming true, but the North south of the Wall brings lessons on honour, fear and bravery, and old tales dismissed. Bran watches his first beheading, they find a dead direwolf with living pups, Jon is dryly funny when speaking to and about Theon, and winter is still coming.

Young Bran is an interesting point of view to introduce us to the ways of the North, an entire group of them off to watch a beheading, including Bran himself, a boy of seven.

The morning is clear and cold, hinting toward the end of summer, and Bran has known nothing but summer; it has lasted nine years, and he is only seven. He’s so very young. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep their ages in mind, at least for the Starklings and Jon Snow. Part of that is the show’s influence, sure, but also, they deal with terrible things in ways that make them seem older.

“He had taken off Father’s face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.”

That’s quite a description considering (a) he’s going to lose his head soon but even more important (b) Arya, the one child who looks like him, will be off to train with the Faceless Men.

The North is a horror story in the middle of a political fantasy.

Swords!

Ice is “as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke.”

Seriously, Ned, why the overkill? And I love how Bran compares the height to Robb, his beloved big brother.

Bran’s bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. “Keep the pony well in hand,” he whispered. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.”

Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.

Hi, Jon Snow!

That set against Jaime telling Tommen to look without seeing, etc. The Starks have known horrors, including during Robert’s Rebellion, but did not see the horrors Jaime did under the Mad King, despite one Stark being burned alive and the other strangled trying to save him.

People make fun of Daenery’s titles, but this is a mouthful itself: Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

Robb and Jon and their differences, physical and personality, and their friendship and the tension lurking between them.

“Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.”

“What do you think?” his father asked.

Bran thought about it. “can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

“That is the only time a man can be brave.”

Beautiful look at a part of what it means to be human.

Looking forward to this playing out, particularly with Sam Tarly.

Another touch on honour more important than life: He is an oathbreaker, a deserter, a man who must die; a man like that is the most dangerous because he knows his life is forfeit if taken, he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile.

If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

Interesting that Ned does not, or maybe cannot, differentiate between being the one physically capable of swinging the sword and the one who looks into his eyes and hears his final words. The two do not have to go together, but Ned is unyielding in what he feels is his honour -- the same as in King’s Landing, the same that gets him killed. He can be too literal and too caught in the one path he decides is the only way to go, though his honour could allow for other things or a slight bending of the honour could protect people better.

Obviously, if a Northern ruler can’t literally swing the sword themself, they can use someone or something else to carry out the sentence, the important part is the watching, the listening, the taking responsibility. I hate the show’s storyline for Sansa and Bolton, but her taking his last words, passing the sentence, using his dogs as the weapon to kill him, that can be read as doing just this, Ned’s rule for the honour of the North.

What keep will Bran hold? How does one get a keep when one is a second son?

I love how Jon is calm when Jory and Theon are wary and immediately want to fight a (dead) direwolf.

I feel the need to track direwolf size through the series, though I will probably fail to do this as we continue: Dead bitch is bigger than Bran’s pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father’s kennel.

Uh, if she is twice the size of a hound and yet bigger than Bran’s pony, how big are the rest of Stark’s hounds?

Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”

“I see one now,” Jon replied.

Jon with the dry humour! I hope we see a lot more of this.

Two hundred years since the last direwolf was sighted south of the Wall, or so we’re told by Theon. The old stories are undermined in this chapter (Old Nan’s tales of Others and Wildlings and Ned’s dismissal of them; Jory calling the direwolf a sign and Ned dismissing it) and yet supported at the same time, with a direwolf actually south of the Wall again and winter coming.

Jon the bastard standing up to his father and Theon and all the men who want the pups dead, at least in part because Bran is heartbroken over the idea of them dying. Jon protecting his siblings like this, foreshadowing how he will protect them in the future. Jon clearly setting himself aside because it is what he thinks is best for his siblings in this moment.

“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”

“They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”

Oh Robb. The arrogance of youth here again, which we’ve already seen go badly with Ser Waymar and will very soon with Bran and his climbing against the rules, and knowing what is coming for Robb and for Grey Wind, this is heartbreaking.

“An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”

Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”

Jon and his determination and his stubbornness, how I love him.

Even in his narration here, Bran calls Jon “Jon Snow” like he calls THeon “Theon Greyjoy” at least some of the time, but even at the end, long after Jon has been introduced as his bastard brother, he calls him “Jon Snow” while he never calls Robb “Robb Stark” even as he calls his father Lord Stark and Lord Eddard Stark at least once each. Interesting separation even from someone who does consider Jon his brother and does love him.

#late to the party asoiaf #a game of thrones #starklings #growing jon snow appreciation society #ellie reads

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butterflies-dragons · 4 years

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Loved your post on the similarities between Jon and Waymar Royce and Sansa's preference in men. I would like to add something else on the table. The Royces have Stark blood through the maternal line. Catelyn even suggested to name them as a possible heir to Robb. So Sansa really has a thing for the Stark look. This might be incestuous in nature. But isn't there a phrase that women tend to fall for men who remind them of their father? In Sansa's case it's more literal than usual lmao

Hello there!

Thank you very much ♡

You know, when I was writing my meta, I was suggested by @lostlittlesatellites, to write about the Royces with Stark blood, but I decided not to bring the subject up because we don’t really know who they are.

I know about what Catelyn said to Robb regarding the Stark relatives in the Vale:

“Young, and a king,” he said. “A king must have an heir. If I should die in my next battle, the kingdom must not die with me. By law Sansa is next in line of succession, so Winterfell and the north would pass to her.” His mouth tightened. “To her, and her lord husband. Tyrion Lannister. I cannot allow that. I will not allow that. That dwarf must never have the north.”

“No,” Catelyn agreed. “You must name another heir, until such time as Jeyne gives you a son.” She considered a moment. “Your father’s father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest … it might have been a Templeton, but …”

“Mother.” There was a sharpness in Robb’s tone. “You forget. My father had four sons.”

She had not forgotten; she had not wanted to look at it, yet there it was. “A Snow is not a Stark.”

“Jon’s more a Stark than some lordlings from the Vale who have never so much as set eyes on Winterfell.”

“Jon is a brother of the Night’s Watch, sworn to take no wife and hold no lands. Those who take the black serve for life.”

“So do the knights of the Kingsguard. That did not stop the Lannisters from stripping the white cloaks from Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Boros Blount when they had no more use for them. If I send the Watch a hundred men in Jon’s place, I’ll wager they find some way to release him from his vows.”

He is set on this. Catelyn knew how stubborn her son could be. “A bastard cannot inherit.”

“Not unless he’s legitimized by a royal decree,” said Robb. “There is more precedent for that than for releasing a Sworn Brother from his oath.”

“Precedent,” she said bitterly. “Yes, Aegon the Fourth legitimized all his bastards on his deathbed. And how much pain, grief, war, and murder grew from that? I know you trust Jon. But can you trust his sons? Or their sons? The Blackfyre pretenders troubled the Targaryens for five generations, until Barristan the Bold slew the last of them on the Stepstones. If you make Jon legitimate, there is no way to turn him bastard again. Should he wed and breed, any sons you may have by Jeyne will never be safe.”

“Jon would never harm a son of mine.”

“No more than Theon Greyjoy would harm Bran or Rickon?”

Grey Wind leapt up atop King Tristifer’s crypt, his teeth bared. Robb’s own face was cold. “That is as cruel as it is unfair. Jon is no Theon.”

“So you pray. Have you considered your sisters? What of their rights? I agree that the north must not be permitted to pass to the Imp, but what of Arya? By law, she comes after Sansa … your own sister, trueborn …”

“… and dead. No one has seen or heard of Arya since they cut Father’s head off. Why do you lie to yourself? Arya’s gone, the same as Bran and Rickon, and they’ll kill Sansa too once the dwarf gets a child from her. Jon is the only brother that remains to me. Should I die without issue, I want him to succeed me as King in the North. I had hoped you would support my choice.”

“I cannot,” she said. “In all else, Robb. In everything. But not in this … this folly. Do not ask it.”

“I don’t have to. I’m the king.” Robb turned and walked off, Grey Wind bounding down from the tomb and loping after him.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

This passage is very interesting because Robb said: By law Sansa is next in line of succession, so Winterfell and the north would pass to her. But since Sansa was married to Tyrion Lannister, Robb had to name another heir.

This is a contrast with Jon. Stannis use the same argument to convince Jon to accept his offer to be Lord of Winterfell, he called Sansa “Lady Lannister”, but no matter what, Jon didn’t accept it.

“But, instead of Tyrion, Willas or even Robert, who pursue Sansa’s claim over her, there is a man that has been offered Winterfell and choose her over it. Among all the high lords interested in becoming the Lord of Winterfell by marrying Sansa Stark, the bastard Jon Snow refused to despoil his sister Sansa of her rights, even if her claim is the one thing he has wanted as much as he had ever wanted anything.”

“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Robb and Catelyn were both pushing to prevent Sansa and Jon to get Winterfell, and ironically enough, I think that Sansa and Jon will be the Starks that will retake Winterfell.

Now, about who may be the Royces with Stark blood...

“Your father’s father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest … it might have been a Templeton, but …”

This means: Ned Stark’s father Rickard had no siblings, but Rickard’s father Edwyle, had a sister Jocelyn who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch, Benedict Royce.

Jocelyn Stark and Benedict Royce had three daughters:

Daughter 1 married an Unknown Waynwood

Daughter 2 married an Unknown Corbray

Daughter 3 might have married an Unknown Templeton

See? we really don’t know who the Royces with Stark blood are. We don’t even know if they have the Stark features. We don’t even know if they are still alive…

Also take note that Jocelyn Stark married a Royce from the junior branch, called House Royce of the Gates of the Moon. While Waymar Royce was from House Royce of Runestone.

So I addressed the subject only with this line:

The resemblance between the Starks and the Royces [of Runestone] maybe has to be with both houses being descendants of the First Men.

Now back to House Royce of the Gates of the Moon.

At this point in the books, the known Royces of the cadet branch are: Nestor Royce and his children: Albar and Myranda. Imagine Myranda having a claim to Winterfell, Alayne will hate it…

Also imagine Lyn Corbray having a claim to Winterfell, Alayne will hate it even more…

About the Templetons, we don’t even know for sure if the third daughter of Jocelyn Stark and Benedict Royce married into House Templeton…

Now, about the Waynwoods, this is exactly why @lostlittlesatellites suggested me to write about the Royces with Stark blood, because at this point at the Books, Alayne is very linked with the Waynwoods. And even Harrold Hardyn’s mother was a Waynwood! Imagine Harry the Heir having not only a claim to the Vale but also to Winterfell! Alayne will like this scenario a bit more… This is unlikely, but it was funny to think about it…

Harry the Heir doesn’t have the Stark Look tho. But his Waynwood cousins do. So they could be the descendants of Jocelyn Stark and Benedict Royce. Let see:

In the first Alayne chapter of the Winds of Winter, Sansa meets the Waynwoods and Harry the Heir:

“Lady Myranda. Lady Alayne.” Anya Waynwood inclined her head to each of them in turn. “It is good of you to greet us. Allow me to present my grandson, Ser Roland Waynwood.” She nodded at the knight who had spoken. “And this is my youngest son, Ser Wallace Waynwood. And of course my ward, Ser Harrold Hardyng.”

(…)

Ser Roland was the oldest of the three, though no more than five-and-twenty. He was taller and more muscular than Ser Wallace, but both were long-faced and lantern-jawed, with stringy brown hair and pinched noses. Horsefaced and homely, Alayne thought.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Ser Roland Waynwood and Ser Wallace Waynwood have three features that match the Stark Look:

Both long-faced

Both horsefaced

Both have [stringy] brown hair

Sansa/Alyane doesn’t find the Waynwoods attractive tho, not like she fancied Ser Waymar Royce. Maybe this have to be with their other features: lantern-jawed and pinched noses.

The lack of attraction to the Waynwoods was another reason why I didn’t bring this subject up in my meta.

In contrast, the Waynwoods seems pretty attracted to Sansa/Alayne:

“Had we known such beauty awaited us at the Gates, we would have flown,” Ser Roland said. Though his words were addressed to Myranda Royce, he smiled at Alayne as he said them.

“To fly you would need wings,” Randa replied, “and there are some knights here who might have a thing to say concerning that.”

“I look forward to a spirited discussion.” Ser Roland swung down from his horse, turned to Alayne, and smiled. “I had heard that Lord Littlefinger’s daughter was fair of face and full of grace, but no one ever told me that she was a thief.”

“You wrong me, ser. I am no thief!”

Ser Roland placed his hand over his heart. “Then how do you explain this hole in my chest, from where you stole my heart?”

“He is only t-teasing you, my lady,” stammered Ser Wallace. “My n-n-nephew never had a h-h-heart.”

“The Waynwood wheel has a broken spoke, and we have my nuncle here.” Ser Roland gave Wallace a whap behind the ear. “Squires should be quiet when knights are speaking.”

Ser Wallace reddened. “I am no more a s-squire, my lady. My n-nephew knows full well that I was k-k-kni-k-k-kni –“

“Dubbed?” Alayne suggested gently.

“Dubbed,” said Wallace Waynwood, gratefully.

Robb would be his age, if he were still alive, she could not help but think, but Robb died a king, and this is just a boy.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

And about that phrase you mentioned: “women tend to fall for men who remind them of their father,” it is true that the Asoiaf Books have plenty of incestuous undertones with the Targaryens, Cersei and Jaime, Asha and Theon, Crater and his daughters, etc. But in the case of the Starks, GRRM uses the pseudo-incest trope. After all, Jon and Arya, that are lookalikes, were intended to be in love in the so called “original outline”.

We also have the issue of the First love’s Resemblance: Sansa fell wildly in love with Ser Waymar, and Jon fell in love with a wildling girl kissed by fire.

Waymar Royce looked like a Stark. Waymar Royce was Jon’s lookalike. And Jon is Ned lookalike:

Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow’s face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IX

More about it here.

And Jon’s first love was Ygritte, a redhead, with blue-grey eyes, and to make the Tully look even more evident, Ygritte called herself half a fish:

“Ygritte punched his arm. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. I’m half a fish, I’ll have you know.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Sansa’s first crush having the Stark Look and Jon’s first lover having the Tully look, reminds me of Catelyn being first betrothed with Brandon Stark but marrying Eddard Stark instead. Brandon, died like Waymar. Ned said Jon’s is a younger version of himself. Ned never imagined marrying Catelyn, he had a young infatuation with Ashara Dayne, but he never acted on his feelings for her, and she died. Ned also killed Ashara’s brother Arthur.

Sansa fell wildly in love with Waymar, but she won’t marry him, he died. She will probably fall in love with Jon in a more mature and calmly way. Jon Snow, after a non-con beginning, ended loving Ygritte, not a lady, that offered him a “comfort level of femininity”, but he won’t marry her, she died. Jon will probably fell in love with Sansa, freely and willingly.

Thanks for your message.

#anon ask #jonsa #alayne stone #harrold hardyng #harry the heir #roland waynwood #wallace waynwood

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perhapsapremise · 4 years

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[holiday advent challenge day 8, prompt: reindeer. on ao3 Merry Christmas!]

“Did you know reindeer and caribou are the same thing?”

Jon spins around to find Rickon, having taken a cookie off the counter which is, incidentally, in the shape of a reindeer. He takes a bite of the cookie while looking seriously at Sam. Jon, of course, has already heard this fact from his brother several times.

Sam gives Jon a quick, uncertain glance, and Jon nods encouragingly towards Rickon. Sam had always been a little uncomfortable around Jon’s younger sibling, or any children really. He claimed he didn’t know what to say to them.

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Sam says. “I always thought they were two different species.”

“Nope,” Rickon says cheerfully, shaking his head. “People used to think they were, but it turns out they’re all the same one. There are a bunch of different subspecies though. The biggest one is the woodland Caribou, they live in North America. The smallest is the Svalbard Reindeer, which live in Norway.”

“That’s interesting,” Says Sam, sounding totally sincere even as he sends Jon a questioning look.

In honesty, Jon was about as confused about Rickon’s latest obsession as he was. He knew this particular interest had started when he’d read a book or reindeer facts at school, but he’d never expected reindeer to be an animal to excite an eight year old.

Rickon’s interests always seemed to catch Jon off-guard, though, as he seemed to jump almost randomly from one fixation to the next, the previous ones usually all but forgotten.

That was one of the reasons he and Robb were having trouble finding what to get their youngest brother for Christmas. It was pretty clear what he would like then, at that moment, but there was no telling if he’d still be invested in this topic by the time the holiday actually rolled around, even though it was only a few weeks away.

“You know where the word caribou comes from?” Rickon continues, eager to give to his whole spiel now that he has a captive audience.

“I don’t” Sam says.

“It’s from an old Mi’kmaq word which meant ‘shovelling snow’.”

“Oh yeah?”

Rickon nods confidently. “And you know Santa’s reindeer?”

“Sure.”

“They were probably all female, because adult male reindeer shed their antlers in the winter, but the females keep them year-round.”

“Huh. I never knew about that,” Sam says. He still seems a little nervous.

“Most people don’t,” Rickon says. “Only know their names.” He shoves the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

- - -

“What’s your favourite animal?” Rickon asks the question with an odd attentiveness, as if taking mental notes. Robb almost hesitates to answer.

“Wolves, I think.”

Rickon nods thoughtfully while Jon, across the room, huffs a laugh.

“What?” Robb protests.

“Nothing,” Jon says. “Just, that’s very middle school.”

“Oh, shut up,” Robb says. He’s about to follow up with some sort of counter-attack, but he’s interrupted by Rickon, who’d moved on from Robb to interrogate Theon.

“What about you?”

Theon, who was previously busy stuffing his face with crackers - Robb’s crackers that he’d taken without asking, Robb notes - and takes a moment to swallow before answering.

“Squids, for sure,” he says, nodding confidently.

“Ew,” Sansa says, not looking up from where she sat a the table, drawing.

“No ew,” Theon says. “They’re majestic animals. Kings of the sea. Not to mention delicious.”

“Again, ew.”

Theon sticks his tongue out at her, though of course she doesn’t notice, still absorbed in her drawing.

Arya looks up from looking through Pokemon cards with Bran long enough to say, to Sansa, “I’m definitely getting you a live squid for Christmas.” Sansa just rolls her eyes in response.

“What about you, kiddo?” Theon says, turning back to Rickon. “What’s your favourite animal?”

Rickon looks thoughtful. “I have lots, but right now I like reindeer.”

“No, I mean like a real animal,” Theon says offhandedly.

At that, everyone looks up from what their doing to stare at Theon.

“What?” He says.

“Reindeer are real animals,” Rickon says matter-of-factly.

“What? No they’re not.” He looks confident at first, but hesitates as he looks around a the incredulous looks he’s getting from the older Starks. Jon appears to be surpressing laughter.

“You know, reindeer,” he continues, with considerably less confidence. “Those made up animals that pull Santa’s sleigh?”

Rickon looks remarkably unimpressed for a seven year old.

“Theon, you absolute dumbass,” Arya says. Jon bursts out laughing.

“Arya!” Robb shouts, but she’s already making a speedy escape from the room.

Robb momentarily considers going after her, but decides it’s not worth it.

“You really didn’t know reindeer were real?” Robb asks, voice laced with amusement.

“Shut up,” Theon says.

- - -

Theon plucks a large plush reindeer off the shelf.

“What about this?” He turns to Robb quizzically. “Do you think he’ll like it? Or is he too old for this stuff, you think?”

Robb is ashamed to say he’s not sure because his parents had always been there to help pick out gifts for his siblings, and that they were the ones who kept track of which toys they were interested in and which ones they’d grown out of. They’d always done a really good job of it.

Theon is still looking at him, waiting for a response, and it was already really nice of Theon to go out and buy gifts for all Robb and Jon’s younger siblings, because he cared and because they deserved it. It was the thought that counted, Robb thought, and Theon had kept up with his brothers interests enough to know he liked reindeer, at least. He would give some more thought to Rickon’s exact preferences later, when buying his own gifts.

“I think he’d like it,” Robb says, sounding more confident than he feels.

Theon smiles in satisfaction and strikes off to find something for Bran.

Robb lingers for a minute, glancing around the aisle. It was stocked full of reindeer themed items, because of course it was, because it was Christmas. That should’ve made it easier to find something his brother would like, but was actually making it harder because he didn’t know what to chose.

It’s now the second christmas since their parents died, and Robb should be better at this. He should be able to keep track of his siblings interests, predict what kind of gifts they’d like. He could feel it again, that crushing feeling in his chest, like -

“Hey, are you coming , or -” Theon appears by his side again, but something stops him when he sees Robb. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says, feeling a little hopeless.

- - -

“Can you draw me a reindeer?” Rickon asks, sitting down next to Sansa at the kitchen table, where she’s busy drawing.

“What for?”

“I dunno,” he says. “They’re just cool.”

“Sure,” she says, which surprises Robb a little. She rarely responds so well to her younger siblings’ requests.

Robb half keeps an eye on them while washing the dishes. Not because he needs to, but more out of instinct.

Rickon leans over the table and watches intently as she works. When she’s done, she hands him the paper with flourish, and he takes it, grinning.

“Cool, thanks,” he says.

“You know,” Sansa says, half-smiling. “If you want, I can show you how to draw one yourself.”

“Really?” He asks, wide-eyed.

“Mhmm,” she nods. “Wanna try?”

He nods vigorously, and she hands him a paper. Robb turns away, smiling.

They’re mostly quiet after that, Sansa intermittently offering instructions or encouragement. Robb finishes up the dishes and drifts out of the room. He glances over at them before leaving, and they’re both still quite engrossed.

He finds himself at the living room window. It’s a cold day, the window is heavily frosted. Robb wipes some away. The world outside is already covered in a thick blanket of snow and it’s still coming down pretty hard, almost a blizzard. Robb’s not sure why, but he always found it calming, watching the snow come down.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, staring out the window, before his brother comes out of the kitchen and joins him. He glances outside, like he’s trying to see what Robb finds so interesting.

“Here,” he says, holding up the paper in his hands. “For you.”

��For me?”

Rickon nods, watching him expectantly.

He looks down at the drawing. It’s quite a good drawing of a reindeer, for a kid, Sansa’s lesson must’ve been effective. It doesn’t look like a cartoon drawing at all, but like a real reindeer, except that it’s nose is coloured bright red. Next to the reindeer is what looks like a wolf. He’s ever signed the bottom of the paper, his name written in big, messy letters with a green marker.

“It’s a good reindeer,” Robb says, nodding at his brother.

“Thanks,” says Rickon. “They don’t really have red noses, but I thought it was seasonal.”

Robb laughs. “It sure is.” He points to the other animal in the drawing. “And that’s a wolf?”

Rickon shrugs. “You said you liked them.”

Robb feels himself grinning. “I did,” he says. “I do. Thank you. This is really nice.”

Rickon smiles. Robb ruffles his hair. “You’re a good kid, you know,” Robb says.

“Stop,” Rickon whines, pushing his hand away, but still smiling. He moves up in front of the window, resting his arms agains the windowsill and staring outside.

“Do you think we can see one, one day?” He asks softly, after a long moment of silence. “Like, in real life?”

“I don’t think they have reindeer here,” Robb says.

“What about in a zoo or something?”

Robb smiles. “Sure. Someday, I’ll take you to a zoo and we can see some reindeer, okay?”

He nods silently, still staring out the window. He’s getting taller, Robb notices, growing up before his eyes. They’ve all grown so much since - everything that happened. Robb wishes they didn’t have to, but there’s nothing he can do. All he can do is try to look after them, like their parents would have.

He messes Rickon’s hair again, and this time his brother doesn’t pull away.

- - -

On Christmas Eve, John shepherds his younger brothers to bed and they don’t try to right with him.

Afterwards, he helps Robb clean up the kitchen, makes sure all the gifts are ready for tomorrow, and makes sure Sansa and Arya get to bed on time.

Everything that needs to be done today is done, and Jon goes by the front hall to turn off the porch light. He stops short when he sees Rickon, by the door, pulling on his boots. He’s got a jacket on, but is still wearing his pyjamas underneath.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jon asks. His brother looks up, startled.

“Nowhere?” He offers

“Nowhere?” Jon asks skeptically.

Rickon nods, shifting his eyes guiltily.

“Well, if you weren’t going anywhere, then you should go back to bed,” Jon says. He walks up to the door and locks it firmly. He looks down at his brother, waiting for an answer.

Rickon looks conflicted for a moment, then resigned. “I was just going to the church,” he says.

Now Jon is just confused. “In the middle of the night? Why?”

Rickon just shrugs.

Jon continues cautiously, trying to roll with it. “If you wanted to go to the service, you should’ve said so earlier, we could’ve -”

“No, not that,” Rickon says. “We didn’t go into the church. We just waited outside. So we could hear the music.”

“We?”

“Mum used to take me,” he says softly. “She would come get me, after I was supposed to be in bed, and we’d go together.”

“Oh,” Jon says, because he doesn’t know what to say. The two of them are silent for a moment, Rickon stares at the ground.

“What if - ” Jon starts hesitantly. “How about I take you instead? Would that be okay.”

Rickon looks up, nodding carefully. “Okay,” he says.

“Put a hat on, though,” Jon says. “And some gloves. You’ll get cold.”

They walk down the street together, cutting through the snowy fields behind the houses.

They stop at a low stone wall surrounding the church. It’s a small thing, old but well maintained, and warm light spills out of the windows. Jon had never paid it much attention before. All he knew was that their mother liked to come here sometimes, that it gave her some sort of comfort. Jon had secretly been a little dismissive; as a younger teenager he’d been quite cynical about religion. Tonight, though, he had to admit it looked beautiful.

Jon pulls himself up onto the wall. “Here,” he says, reaching down to lift his brother up. He sits Rickon in his lap so he’s not against the cold stone in his pyjamas, and Rickon doesn’t squirm or pull away.

The music starts slow, the sounds of a choir singing spilling gently out the open door. Songs Jon recognizes, mostly, silent night and the like. He’d never had any special affection for Christmas songs, either of the religious or secular variety, at least not since he’d gotten old enough to enter his edgy teen phase.

Right now though, as the sound drifts lightly out of the church, the only sound in the dark, cool night, the stars twinkling above them, it was so beautiful it was almost surreal.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Rickon says.

“Yeah, it is.”

“It’s a nice night.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“I wish mum was here.” He’s so quiet Jon almost doesn’t hear him over the singing.

Jon pulls him in tighter. “I know. Me too.”

The music washes over them, and Jon feels a lightness in his chest.

“We’re gonna be okay, you know,” he says softly.

“I know, Jon,” he says.

Jon sits on the wall with his brother, listening to the music, until Rickon falls asleep, and Jon carries him home.

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #robb stark #jon snow #rickon stark #Arya stark #sansa stark #theon greyjoy #got fanfic #my fanfic #fanfic #writing #my writing #edit #mine #this was gonna be a lot shorter but it kinda ran away from me #I have some feelings

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tigereyes45 · 5 years

Text

As It Turns Out Part 3

_______________________

Big Brother, Cousin? Something

________________________________________________________________

Jon thought Gendry was just a well-meaning lad who wanted to prove himself worthy of his father’s name. In their short time knowing each other it was clear Gendry never knew his father. He didn’t hold any love loss for the man either. So when he insisted on coming to Winterfell Jon almost sent him away. He thought perhaps Gendry would be willing to recruit folks from the south to come up North and help them. When Cersei refuses to aid them then he knew he could not risk their new ally’s life. So he brought him North.

Gendry was a good blacksmith. Even better then he was at swinging his war hammer. If asked he would suppose that smaller tools just come more naturally to him. Or he would have before the Brothers without Banners got on him for the phrasing. He had never thought of it like that before. That was what he had told Jon.

He had come off as a normal commoner who just so happened to be a bastard of a lord. A king he had never met. Jon had felt lucky after meeting him. At least he had known his father. Well, he thought he had. A conversation with Sam and confirmation from Bran let him know afterwise that his father was dead before he was even born.

It was a fact that Jon trust almost no one with. Yet in Gendry he found someone he could talk to about it without needing to reveal the whole truth. A helpful ear ready to aid in just listening. Jon watches as the blacksmith toils away at the dragon glass remaining on his anvil. A rhythm slowly forming as he works.

When he pauses to flip the sword in progress over, he asks a question. “So yer saying true and honest Ned Stark lied to you?” He has his hands on either side of the sword. His face wasn’t even looking at Jon. He could tell by the way Gendry's head was ever so tilted towards him, that the man was still listening.

“Yes.” Jon admits. His gaze falls on Longclaw in his lap.

Gendry nods. He was silent as his eyes finally leave his work. His face was contorted and for once Jon had no idea how the smith felt. Since they first met he had been so easy to read. So evident was every emotion on his face that Jon never had to think much about what Gendry was thinking. He would just glance and know. So the sudden confusion he felt looking at his newer friend was odd. It distressed Jon somewhat.

“I can see why that would hurt you.” Gendry breaks the silence with a soft affirmation. His tone was careful and he bites his lip once he’s done. Jon watches as the smith crosses his arms and looks thoughtfully at him. As if he was choosing his words carefully. “I never had a relationship with my father, but I know how much it hurt Arya when she thought her father had loved someone else. She refused to even think he could have loved anyone but her mother. Despite you being her brother.” He adds the last sentence as an afterthought.

“Yes despite,” Jon whispers trying to smile. A crushing feeling sprouts up in his chest before it falls to his stomach. The feeling stays there as if a rock was slowly growing from his inside out. He wasn’t Arya’s brother. When he first learned the news he had only thought of his and Daenery’s relationship. Now all the implications were finally hitting him. He wasn’t Arya’s big brother. His favorite little sister was in fact just his favorite cousin. Even their whole relationship had been built on a lie. How would she treat him once she knows the truth? He ponders the question and all its implications. His blood was the blood of those who were her family and the ones who destroyed it before the Lannisters ever even had their chance at them. When he looks back up Jon realizes Gendry was staring at him now. His concern clear. “She was always like that. Stubborn.” Jon acknowledges and he tries to laugh.

“She was ever since I’d known her,” Gendry admits as he sits next to Jon on a wooden bench.

“How long have you known my sister?” His tongue sticks to the top of his mouth as he says the word, sister. He was a liar. His whole life was a lie.

“Since we were children. We were both heading to the wall right after Ned Stark’s death. Yoren was taking her back home to Winterfell on the way, and if he had lived he probably would have brought her back up to you since Winterfell wouldn’t have been safe by the time we got there.” Gendry shrugs as if he was recanting a history lesson. The way Theon often had during such lessons. Theon was gone now. So was Robb, and Rickon. At least they died still his brothers. He had no idea how Sansa or Arya would react and Bran had already seemed to accept the fact that hew as his cousin not his brother. It hurt, but Jon tried his best to understand.

“Thank you for staying with her.”

Gendry shrugs. “I didn’t want to leave her the first time.” He points out as he slaps his hands onto his knees. “If I had it my way I would be with her forever, but she said no.” Gendry stands then and walks back over to the anvil. He eyes the sword carefully before his face drops. The hammer falls from his hands as realization dawns on his face. When he looks at Jon it is filled with fear.

“I-uh,”

Jon was working his statement out in his own head. Gendry’s fearful eyes are met with his own. Blue of grey just like the steel of his hammer had been on the dragon glass and the slight hue of blue in the black.

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, I s’pose I shouldn’t be surprised Arya didn’t tell ya.” Gendry trips over his words as he tries to speak. His commoner accent coming out far more now then it had before. His lips curve down as the man seemingly appears to shrink before Jon. Even though he was still at least a head taller than the man.

“What happened?” Jon had no idea this question would lead to an hour-long conversation with Gendry about Arya, their time together, her childhood, his childhood, and even the brotherhood. It was the longest he ever heard Gendry talk about anything, and a majority of it was about Arya or how she felt about something or how he thought it would affect her. Almost every other sentence was about Jon’s beloved little sister, well cousin.

By the time he had arrived at the proposal Jon already saw it coming. At first suspicion and anger were what he felt by Gendry’s initial statement. Then confusion and pain. He wasn’t sure why, but it slowly the emotions went by one by one. Each lingering long enough for him to realize what he was feeling. By the time he would understand one Gendry would begin a new tell and a new feeling would replace the old.

When Gendry was done the two sat there in silence for a long time. He wasn’t mad. No he really couldn’t be after hearing it all. It couldn’t be any clearer how Gendry felt. From his stories of it, Arya clearly felt the same. So why did she say no? Why did she turn now a proposal from someone she was so obviously close with. Was she looking for true love? Was she not sure if Gendry was that? Or was there another reason?

Jon looks up to see Gendry was deflated after sharing their tale. He was wondering just the same. Slowly Jon stood up and places a firm hand on Gendry’s shoulders. “The armies leave for the South tomorrow. Until then I think you should talk with Arya. As should I,” Jon adds as he lets the new lord go.

“Uh, why you, my lord?”

Jon shakes his head at the use of the title. “You are not the only one with news and questions. You don’t have to worry about me getting between you two. My matters with my sister are far different from your own. Although I will be asking her why she hadn’t mentioned you sooner.”

Gendry’s smile was weak, but it was there. At least the two men could part in this moment as friends. He thinks to ruin it. To threaten Gendry about the possibility of Arya carrying his bastard. How that would ruin her reputation and Jon would not forget it. He bites his tongue before the words tumble from his mouth. No doubt Arya and Gendry understood that danger. No doubt Arya did not care about it. She always had a soft spot for bastards. Of all sorts, if her friendship with Clegane was any inclination.

________________________________________________________________

Part 1, Part 2

#fanfiction #fanfic #game of thrones #got #asoiaf #gendrya #Jon snow #Gendry waters #ff #aow #ao3

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anniebibananie · 5 years

Note

happy you're open for prompts! i was thinking theon and sansa + ghosts? like with the aftermath of everything?

hey anon! i’m no sure if this is exactly what you were looking for, but i hope you like it.

Sometimes, Sansa can’t shake the feeling that loving Theon is something like loving a ghost. She’s certain it must feel the same in return, and maybe that’s why it works for them. Not that they’ve said it aloud, hell, done anything about it.

But Theon has stayed too long. She hasn’t asked him to—too afraid to hear no, too afraid of the vulnerability—for fear he would slip between her fingers, just another ghost among them. Jon gone from the Great War. Bran from losing his mind in Drogon.

Now it is just him and her as the only Starks left. Arya had become a Baratheon not long after the long night, Gendry legitimized by Daenerys, and while Sansa had never much anticipated Arya being capable of the tasks of running a place and people, her and Gendry have figured it out in the Stormlands well enough.

It is lonely, though, her and Theon and the ghosts that live around them.

“Would you like to take supper in your chambers tonight?” he asks, but his eyes don’t quite reach hers. They’re looking over her shoulder as if he sees something else. Robb perhaps, standing slightly taller and broader than her.

“Yes, I think I could use a bit of silence.”

He nods, turning away to make plans though it is not his duty. His duty lies far away in the Iron Islands where Yara waits for her hand to finally return.

Sansa should bring it up, she thinks. That way she won’t have to be blindsided when the time comes. She will miss him unbearably, those dirty curls and his angled jaw. The way he sometimes reaches out and ghosts his fingers over her wrist simply to let her know he is there—heart beating, breathing—unlike all their fallen family.

If he leaves, she will have no one else to remember she was whole once. No one will remember the way she could smile full, unaware that terrors were yet to come.

“Would you like the company?” he asks as if Sansa doesn’t invite him to eat with her most nights.

“I’d like that.” She nods, sends a half-smile. Most of her feels in halves these days.

He reaches out familiarly as he passes for his seat, and Sansa catches her breath. If he hears, he pretends he doesn’t. She is touch-starved these days, and yet Theon is the only one she would dare let touch her.

“Have you heard the news of Arya?” she asks. A maid brings them dishes, and she reaches out for a sip of her wine. “She may well be with child.”

“They certainly did not waste time, did they?” he says, the curve of a smile playing at his lips.

It could be Jon’s or her father’s. They all learned that twisted curve from him, the serious, grim grin. Before Theon was unmade, he never much smiled like that, but now she catches it on him more.

“I’m glad she is happy.” Arya does seem happy in her letters, as short and ill-written as they are.

It strikes her as funny that Arya found marital bliss before her. Catelyn would be so proud, she can’t help but think.

“They’ll be the wildest beasts,” Theon says, and this time he smiles and laughs like Theon, and it brings out Sansa.

They play at ghosts like this, too. The ghosts of who they once were and attempt to be again. Some days, Sansa feels as if she can see versions of herself scattered in front of her like half-filled visions. Traitor. Bastard. Wardeness. She wonders if Theon feels it, too. Traitor. Nothing. Brother. Maybe that is why they find comfort in one another, because they manage to find each other in every version, between the empty titles even.

“Sansa,” he begins, his voice already tightening, “I received a scroll from Yara today.”

She closes her eyes, letting the words soak in. She isn’t sure what she thinks closing her eyes will prevent her from seeing, but she is tired. Maybe, she can stop time. Maybe when she opens them again she will return to before—all the ghosts made back to flesh and blood—and she can actually make this wretched world a sliver more fair, more right by her hands.

When she opens her eyes, Theon is in front of her. She hadn’t heard him move, and yet he is crouched in before her. He looks seconds from reaching out, but his arms stay by his sides. She can’t read the look in his eyes.

“She is wondering when you will return home?” she asks, words soft.

He nods, direct. One of her favorite things about him these days is he doesn’t lie to her. There is nothing but honesty, despite the sometimes brutal nature of it.

“When will you go?”

A log in the fire crackles, and they both jump at the sound. Not all the ghosts that haunt them are pleasant, and for a second her mind flashes to the sinister smirk of Ramsay Bolton.

“Do you wish me to go, my lady?” His eyes are earnest, his face open.

She doesn’t know how to tell him that she would be happy for him to stay forever. in fact, she is not sure she knows how to survive Winterfell without him. The ghosts may very well drive her mad, drown her, pull her from reality.

He may be like loving a ghost, but it is only when he reaches to touch her that she remembers how to be alive.

More than her need for him, though, she wants. Winterfell is better with him around. They are not broken, but they are not whole. It feels natural, the way they are building back to something sturdier.

She doesn’t answer what he asks. “Your sister must miss your council.”

He tilts his head, chews on his bottom lip. He looks as if he is about to tease her. She nearly wishes he would to diffuse the palpable tension.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

She breathes in deeply, pushing up out of the chair and walking toward the window. It grows warmer every day. Some days, the ladies call her crazy, but she knows she can feel it in the air. After a moment longer, she turns around to see him standing again a few feet out.

“How can I possibly ask you to stay?” Her words are not sharp, but they do feel hot. She isn’t sure why it made her so suddenly angry. “What life can I offer you? Stuck in a place not your home, surrounded by our trauma. A woman made of ice.”

Theon takes a step forward. “You are ice. The ice of House Stark and the flowing river of House Tully. A strong Wardeness of the North, and if I had anything to offer you i would ask for your hand.”

The words come in a rush, and Sansa is not sure who is more surprised by them between her and him.

So, he does love her, then? Or at least feels some sense of obligation? He is heated, his chest heaving, and Sansa can imagine him the way he must have looked on the beach when he fought to go get his sister. The salt in his veins, the power in his voice, seems easy to imagine.

“But you will not?” she asks.

He looks sure as he speaks, and Sansa is pulled in. She take cautious steps, almost as if she can’t feel herself moving forward at all.

“I can’t offer you a good name.”

“I have one of my own.”

He wasn’t expecting that, but he continues on anyways. “I cannot offer you a good reputation.”

“I am the Northern bitch,” she replies, only two steps away now. She can see the weary lines of his face. “A twice married one.”

“I cannot give you heirs,” he whispers as if it is the final blow.

Sansa takes the last step, and she reaches out with a delicate hand. They are both wild animals, seconds from scaring away, but when her frosty fingers finally touch the skin of his cheek it feels close to easy. As if they should have done this more, bridged this gap, finally given in.

“Then I am glad Arya and Gendry have gotten such a head start.”

Sansa wants to give all of herself into this, all her fractured selves, but she needs to be sure. She can’t take away someone’s choice, can’t force them the way her hand was so constantly forced.

“If you wish to be Yara’s hand, then go Theon, and I wish you the best of luck and happiness. If you wish to stay, though, then stay and marry me.”

Under her palm, she can feel his breath halt. His eyes are locked on her own, deadly serious. “You could make a much better alliance than a disgraced Greyjoy.”

Sansa brings the other hand up so she is cupping his full face in her hands, and she can tell he isn’t sure what to do with the softness of the gesture.

“I’m not sure how many more ways I can say I do not care, but I’ll try one more.” Her lips curl up in the way that make the Northern lords dub her the wolf of Winterfell, but she knows the gesture is all her mother. It was the way she would smile at her father over a slice of bread in the morning, teasing him lightly. “I have married without choice, for alliance, before. I would like to marry for love at least once.”

Theon’s lips curve up at the edges. It does not remind Sansa of anyone but Theon—him, here, in this moment. “I love you. How could I not? The woman who put me back together again.”

He dips forward and kisses her, finally, and Sansa brings them close. She is not scared—he has seen the all of her. When he kisses her, and her him, she cannot feel a single ghost in the room.

It is just her and him and the memories they make. The beautiful, difficult future.

#theonsa #theon x sansa #sansa x theon #game of thrones #theonsa fanfiction #annie writes #my fanfiction #this was actually fun to do #it's been a million years since i answered a prompt #prompts

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khaleesiofalicante · 5 years

Text

GoT S8E02 Thoughts

I will never get tired of listening to this theme song...

Oh Lord. Okay so we gonna just dive straight (lol) into the scene huh?

Okay listen to me mother of dragons, first of yall your brother was a complete shithead and you should know better than to believe the lies he told you when you were both children if not for Jamie, you would all be dead you dumbass!!!!

Sansa, no I need your support!!!

OMG BRAN WILL YOU FUCKING STOP WITH YOUR RECEIPTS???

BRIENNE STANDING AND VOUCHING FOR JAMIE??? THIS IS THE CONTENT I SIGNED UP FOR YALL!!!!

Thank you, Lady Sansa! We have one brain cell here yall.

Every time there is an Arya x Gendry scene, my face is an just one huge heart-eyes emoji...

I feel like Sansa and Arya alone can just kill the Nightking with their glares and sass.

Bran is like this wise friend who is like always forgiving and shit.

“How do you know there is going to be an afterwards?” AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Stop being so cryptic homie!!!!!!!

Awwwww I missed Jaime x Tyrion scenes! My Lannister boys <3

“You always knew what she was and still loved her anyway” - Ohhhhhhh Tyrion is serving some hot tea this morning.

I am not okay with all these Jamie x Brienne scenes! My heart....

I AM SO VERY EMO RIGHT NOW...

Okay Jorah also has a couple of brain cells. Protect him!!!!

I love Sansa’s wardrobe. Like wow a bitch is ready for battle!

Okay Danaerys can we stop with the finger pointing? Me not liking this!

I cannot believe how much I love Sansa now. What a Queen.

“Dudes do stupid things for pussy” - The R rated version of that dialogue.

YASSSSS SISTERS!!!!

Okay Dany just said the L word. I repeat L WORD HAS BEEN SAID.

“Someone taller” OMG I CANNOT DROGO IS SMIRKING FROM THE BEYOND

Well that sisterhood lasted for 2.6 seconds....

OMG THEON YASSSS (Also wasn’t that a bit quick?. Meh I have given up on the travelling logistics of this show)

GILLY!!!!

Protect that brave lil girl at all costs!!!!! Also shireen vibes :(

Awwww Let’s all call Jon ‘My little crow’ from now on please <3

I enjoyed that lil All Blacks reunion :)

Tormund and his priorities lol. Respect!

Yall I forgot about the whole Bran vs Nightking thingy! Damn it!

Okay so Bran knows Theon is gonna die protecting him. Not okayyy

“We are all going to die.” Tormund breaking the tension with facts.

Okay protect these two love birds too. They deserve to just chill by the beach...

Also quick shoutout to Greyworm for mastering a second language!!!!!

OMG GHOOOST I LEGIT SCREAMED AND PISSED MY MOM OFF

More Jaime x Tyrion content???? I am happy and worried.....

Ahhhhhhh Tyrion knows what’s up and he ships it!

“Half a cup”. Brienne adopted Podrick as her son. You can’t change my mind.

Tormund that drunk uncle at parties who tells super awkward stories from his childhood and everyone else is like ......

“Im not spending my final hours with you two miserable old shits” LOOOOOLLLLL

“Was that your first time? Yeah, I’ve never had leeches...” OMG I CANNOTTTTT

WTFFFFFFF I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR THIS TODAY OMG YAASSSSSSSSS GIRLLL YOU GET ITTTTTTT

“I’m not the red woman. Take your own bloody pants off” WOW I STAN

GENDRY IS SHOOKETH AND SO. AM. I. YALL.

I like this lil round (?) table discussion that is going on. Cuties ;)

OMG BRIENNE IS BEING KNIGHTED BY JAMIE???? This is everything I have wanted in my life without even knowing that I ever wanted it wow.

Awwwwww Brienne is so happy. please don’t kill her yall.

Man if Lyanna Mormont turns into one of the dead, these bitches are done for sure....

Sam gave Jorah Heartsbane...I am emo again....

I hope Podricks survives so that he can go win the Westeros version of The Voice.

Okay I do not like sad goodbye-ish type montages fuck off!!!

OMG BIG REVEAL ALERT BIG REVEAL ALERT AHHHHHHHHH

DANAERYS IS SHOOKETH TO THE CORE YALL

OMG woman not the right time to be a bitch! Also I thought you loved him wtf?

Well, that went as well as I thought it would...

OKAY THEY ARE HERE THEY ARE HERE

Hmmmm they are all gonna die aren’t they???

I’m going to use this week to emotionally prepare myself for all the death to come...

#game of thrones #got #got spoilers #got season 8 #got thoughts

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denbeyondthewall · 5 years

Photo

Day Twelve

Gendry and Arya are tricked by the other Stark siblings into going under the mistletoe.

Arya’s skin was tanned from the Braavosi sun, she had been studying mathematics at the University of Braavos. Growing up, she had always dreamed of going to the University of Winterfell, like her father and her elder brothers, Robb and Jon. However, her fencing coach Jorah Moormont convinced her to apply and to see what could happen, there was no harm in applying. He had even trained there himself, but decided not to go pro after a shoulder injury. But then she got a full-ride scholarship and it was impossible for her to say no. She’d be in the warm, Braavosi sun all day, learn a new language, get to explore Essos, and not give up fencing, something her mother always pursed her lips at. She couldn’t stop beaming about it for weeks, her excitement was plastered on her face. That was until she told Gendry of her plans.

“You’re really going?” he croaked, unable to look at her, his hands played with his hair, nervously twisting each short strand.

“I’ll call and text you all the time, it’s not like Braavos doesn’t have service,” she reasoned, laying her head on Gendry’s chest. Things had gotten much more familiar for them lately, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Gendry was her best friend and she could definitely see herself with him, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about it once or twice. But he was Gendry, the boy she met when she was eleven years old and he had moved to Winterfell from King’s Landing after his mom died, and he came over to her house with Jon and Robb. They immediately became friends, because with Jon and Robb, Arya always followed. He was her best friend, she didn’t want to ruin it, and for what, a hunch that he may like her that way. It was more likely that he pitied her and simply saw her as a little sister.

“It won’t be the same, Arya.” He stroked her hair, and placed a small kiss on the top of her head, “But I’m happy, you’ll be happy.”

She pulled her hair behind her shoulder, gathering it all to one side, letting the long, dark brown curls fall. It had grown much longer since she left Winterfell in June, then it had only just grazed her shoulders, now it cascaded down her back. It was unmanageable most of the times, frizzing out whenever she dared to take a brush to it, so she usually pulled it up into a messy bun. It had distinct highlights from the Braavosi sun, particularly around her face, adding dimension and shine.

“Arya,” Ned called, bringing her attention back to their family breakfast. She was still a bit jet lagged, so she ate her pancakes at a monotonous pace. She took a bite of her scrambled eggs, and pursed her lips slightly as they were lacking salt.

“What did you say?” she looked at him as she put in their piece of food in her mouth.

“How was your flight, not too much turbulence right?” he asked, taking a sip of coffee from his world’s best dad mug, a gift from Sansa for Father’s Day a few years back.

“None at all.”

“Good, I know how much you hate it,” he smiled at her.

“How’s Braavos been?” Her mother inquired, her waist-length red hair was piled on top of her head in a bun, and her usually made up face was clean of makeup.

“It’s been good,” she answered abruptly.

“Your classes are okay? Didn’t you say your economics professor was a bit difficult?”

“She was challenging.”

“You nicknamed her ‘the waif,” Rickon interjected, his red curls were still unruly as ever, it surprised Arya that her mother hadn’t made him get a haircut.

“Yeah.”

“Well I’m sure you did well, darling,” Cat added, “That was your last final before you flew home right?”

“Mhmm,” Arya agreed, “I think I’ll get my results by the end of the week.”

“Hopefully you didn’t do too well,” Bran jokes, “That way you’ll be forced to come home.”

“And trade the Braavosi sun for the blistering winter winds?” She laughed, “Wouldn’t ever dream of it.”

“Now, now,” Ned commanded the room with his strong voice, “We’re glad you’re here in for a little bit, especially for the holiday party.”

Oh the dreaded holiday party, the annual Stark tradtiion that usually left Arya groaning and searching for the nearest spiked eggnog curtesy of Theon.

“Oh yes,” Catelyn grinned, “If your final was one day later you would’ve missed it.”

“Damn,” Arya muttered under her breath.

“This year, even the Tyrell’s are attending,” Sansa exclaimed.

“Well, that may be because you’re dating their son,” Robb chimed in.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are you four?” Bran asked.

“No, they’re five,” Arya laughed.

Her younger brother gave her a knowing look, while the rest of the family finished their breakfast, ignoring Sansa and Robb’s spat. She knew they all missed her and she felt the same about them too. But, here in Winterfell she was always a Stark first. People saw her as the governor’s daughter, then as Jon and Robb’s little sister, even as the less refined and less beautiful sister to Sansa. In Braavos, no one knew her as anything other than Arya. Wicked at math, fencing, and who could definitely hold her own in a drinking competition against the boys, but that talent she wouldn’t share with her more than conservative parents. They still thought arranged marriages weren’t the worst idea, seeing as they’d been in one, and noble blood in Westeros still had to remain pure, particularly for the Starks .

In Braavos she dated a bit, but nothing was ever serious. She was too focused on her studies, but that didn’t mean she and her friends didn’t go out together and find their way back to their dorms the next morning.

“Arya,” Sansa knocked on her door, “Are you getting ready for the Christmas party?”

The Starks were throwing their annual Christmas Party, which felt more like a ball to Arya. The highest members of society were invited and everyone dressed in black tie attire. It was professionally catered, decorated to the nines, and to anyone who came to see it, it felt like you were walking into a winter wonderland filled with champagne, mistletoes, and cheesy Christmas music. Arya was never one for parties or dresses or presenting herself to society, so to say she wasn’t too keen for the party would be an understatement.

Sansa knocked again before Arya groaned and reluctantly got up to answer her sister’s obnoxious pleas.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Arya,” her elder sister exclaimed, “You’re not even showered!” The redhead had her hair French braided and tied into a fancy up-do on top of her head while she was wearing an emerald green, floor-length strapless gown with a bit of ruching detailing along the bust. Her makeup was delicate, with a soft peach lip and blush to match accompanied with a simple winged eye-liner and cut-crease eyeshadow. Arya could hear the tapping of her four-inch heels, making Sansa even taller than most models through her door.

“I’m showered,” she argued.

“Sure,” her elder sister rolled her eyes, “Hop to it,” she pushed her younger sister into her bathroom, “I’m not leaving until you’re ready, we have less than an hour.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“Might as well be,” Sansa quipped, “Mother’s getting the last details arranged and she’s already greeting guests, who actually shows up early to an event like this.”

“The Lannisters,” Arya jokes.

“How’d you know it was them?”

“Just a stab in the dark,” she called as she stepped into the scorching hot shower. Its water felt like heaven against her back and on her scars. Fencing in Braavos was much more of a contact sport than it was in Winterfell and she had multiple cuts, scrapes, and bruises all over her arms, back, and legs from her intensive training at the House of Black and White, the local fencing gym. It was world-renowned and had produced fencing legends like Syrio Forel and Jaqen H'ghar. Both of whom had trained her and were her mentors, they truly believed she could become a professional, only if she quit school and dedicated her entire life to fencing.

She clicked off the water and before she could even wrap a towel around her body her elder sister was calling from her bedroom, “Mother picked your dress out for you, I laid it out on your bed. Osha should be in, in a few minutes to do your hair and makeup.”

Arya opened the bathroom door and saw the midnight blue, strapless gown her mother had selected. It wasn’t the worst in the world, and if she had to pick a dress, this one would probably be at the top of the list.

“Arya,” Sansa urged, “I know this isn’t your thing, and that you hate these high society events, but please,” she begged, “Can we have fun. I even had mother invite Gendry for you.”

Arya blushed immediately.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sansa gave her a knowing smirk, “I’ve got to do the finishing touches on my hair.”

Arya stepped into the dress and zipped it up, but was struggling a bit, “Here let me get that for you Miss Arya,” Osha, her mother’s makeup artist of over twenty years offerred.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s just Arya,” she laughed.

“Come here.” Osha engulfed her in a huge bear hug, “It’s been forever, little Arya. It only seems like yesterday I was getting you ready for your first Winter Ball.”

Arya gave a small smile.

“Oh come on dear, it’s not nearly as bad as you think, plus you look marvelous. Finally let your hair grow past your shoulders, I think I can actually braid it this year.”

“It’ll take a miracle to make it look as refined as Sansa’s.”

“Well good thing I’m a miracle worker.” She took the two-inch barrel curling iron to Arya��s long chestnut colored locks and made thick, bouncy curls that flowed down her back. She tied the front section in a half-up half down style braid, leaving the rest of the curls loose. Finishing off the style with a simple blue-rose pin, placed directly in the center of her hair. Arya looked at herself in the mirror and gasped.

“A blue winter rose,” Osha smiled.

“A blue winter rose, indeed,” Jon agreed.

“Jon!” Arya burst out of the chair, barely missing the hot curling iron as she clobered him with a giant bear hug.

“Hello to you too,” he said.

“I didn’t think you were coming, Robb said you couldn’t get leave.”

“Told you she’d buy it,” Robb appeared in the doorway with Theon.

“You clean up pretty well, little wolf,” Theon acknowledged.

“Thanks, Theon.”

“He’s right,” her elder brothers agreed, “Four-months in Braavos and you’ve come back a whole new person.”

“Oh shut-up,” she smacked Robb’s shoulder.

“You ready?” Jon extended his arm to her.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The party was in full swing, the Tyrells, Targaryens, and Baratheons were in attendance. Robb was dancing with his girlfriend Jeyne, while Jon was desperately flirting with Daenerys Targaryen, and Theon was trying to tell a crude joke to every single server at the party.

“Guys,” Sansa gathered her elder brothers and Theon, “Is Gendry here yet.”

“He texted that he’s on his way, work went a bit late,” Jon answered.

“Good, there’s a mistletoe right at the entrance, we have to get him and Arya there.”

“What, why?” Robb asked shocked.

Sansa smacked him, “Why do I keep getting smacked,” he whined.

“Because you’re stupid,” Sansa answered.

“Yeah, even I know Red’s plan.”

“Well, would someone please catch me up.”

“We need to get Arya and Gendry under the mistletoe.”

“So they can what?”

“Robb Stark, I cannot believe you’re the heir to the Winterfell fortune,” Theon groaned.

“We’re all equal heirs, it isn’t medieval times.”

“Besides the point,” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Genry like Arya and Arya likes Gendry, there, now I’ve said it so can we please get a move on,” Jon said.

“She what? He does? How? No. You’re kidding.”

Gendry had been shown into the party by the Stark’s main steward, Jory Cassel and he felt so out of place. He had his best suit on and a gift for the hosts tucked under his arm. He hoped he wouldn’t have to see his father, they had never been on the best of terms, but he didn’t doubt he was here.

“Okay,” he said to himself, “Just find Jon and Robb and you’ll be fine.”

“Still talking to yourself,” a familiar voice called behind him.

He turned around to see Arya wearing a dress, a sight he’d never thought he’d see, even at all the previous Christmas parties she managed to wear black jeans and claim it was black tie. Her hair was curled perfectly and she had a small amount of makeup on, making her look ethereal.

“Hi,” he croaked out.

“Hi,” she responded, shyly looking at the floor.

“How’s Braavos been?”

“Good. Warm.”

“That’s good.”

“And the shop?”

“The same, pretty busy.”

“I missed you,” they both said at the same time.”

“Ditto,” she laughed.

“You look really good.”

“Thanks, so do you.”

“You know,” he teased, “I think we’re under a mistletoe.”

“I’d say we are.”

He leaned in for a kiss and she reached up as well.

“See,” Sansa said, “We didn’t even need to trick them.”

“What?” Arya broke her kiss, “Why I oughta.”

“Arya,” Gendry said, gently grabbing her face, “We’ll get them back later.” And he reached in to kiss her again.

#Arya Stark #gendry x arya #arya x gendry #Gendry Baratheon #Gendry Waters #gendrya #got #game of thrones #ASoIaF #A Song of Ice and Fire #all #/all #2018 #/2018 #12daysofgendrya #/12daysofgendrya

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keithos · 5 years

Text

A Game of Thrones...

My good-good friend Franka posted the image above on Facebook today, challenging fellow social media denizens to come up with suggestions. Thanks to Janine C-F, Stefan S and Rhonda M for their help tuning these responses, and the bonus profiles included.

Jon Snow went to St. Anthony's College. He came from an influential enough family, but really didn’t know enough to get into one of the top schools. After O’Levels, he opted to go on a Northern European tour to try to find himself rather than continue his education. Even after that time of introspection and rebirth, he still, admittedly, ent know much.

Cersei Lannister is pure St. Joseph’s Convent, Port of Spain. She probably got in on the 20% allocation though due to her father’s influence, and is suffering from an inferiority complex because her parents didn't send her to Maple Leaf where the guy she dreamed in primary school of marrying ended up.

Sansa Stark went to Bishop Anstey High School. She wanted to go to a Convent, but was sent to Bishops, remained resentful for the full seven years, but became a full-on Hilarian in spite of herself. As is typical of her fellow alumna, she is bright, powerful in her own right, considers “male wisdom” an oxymoron, and marriage is a conversation that’s fairly technical. As a Hilarian in my life once told me, “Bishops women generally fall into one of three categories: to be married, were married, or with somebody else’s married.” Don’t slay the messenger. Sansa fits the bill.

Arya Stark, quite naturally, followed her sister to Bishop Anstey, where her mother and her aunties also all went to school. Actually, Lysa Arryn probably went to Bishop’s Centenary, which would explain her neuroses around her older sister Catelyn Stark nee Tully and her niece Sansa.

Tyrion Lannister is a QRC old boy. "I drink and I know things," especially the latter part hold true to their spirit. He runs sh*t behind the scenes, and could easily be the King himself, his influence on the world around him wholly underestimated. But his ambitions don't run that way. He just wants live. Contrary to what might be believed, Tyrion doesn’t suffer from Short Man Syndrome, because all QRC men are 6′2″ or taller in their hearts.

Big brother Jaime Lannister went to Fatima College. He was the kind of youth whose rich dad facilitated his showing up at school with great hair and the newest trendy sneakers before the ads for them ran twice. He’s most likely to end up running one of his father's companies at age 17 or taking political office largely off his good looks and considerable arrogance.

Daenerys Targaryen was an expat child who ended up at the International School, but really wanted to run with public school kids. She was probably popular with the Burger Boys crowd, until people saw her in her uniform for the first time and wondered what she was doing liming downtown. Her best friend Missandei, a St. Joseph’s Convent St. Joseph grad, continues to roll with her through thick and thin, struggling to keep single mother and senior executive Dany level while quietly managing her own personal dramas with her boyfriend, TT Super League team player-coach and former St. Augustine Senior Comprehensive football captain, Greyworm.

Brienne of Tarth went to San Juan Senior Comprehensive where she survived a co-ed existence, before moving on to A'Levels at Bishop Anstey. She excelled in the humanities and captained the senior football team, bringing back to back Girls Intercol titles to the Hilarians and won personal awards for being the league’s best fullback. She was granted a prefect’s badge in Upper Six, where the younger Stark sister became one of her form charges. She is legendary for beating a ruffian nicknamed “Dog” in the middle of town one Friday evening for disrespecting the Stark girls.

Theon Greyjoy went to St. Mary’s College. He felt himself the cat’s meow and was quite popular with St. Francois Girls, until a Belmont Intermediate youth named Ramsey Bolton thoroughly emasculated him in a Junior Achievement trade fair and made a lie of all Theon’s tales of bravado. He eventually came into himself again in adulthood after a couple years in a sales job that puts hair on his chest and gave him renewed confidence.

BONUS: Nobody knows where Ellaria Sand went to school before she moved in with her children’s father Oberyn Martell, Presentation College Chaguanas grad and foreign-used car dealer, in his inherited Lange Park home. She doesn’t tell anybody and nobody asks, because she’s fly and distracting. That probably means that it’s North Eastern College or Iere High School. She may have had to leave school because she was pregnant with her first before writing CXC. She and Oberyn look like they were the type to have been breaking school to... yunno. Oberyn has four kids other than their own four daughters, the Sand Snakes. But Ellaria doesn’t care, so long as he knows where home is and keeps up his duties there. Their four girls though were split between Chaguanas North and Chaguanas South Secondary, and spent their days at school chooking fire to start brawls between students of the neighbouring campuses.

Nobody knows where Varys went to school either. He was probably already an adult before the first Government Exhibition examination was held. He holds firm to the belief that the English should have never left Trinidad, and will tell anybody willing to hear, albeit very quietly.

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scribomaniac · 6 years

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A Rumor in Westeros (Anastasia AU)

Gendry | Winterfell

Deep within a pathetic excuse for a forge, with drafty walls, little lighting besides the struggling embers of a fire, and the frozen earth beneath him acting as the floor, a smith tried to work. Hammer met anvil again and again, a thousand times over, as it warped a slab of metal into a semblance of shape.

Winter was coming, it was almost here, and although the forge was probably the warmest place in all of Winterfell, even it couldn't ward off the chill. Another gust of wind pierced the forge’s crumbling walls with a sharpness the smith had never been able to give his blades, and made the fire, which had barely just recovered from the last gale, flicker and dim.

Cursing, the smith grabbed a pair of tongs and threw some more coal onto the fire and then snatched up a pair of bellows to breath in some life. The fire crackled and hissed, growing taller and brighter and stronger. At least until the next roar of wind came through.

He’d just picked up his hammer and shifted the piece of metal on the anvil, figuring out where he should strike it next, when the wooden door to the forge burst open, revealing a man on the other side. “Gendry,” he greeted, his tone short and clipped from the cold. His ears, unprotected by his short hair and lack of hat, burned a red brighter than the fire, and his salt and pepper beard was tangled in a web of miniature icicles.

“Davos,” Gendry nodded, then began to shiver from the chill. “Close the bloody door, yeah? It's colder than a Wildling's corpse out there.”

Davos blinked, then shook himself out of his thoughts. The movement dislodged some icicles free of his beard, sending them flying down to the ground. Hastily, he closed the door. “What's that you're working on? A piece of armor?” He asked, his tone almost hopeful.

Gendry scoffed, looking at the warped piece of metal on his anvil. “Armor? From this reused piece of shit?” He shook his head, “No metal was meant to be reused and reshaped this many times. If it were anywhere else it'd be in the rubbish.” He sighed, wondering if it wouldn't end up there regardless of his efforts, “I'm trying to shape it into a pot,” he admitted. “I just need it to bend . . . a bit more.”

Looking up at Davos, he asked, “How was town? You sell anything?”

For the past few years, ever since Davos had found Gendry in Flea Bottom and brought him up North to escape the Queen for the second time in his life, the two had been scraping by by selling products from Gendry's forge. Gendry would make the products--reforged cups, pots, kettles, the occasional horseshoe--and Davos would do his best to sell them. Easier said than done, though, when no one had any money.

“Oh, aye, I got a few copper pennies here or there. I was able to get rid of a pair of horseshoes, actually. Got a nice silver stag for them.”

That was impressive. Davos must've come across a Knight or maybe a Lord from a lesser house. Silver was hard to come by, especially with the taxes being as high as they were. The reminder made the smith wince.

“We're not going to make it through Winter are we?” Gendry sighed, his blue eyes trained onto his work. Gripping and regripping his hammer nervously, he glanced up at Davos, then back down again. “Not going on like this we're not.”

“Aye,” Davos nodded solemnly, his hands clasped together in front of him. “And half the North will be joining us in our graves by the sight of it.” Eyes darting left and right, searching for any eavesdroppers or spies--though the thought of anyone risking their balls to frostbite just to spy on them made Gendry snort--Davos stepped closer. “Right, well that's what I came to talk to you about. Our survival.”

His voice was quiet and his words crisp as he spoke quickly and with importance, “I had an idea. Now,” he said sternly, his brows furrowing and almost becoming one. “I know you won't like it, but I've had it, so just give me a moment, all right?”

Frowning, Gendry nodded. Feeling as if this conversation was about to take a turn, he placed his hammer on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that he stopped moving, stopped his work, the cold was beginning to seep into his skin. He grimaced, shifted in an attempt to ward the chill away, and hoped Davos would be quick.

“I've heard a rumour,” he said, almost awkwardly as he wrung his hands. “In town. A rumor about the Princess Arya. Now, no, no,” he held up a hand, stopping Gendry’s objections before they could start. Sighing, Gendry closed his mouth, signalling for the older man to continue.

“We both have.” He said, his accent becoming thicker with ever word. Usually Davos’ voice reminded Gendry of the sea, of the sailors he'd known growing up in Flea Bottom. Usually the sound of it helped put the younger man at ease. This time, though, it just added to his dread. “Heard, I mean, that she survived.”

Gendry's face darkened. Yes, he knew the rumor well. Mayhaps better than anyone. That although the Starks did not survive, one of the siblings may still be alive. Some idiot, probably a fancy poet, had gotten it into their thick skull that since the details of Arya’s disappearance were unclear, she must still be alive somewhere.

Once, not too long ago, Gendry had believed the rumors too. He'd justified it, even. He'd known more than most had, anyway. He knew that she survived King’s Landing. So, he thought, why couldn't she survive the Red Wedding?

It was a fool’s dream, though. He'd come to realize that, with time. None of the Starks survived.

Lord Stark had been the first to die, but little did anyone know at the time that he wouldn't be the last. Not long after him, just a few moons, the traitor Theon Greyjoy killed and burned the youngest boys, Bran and Rickon, and hung their bodies from the castle’s gate for all of Winterfell to see.

Next was King Robb, the savior of the North, the Young Wolf. Not even he could survive whatever curse had been placed on his family. He and his mother, the Lady Catelyn, had been brutally slain under the protection of guest right by House Frey. Their deaths had changed the country drastically. If a king couldn't feel safe in the home of their own Bannerman, what chance did the common folk have? After the Red Wedding, neighbor turned against neighbor, and the North was left defenseless.

Then the poor Lady Sansa, crushed on the rocks of Blackwater Bay. Some say the fall was an accident, some say that the late King Joffrey pushed her, and some say that, after hearing about the death of her brother and mother, she became broken hearted and jumped. The Stranger didn't care about the whys or hows, though, and neither did Gendry. Dead was dead, after all.

As for Arya, most thought she had perished at King’s Landing, not long after her Lord father, though how no one could say. All they knew was that she was in the Red Keep with her sister, Sansa, and assumed she came to the same tragic end as the rest of her family. But Gendry and a handful of people knew differently. Arya had made it out of the lion’s den, had been on her way to Castle Black to reunite with her bastard brother, Jon Snow, and had been so close to freedom. Then she met Gendry and everything turned to ruin.

Chest tightening at the thought of their meeting, Gendry had to physically shake off the guilt that had once again come so close to consuming him. Focusing back on Davos, he tried to hear what the man was saying.

“It's a lot of money, Gendry,” he was saying, “enough for both of us to live happily, if not modestly, for the rest of our days. I was thinking we'd do that somewhere a bit warmer, perhaps Lys, but--”

“Sorry, what?” Gendry interrupted, not following. “What money?”

Pursing his lips and breathing slowly out his nostrils, Davos glared at Gendry and began again, slower this time. “Prince Jon. Arya's cousin. You remember him, yes?

Gendry did, though not many people would call them cousins. To many Northerners, Jon Snow was still Ned Stark’s bastard son. To the Southrons, he was just another usurper, vying for the throne. To Gendry though, he'd always be Arya's favorite brother.

“He’s in Mereen now, with his aunt, Queen Daenerys. He believes Arya's still alive, Gendry, and he's offering a reward to the person who can bring her back.” Davos’ brown eyes searched Gendry's, looking for any signs of anger, disbelief, maybe even grief. Gendry looked back, unsure of what emotion the older man would indeed find.

“So I thought,” Davos continued hesitantly, “that since the two of us are in an opportunistic position, that we might . . .”

“Might what?” Gendry shrugged, the action bordering on aggressive. Running a hand along his jaw, he grimaced. The small hairs there scratched at the skin of his hand even though he'd just shaved that morning, which wasn't good--he couldn't afford a beard right now--but could be dealt with later.

“Just find an Arya lookalike, teach her what to say?” His fingers twitched with the need to hit something, “Then what? Dress her up as a lady and take her to Mereen?”

“You knew her better than anyone,” Davos argued, “save for her family, and they're all gone.”

“And so is she!” Gendry bellowed, his temper flaring like his fire did earlier. His face had turned a blotchy red and the cold no longer seemed to touch him. Pacing back and forth in the small forge in an attempt to exercise away his rage, Gendry continued. “Arya's dead, Davos! And maybe Jon Snow doesn't know that yet, or hasn't accepted it yet, but she is, and he will.

“He was her favorite brother, he'll be able to spot a fake miles away, and I for one do not want to be caught in a lie by someone whose aunt can control dragons!”

“Gendry, lad, calm down,” Davos waited for Gendry's pacing to stop, for him to take in some deep breaths and cool his blood. “I know the idea doesn't sit well with you,” he took a step closer and placed both hands on the taller man's shoulders. “I don't much like it myself, but it's all we've got right now.”

Looking over his shoulder for a moment, once again keeping an eye out for any enemies, Davos sighed, “You're right, we won't make it through a Winter this far North, but we can't go south, either. I was Hand to a king that never sat on the throne, and you,” he stopped to take a breath, his dark eyes, “well, with every passing day you look more and more like the dead King Robert, especially with that beard you keep trying to keep off your face.”

He paused, then, “Someone's bound to notice, and since Winterfell is currently decorated with colors from House Bolton, well,” he grimaced, “let's just say I'd rather face a dragon than that bastard Ramsay.”

Gendry had to admit, he had a point. At least the dragon would be quick about it. Ramsay was known for dragging things out, making his victims suffer. The stories he'd heard had been enough to give him nightmares for days.

Shaking his head, Gendry took a different approach, “And how, exactly, would we get to Mereen?”

Taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest, Davos raised a brow, “I've been able to smuggle some money away these past few years,” he chuckled. “Enough to get three people across the Narrow Sea to Mereen, and then stay a few nights at a simple inn.”

“And then what?” Gendry asked, his brows raising up to meet his hairline. “We walk up to the palace, or wherever it is royalty lives in Mereen and just, what? Ask to meet with their prince?” He shook his head, “Why would they even meet with us?”

“You forget, lad, that I knew Jon,” Davos said, his beard hiding his frown. “Back when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He nodded his head confidently, “I can get us an audience.”

Eyes softening, the older man said softly, “We can't stay here anymore, Gendry. We need to start over. We need to take a chance.”

Gendry sighed, a slow acceptance rushing through his veins and loosening the tension in his neck and shoulders. Davos was right, he knew that, they couldn't stay in Westeros any longer. It was just asking for tragedy, and hadn't they both lived through enough of that?

“All right,” he nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. “All right. Well,” he said, trying not to think of how all this could go wrong. “Who else could pull it off but me and you?”

“You and me,” Davos corrected automatically, making Gendry duck his head and smile.

Cat | Braavos

Cat felt the weight of her new purse hit against the meat of her thigh as she took step after step. Part of her was tempted to pat it, like patting herself on the back, but refrained. Such an action would do nothing but bring attention to it, and after having just won it, the young woman didn't wish to part with the coins in it so quickly. Ensuring that no one would challenge her to a duel and steal her prize, Cat pulled her long coat to cover her sword and new purse.

She'd won the purse off a young, green horned fool of a boy from Salty Town. He'd most likely had never been in a real duel in his entire life before today, and it hadn't even been a challenge for Cat to disarm him and win her prize. Kids like him were always visiting the city this time of year, looking for adventure and excitement, and they always went home a few pounds lighter than they came.

Running her thumb up the length of her sword's handle, she she wondered how best to spend her winnings. Perhaps she'd buy a pomegranate, or a Myrish orange, if she could find someone who sold them. Or perhaps she'd visit some of the girls at the Happy Port. She hadn't visited them in a while, maybe she'd buy some oysters for them all to share.

There was a lot of silver there, though, she thought as the purse bounced against the fabric covering her leg again. More than she'd seen in a long while. More than enough to . . .

She stopped and shook her head, she knew where that line of thought led. To the Bay, to a ship, to her home . . . In truth it led nowhere. Cat didn't even know where home was.

North, her thoughts stubbornly answered. Her home was in the North. Westeros.

She gritted her teeth, and then what? She asked herself. Then what would she do? The purse of silver wouldn't last forever, and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd been in her native country, or why she left. There might not be anyone to return to anymore, either.

Her grip on her sword tightened, her slim fingers turning bone white beneath her skin. Looking down at the sword--at the only link to her past--Cat’s chest swelled with an unnamed emotion. She'd had the sword for as long as she could remember, before that, in fact. It had been the only thing she could truly call her own after she'd left the House of Black and White.

The sword was small, meant for a child, really, but Cat’s hands were small, too, and the Braavosi preferred to use lighter blades in duels, ones that only needed to be held in one hand, so no one ever questioned her about it.

It had a name. Cat knew it had one, long ago. She wished she could remember it, she knew it was a good one, but its name continued to elude her, just as the rest of her past did.

Every now and again she'd remember something. Nothing tangible, just small flashes that were too obscure to gain anything from them--a warm hug, a hand ruffling her hair, the taste of lemon cake on her tongue--breezed in and out of her mind, and made her ache for the life she once had.

The memories, her past, would return to her. Someday. Cat knew this to be true, knew it with every fiber of her being. It might be tomorrow, it might be a year from now, it might be more, but one day Cat would know the name of her sword, sure as she knew her own, and, more importantly, who had given it to her.

She wondered sometimes, especially at night, after having awoke from sleep, whether or not she had a family. She must have, at some point. But no, she thought, family wasn't quite right. Pack. She had a pack.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The words surprised her, stopping her in her tracks. Where had they come from?Although the words felt foreign and unused, they also felt right, like they belonged to her.

Still, Cat had never thought about packs or wolves before. Braavos had no wolves, and the people here never spoke of them, so she wouldn't have heard the phrase from a stranger or a friend. In fact, no where on the Eastern continent were there wolves. But in Westeros . . .

Cat blinked and realized she'd been standing in the same spot for far too long. Taking a look at her surroundings, her mouth dropped open as she realized where she was: Chequy Port. Her feet had led her almost all the way up to a ship without her noticing. Closing her mouth and shaking her head, Cat could take a hint.

It was time for her to take the first forward in finding out who she was, and the first step towards her future. Releasing a shaky breath, she squared her shoulders and walked up to the Harbormaster.

Swallowing down a spike of fear and pushing down on the rush of excitement buzzing in her hands, Cat voice was steeled with conviction as she announced, “I’m looking for a ship to Westeros.”

A/N: Um...yes, all the Stark's are dead except for Arya (it's like there's a curse or something)

Updates will not be too regular unfortunately. I'm already 3000 words into the next chapter, but then it has to go through edits and my friend who helps me edit these things is in a very different time zone so that can slow it down some.

I'm going to be taking things from ASOIAF, GOT, Anastasia (1997) and Anastasia the musical. So it'll be a hodgepodge but hopefully a good one.

If you liked this chapter please let me know by leaving reblogging! See you all next time!

#got #asoiaf #gendrya #anastasia au #gendry #arya stark #davos seaworth #im really digging this fic rn #but for all my tog peeps #dont worry #i plan on finishing my other wips #too

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steves--starsandstripes · 7 years

Text

Colors

Pairings: Robb Stark x Fem!Reader

Summary: Colors highlight significant points in your relationship with Robb

Warnings: None. PS: (Y/F/N) = your father’s name

Word Count: 2,085

Author’s Note: So I’ve seen some people do imagines where they do one significant color and how it has been a part of a ship’s relationship over its duration. But I didn’t want to just do one color, so I thought I would do several colors and their significance. Ps, sorry if the timing of winters/summers is off cuz idk when the seasons were/how long they lasted in the past. Also, I made up a holiday because lol I needed one for the feast.

***Gifs are not mine***

White. White was all you could see for miles as you and your father rode to Winterfell. It was your first time seeing snow, as you had been born during the summer. Plus, your home was hundreds of miles from the Stark keep.

Your father and Lord Eddard had fought together during Robert’s rebellion. Unbeknownst to your parents, they had conceived you right before your father left to fight. By the time your mother knew, he had been gone for weeks. Safe to say, your father was overjoyed (although very surprised) when he came home to find his first child, a beautiful baby girl, had been born.

At the time you and your father visited Winterfell, you were seven years old. Whispers of a betrothal had been exchanged, but both parties wanted to give you two a chance to meet before any plans were made. You knew you were to be gracious and ladylike as you had been raised. But for the time, you just stared at the snow in wonder.

Blue. Blue was the color of the eyes staring back into your own. He was taller than you, everyone was, so you had to crane your neck slightly to see them. But no height difference could dull the striking image of those Tully eyes.

Robb Stark was but a few months older than you. Yet, he was dressed like a little lord should be, and stood just as straight and tall as his mother and father. You too were dressed up, as a little lady from a noble house is expected to be. Without knowing it, you had worn a dress that nearly matched his eyes exactly. It was something your mother would do, after all, matching your dress with you possible-future-husband’s eyes. She was a hopeless romantic at heart. Despite your best efforts to seem tough, you wore your heart on your sleeve just as your mother did, and you couldn’t help blushing as this eldest Stark boy smiled at you when you met.

Green. Green was the color of the forests you spent hours running, skipping, and riding through. After you and Robb had clearly taken a liking to each other, your parents made the match official. You both knew, technically, but you didn’t really think about all it entailed in the long run. All you knew was that you were a ward of Winterfell now, and you really didn’t mind. Sure, you missed your family, but they came to visit you every-so-often, and sent letters to you at least once a week. Besides, this is quite literally what you were born to do. As a noble lady, you had been taught your whole life that one day you would go live somewhere else and be someone’s bride.

You were lucky. Some girls had to go live in horrible, foreign places with horrible, old husbands. You got to play in the woods with the Stark children, and grow up knowing that one day you would marry one of your best friends. You were all constantly together, joined since day one. Robb, Jon, Theon, and you would play in the lush trees of the wolfswood, sword fighting, tree climbing, and riding your horses. Sometimes you and Robb’s little sister, Sansa, would go down to the creek to do “little lady things” as the boys mockingly called it. Braiding your hair and chatting was rather girly you supposed, but you always were a balanced child. As the years went on you bonded with all of the Stark children, spending hours among those rich green groves. Sword fighting with little Arya, reading with Sansa, playing hide and seek with Bran and the littlest wolf, Rickon. But your favorite was always riding with the older boys, because it meant spending time with Robb. You grew up together in those woods, learning each other’s secrets and dreams, discovering that he loved the way you laughed, and (unknown to you) him admiring the way your hair shined in the golden sunlight that came through the green canopy above you.

Silver. Silver was the color of the dress you wore to the feast on the Night of Frost. Every season, as summer turns cold, the North celebrates the past summer, while preparing for the fact that winter is coming. All the Northern houses come together to eat, drink, and be merry. Most importantly though, they come to establish final plans for winter. Robb, as the heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North, had sat in on meetings all day. Nevertheless, he had finally been released to enjoy himself, and he made his way to the banquet hall to join the feast. As he slipped in and made his way to the head table he froze. You were sat next to Sansa, chatting and laughing that familiar laugh that made Robb’s heart leap.

But it wasn’t your laugh that made him stand still. It was just you. He had never seen you look so beautiful, in your silver dress that fit you perfectly, and your hair pulled back in intricate braids with delicate silver flowers woven into it.

He had always seen you as one of his best friends, but this… this was something else. He saw you in a different way. You weren’t that little girl who had blushed when you met, you were so much more. He finally got it. You were his lady. You were going to be his, and he was going to be yours. And it was then, in that moment, that Robb realized he loved you. Sure, he had always had feelings for you, no one could deny that. But he loved you. He smiled to himself, his heart racing with excitement as he sat next to you. “One day I will put a ring around your finger”, he thought to himself, “and it’ll be beautiful and silver, just like you are now.”

Violet. Violet was the color of your most prized possession, your bow. On your seventeenth nameday, Robb had given you an incredible gift. “I had it crafted specially for you,” he beamed, handing you the elegant, purple bow. “The carpenters spent hours getting the wood just right. And I told them to make it violet, to match the wildflowers from your family’s home.” You blushed, not realizing before how much Robb took note of. How much he cared. “Robb it’s incredible! Thank you,” you said, throwing your arms around him, careful to keep the gift out of your tight embrace.

Later that afternoon, you and Robb took the bow out for the first time. You were an expert archer, as you had been trained since you could hold an arrow. Most places don’t teach girls to fight, but your house was known everywhere for its expertise in archery. By the age of four you could hit the bullseye nearly every time, and by six you could shoot from horseback. It was one of your favorite qualities about yourself, as it made you unique. Robb had never told you, but he felt the same way. He had always been impressed by your skill, even if he had teased you about it when he was younger. To be honest, he hadn’t been used to someone being better at fighting than him, as he was the oldest child, much less a girl being able to best him. But you had proven your skills to him your second day in Winterfell, and ever since you two had loved shooting together. You took your violet bow everywhere with you, a constant reminder of your family, and the one you had here in the North.

Orange. Orange was the color of the sky as the sun sank lower and lower, drawing in the dusk. You had been riding for a little while with Robb. To where, you had no idea. All he had told you was that he wanted to go for a ride. You didn’t know why you were riding, and you didn’t where you were heading, but it didn’t matter. It was Robb, and if he wanted to go for a ride then you were more than happy to join him. He slowed down as you reached the top of a large hill a few miles outside the walls of Winterfell. He helped you down from your horse, and took your hand in his, leading you to sit beside him on the grass.

You watched as colors streaked across the sky, vibrant pinks and deep oranges holding your gaze. “It’s beautiful, Robb” said quietly, careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. “Aye,” he answered, turning to face you, “but it can’t match the beauty sitting beside me now.” You blushed just like you always did when Robb showed his affections for you. “You’re too good to me, Robb,” you joked, a gentle smile spreading across your face. “I always try to be the best man I can for you,” he began, placing a hand on your cheek to gently lead your eyes to meet his. “And, if you’ll let me, I want to keep being a good man for you for the rest of my life.” You couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. You had known this day was coming, and yet you still found yourself struggling to answer. You composed yourself, and looked back into his gentle eyes once again. “I would love nothing more,” you grinned.

Letting out a small sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he was holding, Robb leaned in, kissing you for the first time. His lips were softer than you would have thought, and he was gentle, treating you with respect and care. It was just a short little moment, but it said more than enough. Evening was beginning to settle as you two rode back to the castle, the orange swept away by a dark, twinkling sky.

Red. Red were the leaves of the heart tree under which you and Robb said your vows. You made your way down through the woods, people smiling at you as you walked. You were draped in your maiden cloak, bearing the colors of your family’s house. It was a bittersweet moment, your father’s arm linked with yours, the colors of your house adorning you for the last time. You looked to your father, and you both understood the meaning in your eyes. You’ll always be a part of me. You then looked to Robb, a smile gracing his face, his eyes full of adoration. You and your father stopped a few feet in front of the tree. Lord Eddard stepped forward. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

Your father answered. “(Y/N) of House (Y/L/N) comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Robb stepped forward, making eye contact with your father. “Robb of House Stark, heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North. I claim her. Who gives her?”

Again, your father spoke. “(Y/F/N) of House (Y/L/N), father of the bride.”

Lord Eddard then turned to you, giving you a small smile before speaking. “Lady (Y/N), will you take this man?”

You smiled back. “I take this man.” Robb stepped forward, and took your hand. You looked back at your father for one last second, nodding to him before removing your arm from his. Then, you and Robb knelt before the heart tree, bowing before the old gods. Moments later you stood again, and Robb removed your maiden cloak, replacing it with a beautiful grey and white one adorned, of course, with a direwolf. It was official. You were man and wife, and you couldn’t be more thrilled. You leaned in, sealing the marriage with a kiss, and the crowd around you cheered. Robb leaned into you, whispering in your ear. “I am yours, and you are mine,” he said. You traded places with him, and repeated it; “I am yours, and you are mine.” It was a moment for just you two. And all felt just right. The red leaves rustled in the cool breeze, and you all made your way back to the hall. The night was just beginning, a feast waiting inside. One chapter ended, and another began. And as it had been for over a decade, and would be for the rest of your days, you were with the love of your life.

#colors #robb stark #robb stark fanfiction #robb stark x reader #robb stark imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #got #asoiaf #steves--starsandstripes #robb #robb imagine #imagine #king in the north

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certifiedskywalker · 7 years

Text

Too Late - Jon Snow

You have been part of the Stark family’s life ever since you were a young girl. You became Sansa’s handmaiden and never once left her side; you were there through everything. Even now, you were at the Lady Stark’s side, riding to Castle Back to reunite with her half-brother Jon Snow. Only, this reunion wasn’t as you imagined it would be. (Words : 3301)

Having lived in the North for most of your life, you thought you knew what cold was; but Winterfell wasn’t nearly as frigid as it was beyond. The ride to the wall, with winter’s doom on the horizon, was brutal. Since you had escaped the clutches of House Bolton, freeing Sansa from Ramsay’s evil ways, you expected everything forward to be easy. You were wrong.

You looked over at Sansa who was riding on her own white mare. Her face was grim, her jaw slightly shaking. Your heart broke at the sight; your lady, your friend, had been through too much for one day. Gently hitting your foot in the leg of your horse, you went to the front near Brienne. Her face was as equally hard, but with purpose. She wanted to protect Sansa as much as you did.

“Brienne,” you said, catching the warrior’s attention. Her light hair fell around her forehead as her gaze met yours. “I think it’d be best for Lady Sansa to rest. Today has been extremely difficult for her and she’s probably fatigued.” Brienne seemed to understand, gnawing on her bottom lip in thought.

“If Lady Sansa wants to stop and rest, we will stop and rest.” You nodded, letting your horse slow back to into pace with Sansa. Dark circles were under her eyes, her skin lacking it’s porcelain look. She needed to rest, even if it was for just a little while.

“My lady,” you said, getting her attention, “if I may suggest, you should rest for a bit.” Her blue eyes brightened slightly, persistence in her expression.

“Castle Black is less than a day's ride ahead. Stopping now would only waste-” she coughed before she could finish her thought. You gave her a concerned look and your friend seemed to be won over. “Alright Y/N, but only if you ride ahead and tell Jon we are close by. He doesn’t like surprises, but you know that.” You nodded, your mind drifting to thoughts of Jon Snow. He was a close friend, since you had lived in Winterfell. You’d sit by him at feasts when Lady Catelyn wouldn’t allow him to sit with his half-siblings. You longed to see him once again.

“As you wish, my Lady,” Sansa gave you a weak smile before riding up to talk with Brienne. Soon enough, the four of you stopped in a small pocket of forest. Brienne started a fire as Podrick unpacked saddle bags. You still sat on your horse, Sansa telling you the directions further to The Wall. “I will tell him you’ll be arriving in the morning,” you said and Sansa grabbed you hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Thank you, Y/N,” she whispered and you nodded. You kicked your horse and set off at a faster pace, in the direction of Castle Black. Only having one rider, you were able to move faster without the fear of leaving someone in the snow. By the time the old castle came into view, your stallion was near breathless, it’s lungs heaving. You hopped off your horse, leading it to the gates. Soon a horn sounded, a man appearing at the ranks above the entrance.

“State your business!” The man yelled and you stepped forward.

“I come on behalf of Lady Sansa Stark, I wish to speak with Lord Commander Jon Snow.” The man took a step back, looking back over at another Brother of the Night’s Watch. The other man shrugged and yelled to open the gates. When you stepped inside, the men in the yard had their eyes glued on you. A taller, grey-haired man squinted at you; but before he could approach, someone grabbed your arm.

“You wanted to see Jon?” You nodded at the man. He had longer brown hair and a pointed nose that made him almost bird like. “He’s up there, we gotta be quiet though.” You raised your eyebrows, trying to pull your arm free. The man met your eye then, his gaze serious yet trusting. “Please, if you want to see him, don’t talk.”

He lead you up some stairs and as he did, you glanced down at the crowd below. The tall man was seemingly puzzled, looking down at a part of blood soaked snow and a sign that read ‘TRAITOR’ stuck in the ground.

“What happened?” you asked the man, but he only frowned. You were soon in one of the hallways of Castle Black, before the man knocked on the door in a specific pattern. He looked back down the hall, making sure no one was nearby. He knocked once more and the door opened it. A balding man with a near white beard opened the door.

“I thought you were going to get-” the man looked at you and stopped. “Edd, who is this?” The man holding your arm, Edd, let go of you and looked at the man.

“She speaks on behalf of Sansa Stark, Jon’s half sister. She’s lookin’ for Jon,” he added sadly. You glanced at Edd, noticing a frown. The man, still half hidden behind the door nodded. He opened the door, letting you enter.

“I’m Ser Davos, my lady,” he said, introducing himself. “I fear that your tidings have come too late.” He lead you inside the room, leaving Edd in the doorway. Your brows were furrowed as Davos showed you in; but you soon saw the source of the men’s sadness.

Jon’s pale body was laid on a wooden table and as you grew closer, his condition became more apparent. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over your cheeks. Your shaking hands reached out to his arm, grabbing a hold on his cold hand. The chill sent shivers down your spine. He was dead cold, eyes shut in an internal sleep.

“W-What happened?” You choked out, your eyes never leaving Jon’s lifeless features. Ser Davos didn’t even have to speak, for your eyes landed on the stab wounds in his chest. The scene from outside danced in your mind; the men staring at the blood-soaked snow.

“There was a mutiny,” Edd said from the doorway, “lead by Alliser Thorne.” You let more tears fall from your eyes, an audible cry escaping your throat. You heard footsteps and left a tentative hand on your shoulder.

“I had my priestess companion perform a ceremony, tried to bring him back.” You turned to face the man at this, hope piercing your heart. “Nothing has changed quite yet. Edd is going to find Jon’s wildling friends, to avenge him. And if he does come back,” he said hopefully, “fight with him.” You looked back at Jon, moving your hand to his face.

Even in death, his handsome features remained. It had been years since you had seen him, but your feelings hadn’t changed. Your heart ached with those same feelings in that moment, but they turned sour; expired hope rotting away.

“If you don’t mind me askin’, why did Lady Sansa send a handmaiden?” You swallowed hard, hoping to get some words out but nothing came. Ser Davos sighed, but understood your silence. “You cared for him?” You nodded at this, trying to find the right words.

“He was my friend, as close as Lady Sansa,” you whispered. “I have admired him ever since I met him, loved him a moment after that.” You felt a sob shake through your body at your confession. Peeling your eyes away from Jon’s face for a moment, you found a stool to sit on. You sat, still close to his body. “Lady Sansa rides here tomorrow, a little after dawn,” you managed to say. Davos nodded, moving away from you to give you space with the dead. He walked over to a woman, dressed in red, whispering an explanation.

Your hands rested against the tabletop, as you looked at Jon. Every memory flooding back to you, every moment you spent with him. Your House fostered you to the Starks to be Sansa’s handmaiden on the young lady’s seventh nameday. You had been anxious about the Stark family, worried they wouldn’t like you. It was Jon you first met. Though not a true Stark, you knew if the family was anything like him, you’d get along just fine.

Jon had always been kind to you, and you to him. When times rolled around where you missed your family, Jon came to and reminded you that you had a new one.

“You’ll always be welcome here,” he had said, “we all love you.” You had hoped he’d take it a step further, telling you that he loved you a little more; but he didn’t. Although there were times when Jon showed his affection towards you. Once, he even got into a fight for you. Theon Greyjoy wouldn’t leave you alone so Jon punched him square in the jaw.

“I didn’t like the way he was talking to you,” he had said as you cleaned up his knuckles. “He deserved it, for treating you like that. You’re a lady and should be treated with respect.” You had stopped working, looking up into his eyes. That was the moment you almost said it. Where you almost told Jon Snow that you loved him.

“Thank you, Jon,” was all that you had said. After that, you couldn’t help but look at him differently. At feasts, you’d been found beside him, sitting as close to he as his little-

You looked around the room then, your movements sudden. You nearly stood up, but then you saw the familiar white fur of Jon’s direwolf. Ghost’s red eyes were on you, as if the large creature recognized you. You reached out and the wolf stood, trodding towards you.

“I missed you, you beast. Look how you’ve grown.” Ghost let out a huff, nuzzling your hand with his snout. You looked from Ghost to Jon, wondering if the wolf knew his partner was gone. In a way, he did. As you petted him, Ghost looked over at Jon and so did you. “I miss him too,” you whispered and Ghost let out another soft sound.

Your mind traveled back to the night Jon left. It sparked when Sansa was going on about Joffrey and how badly she wanted to marry him. It was endearing the way she spoke of him and you couldn’t help but realize that you left the same way about Jon.

“He’s good looking and a prince! What more could a young girl want, right Y/N?” You looked at her, letting your hands fall from her hair which you had been tidying up.

“A man that is kind, good, and brave. That is what every girl should want.” Sansa nodded, going on about the King’s son. She mentioned how excited she was to be leaving in the morning, off to King’s Landing. You realized then, your time was limited when it came to confessing to Jon. “Lady Sansa, may I be excused for a moment?” The girl let you go, and you trailed to Jon’s small room. As you grew closer to the door, you saw Benjen Stark leave his quarters. You turned to face the wall, looking at an antler that had been hung on the wall.

“We leave at dawn, nephew. I will see you then.” You looked over and had seen the man, that had said goodbye to his nephew, as he walked down the opposite end of the hall. You rushed over to Jon’s room before he could shut the door. The young man had seemed shocked at your sudden appearance.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” You had just shrugged a little, still trying to catch your breath. Jon had chuckled then before he gently grabbed your hand a pulled you inside.

“I have something to tell you,” you both had said at the same time. You remembered this moment, far more clear than the rest.

“You go first, my lady,” Jon said, but you shook your head.

“I think you should first,” you said, letting your nerves get the better of you. Jon smiled, but took the chance to speak.

“I’m heading off to the Night’s Watch in the morning.” Your breath caught, looking into Jon’s face. He must’ve noticed your sadness in that moment, because he had stepped closer to you, extending an arm. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you had said, even though you weren’t. You were heartbroken. “I’m happy that your Uncle is letting you join The Watch. You’ve mentioned that you wanted to before.” You had thought he was only joking, but apparently you were mistaken.

“Yeah, it’s going to be interesting to say the least. I’m going to miss everyone; Robb, Arya, Rickon,” you swallowed hard, wondering he was going to say your name amongst his family's. “And you, especially you,” you had given him a weak smile.

“I’ll miss you too, Jon.” You said quietly wishing you had gone first. He smiled, a true smile that you had only seen on rare occasions. You couldn’t stand to be alone with him, your impending tears starting in your eyes. “Well, I told Sansa I wouldn’t be long,” you lied; but Jon grabbed your hand. You had looked back into his brown eyes in that moment, holding his gaze.

“What did you want to say?” You shook your head and pulled your arm free.

“It was nothing,” you had said, “I’ll tell you in the morning if I get the chance.” With that, you had walked out of Jon’s room for the last time. The next morning, you didn’t tell him, you simply waved a sweet goodbye as he walked out of Winterfell.

Oh how you wished you had told him, because now it was far too late. Your eyes landed on his cold features, hoping beyond hope his eyes would open. You leaned forwards slightly, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

“It wasn’t nothing,” you whispered, “I was going to tell you how I loved you. I love you, Jon Snow.” More tears spilled down your cheeks, blurring your vision. Your head throbbed from crying at that point, till your felt dizzy. Your rested your head against your hands that were on the table. Before you could shed another tear, you drifted off into a dark sleep.

You woke with a jolt, trying to remember where you were. Though, you soon remembered when you gaze landed on Jon’s body. You let out a shaky breath, sitting up from your seat. Ser Davos still lingered in the room, with the red woman from the hours before. You couldn’t tell what time of day it was as you got up on shaky legs. Ghost was laying beside you, his red eyes peering up at you. You couldn’t imagine how you must look; your head still felt heavy and your eyes were probably a lighter shades than the direwolf’s.

“Ser Davos, what time is-” you were cut off by a loud gasp. You spun on your heels, staring at Jon’s now heaving chest. His pale skin seemed to flush back to life, his eyes open wide in fear. Darting over, you grabbed a cloak from off a different table. By the time you had turned back around, Jon was sitting up. He was shaking, looking at his own extended hands and his wounded chest. You felt new, different tears form in your eyes.

“What,” he voice was hoarse, “what happened.” He looked up then, his wide eyes landing on you. His brows furrowed, his mouth falling open slightly. “Y/N,” his voice trailed off, but you nodded. You walked back over to him, wrapping the cloak over his shoulders. He pulled it over himself, hiding his body as much as he could. He leaned close to you, resting his shoulder to your chest. You rubbed your hand over his covered back comfortingly.

“I’m here,” you whispered, “and so are you. You’re back, Jon.” He looked back up at you, his brown eyes still wide with shock. You free hand went to the side of his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ve missed you,” you whispered, feeling the tears fall from your eyes.

“I missed you too,” he said lowly, his voice still weak. By now, Ser Davos and his red lady were staring at you and Jon, their eyes wide. You looked form them, back at Jon, wondering what the priestess had done to bring him back.

“What did you see?” The woman hissed, bringing Jon’s attention away from you. With his breathing still heavy and his eyes still wide, he shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, “there was nothing.” Your arm tightened around him that was on Jon’s back. He looked back up at you, his gaze weary. “There was nothing, Y/N,” you gave him a hard frown before hugging him close. Ser Davos watched as Melisandre stormed away, following after her in worry of what she would do.

You held Jon until he moved away a little, looking into your face. You held his gaze, flashing back to the night he left. Everything that you didn’t say lingered on your tongue, begging for you to take you chance because, Seven Hells, he came back from the dead!

“Jon,” you whispered, lightly brushing a few dark strands from his face, “I never told you what I wanted to tell you.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards a little, making your heart flutter. He grabbed your hand, giving it a squeeze to silently urge you on. “I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone else.”

Despite the fear that still lingered behind his eyes, his expression changed. Jon let out a breathy chuckle, entangling your fingers with his. “It took me coming back from death for you to finally say that,” he said with a soft smile. You smiled nervously, not knowing how to take his response. “The day I left I wanted to turn around,” he said, “run back to you and tell you that I never would leave you. Tell you that I loved you, that I still love you.” His thumb traced over your hand, making your own hand seem much smaller.

You leaned down to him, pressing a kiss to cheek, “I’ve waited so long. I thought I’d never, never get the chance to tell you.” Jon shook his head, his free hand covering himself a little more with his cloak. You smiled sadly at him as he brought your hand to his lips. He pressing a kiss to the back of your hand and you closed your eyes at the touch.

“I’d never leave without telling you,” he whispered, “not after the first time.” Your eyes opened again, meeting his gaze once more. “I’d hug you,” he said, “but…” He gestured to himself with his head and you let out a soft laugh. You walked over to a dresser in Jon’s room, grabbing a set of armor and clothes for him.

“You should get dressed,” you said, setting the clothes down beside him. He looked up at you, flinching as he moved. “Not just because you want a hug,” you teased, “ your sister will be arriving soon.” He lifted his head, meeting your gaze.

“Sansa?” You nodded and he smiled. “Have you heard from anyone else? Arya? Rickon?” You frowned and shook your head.

“No, I was with Sansa for it all.” Jon nodded, slowly standing with the cloak still covering him. “I’ll let you get changed,” you said, turning around to find Ser Davos. The energy had changed now, with Jon’s return. Knowing that you weren’t too late after all, filled you with hope. Maybe you’d soon hear from the rest of the Starks. With Jon back by your side, anything felt possible.

#jon snow #jon snow xreader #jon snow x reader #jon snow one shot #jon snow imagine #got #game of thrones #got imagine #game of thrones imagine #jon snow imagines

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anonwriter27 · 6 years

Text

Teen Spirit- Chapter Twelve :)

The Stark children were gathered in the living room, their parents still away. They were brain storming ideas on how to make Myrcella feel better; they even called Ygritte to join them.

Myrcella hadn’t been cold to them, she just hadn’t been herself. Everyone completely understood; after everything that had happened with Joffrey a few days ago, it was only naturally that she’d be upset.

She didn’t cry or shout, she was just quieter. There were times when Robb could see she wanted to laugh, like when Theon would make a dirty joke, but she would stop herself. It was as if she was scared, and Robb wanted to make her feel safe again.

“What about a party?” Bran asked.

“You know Cella, she doesn’t like all that attention.” Arya pointed out.

“Maybe a gift, to let her know we care.” Jon suggested.

“A gift sounds nice.” Sansa said, and that’s when a light bulb went off above Robb and Ygritte’s heads.

“Tommen!” They both yelled simultaneously.

“Who’s Tommen?” Rickon asked, the loud discussion waking him up from his nap.

Tommen was Myrcella’s little brother, and he was the perfect person to put a smile on Myrcella’s face. Robb knew she missed him terribly; they Skyped every Wednesday night, they would watch movies and eat ice cream during those calls but it wasn’t the same as being together.

“Tommen is Myrcella’s little brother.” Robb said and they all nodded in understanding.

“That’s a good idea. I know if I was sad I’d want my family.” Rickon said sleepily.

They all agreed that Tommen would be the perfect gift. So while Myrcella was out with her uncle, they called Tommen who within a few minutes was booking his train ticket for the next day.

……………

“We can go anywhere you like, I here this place around the corner does good seafood.” Tyrion offered.

“Sounds good.” Myrcella said with a smile, though her voice was meek.

“Or there’s a pizza place?”

“I like pizza.” She said.

Tyrion looked at his niece, ‘let me put you back together again,’ he thought.

They sat down at the pizza place, Tyrion ordering more food than they could possibly eat. He was worried about his niece, but he knew she would recover. Myrcella was strong, it was a quality she had inherited from her mother; people could try and tear her down, but a lioness would always rise again.

“I’m sorry.” She said quietly, just above a whisper.

Tyrion was brought out of his thoughts, “What on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

“For being like this. Everyone has been trying to cheer me up, you, Robb, Ygritte, Sansa…. I don’t mean to be a burden, I just….” She stopped and hesitated.

“Go on.” Tyrion encouraged.

“I don’t feel like me.” She confessed, “I feel like ever since I came here, I started to understand myself better, I could be myself.”

“And now?”

“Having Joffrey come back, doing what he always does, it just reminds me that I’m still his little play thing. No matter where I go, my past is still my past, I’m still…”

“A victim?” Tyrion offered sadly and she nodded in response.

“You know, when I was a child your mother hated me.” Tyrion said with a hint of mirth in his eyes.

“Pardon?” She asked, confused at the random direction the conversation had turned.

“Cersei and my father, they couldn’t look at me. They say now that I was being sensitive, but I knew what they thought. The woman he loved, the mother she adored, for the sake of me? That’s the biggest joke in the world.”

“Uncle Tyrion…” she wanted to argue but he wouldn’t let her.

“Being a dwarf didn’t help either I supposed, I was never going to be handsome like Jaime, I would never make marital connections like Cersei. I was a disappointment the moment I was born. Do you think I’m still a disappointment?” He asked.

“No! You’re the head of the family business and the best uncle a child could hope for! You could never be a disappointment.” She told him.

“And yet that’s what I was for the majority of my life. From a disappointment to a success.” He said with a smile on his face.

“You were a victim Myrcella, but now you are a survivor. Don’t hide from your past, wear it like armour.”

Myrcella began to understand what her uncle was saying, if she could survive Joffrey then she could survive anything. Why hide that?

“Thank you Uncle Tyrion.”

“It’s what I’m here for. Chocolate milkshake?” He asked.

“Chocolate milkshake.” She agreed happily, a genuine smile on her face.

…………….

Tyrion dropped Myrcella off at the Stark’s house after their meal. She had been staying there since the incident and Tyrion was glad, he didn’t like the idea of her going home to an empty flat.

“Hey! How was your day?” Robb asked but before she answered she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest.

He was quick to hug her back, “Everything okay?” He asked, concern laced in his words.

She looked up at him, “Everything’s great.” She said and shot him her beaming smile. It was infectious as it brought a smile to Robb’s face. ‘She’s back.” He thought.

They sat down to watch a film with their fellow Starks (including Ygritte and Theon, they were after all honorary Starks like Myrcella). They were in the middle of watching Pride when discussion turned to Myrcella’s hair.

She had gone to a hairdresser to have it cut properly, but she still didn’t feel right. She would see her friends with their long shiny hair and she’d be reminded of what her brother did to her own.

“What about extensions?” Sansa offered.

“The high end ones though! I hate the kind where you can see the glue.” Bran squirmed much to Jon’s amusement.

“I think you should shave half of it.” Ygritte said, “Get a tattoo there, it’ll be awesome.”

“I guess…” Myrcella said shyly.

As they discussed potential hairstyles, Arya could see Myrcella closing in on herself. She hated it, she remembered when Sansa had gotten a bruise on her left eye because of that bastard. She remembered watching her sister apply the concealer and wince at the pressure her finger would put on the bruise. No matter how many times it hurt her, she still put it on; she covered it up with make up so she could look as pretty as the other girls, so she could look ‘normal.’

It was only hair, it would grow back, but Arya knew that right now Myrcella didn’t feel ‘normal.’

“That’s it!” Arya yelled, threw her hands up in the air, and stormed out the room.

Everyone went silent, “What’s up with her?” Theon asked.

The next minute they heard the sound of a draw opening a closing, hard footsteps stomping up the stairs, and the bathroom door being slammed shut.

A few minutes past until they saw Arya again, she began to walk down the stairs and everyone turned and gasped when they saw her.

“Arya!” Sansa yelled.

Arya was stood with her hair cut above her shoulders, scissors in one hand, and the ponytail she had previously worn in the other.

“I like it.” Ygritte said.

“Me too.” Myrcella agreed with a wide smile.

“Our parents are going to kill you.” Bran said though he couldn’t hide his smile.

“They won’t notice.” She said nonchalantly.

“But you don’t look normal Ari!” Rickon said.

“It’s the new normal Rickon.” Arya said and plopped down in the seat next to Myrcella.

They continued to watch the movie, Myrcella feeling more comfortable than she had before.

…………….

“Why are we awake at this ungodly hour.” Myrcella mumbled into her pillow (Yes her pillow, she’d be damned if she let Robb take it from her).

“I told you, we’re having a big family breakfast, Sansa is cooking and Bran is going to try and make something.” Robb said.

“But it’s 7:30 in the morning.”

“I promise you’re gonna love it.” He said kissing her shoulders.

“Yeah yeah.” She mumbled as she made her way to the bathroom.

She was in the shower when Bran knocked on the door.

“All systems are go.” Bran whisked, his eyes looking around making sure no one could hear of their plan.

“This isn’t Mission Impossible Bran.” Robb chuckled.

“Come on Robb… just go along with it, okay?” Bran whined, and Robb gave in.”

“Fine, everything ready?”

“The cuckoo is in the birds nests.” Bran whispered.

“I don’t even no what that means, I’m assuming everything is ready.” Robb sighed.

“Affirmative.” Bran nodded and made his way downstairs.

Robb and Myrcella made their way downstairs and joined the rest of the Starks at the dinner table.

“I thought you said there would be breakfast?” Myrcella asked confused.

“It’s on its way.” Robb assured.

They began talking when their waiter made his entrance.

“Eggs royale For Miss Baratheon.” They heard.

Myrcella turned in her chair to see the same green eyes looking back at her.

“Tommen!!!” She jumped up, knocking the plate of eggs out of his hands, much to Greywind’s delight.

“It’s good to see you too sis.” He said hugging her back.

It was a heartwarming scene, Myrcella with a brother that truly cared for her. Between, the Starks, Tyrion, and Tommen, Robb knew she would be okay.

They went for a walk, just the two Baratheon’s, intent on catching up on what they’d missed.

“You’ve gotten taller.” She said, noting how he was a head taller than her now.

“Haha yeah, not sure you can call me ‘little’ brother anymore.” He chuckled.

“You’ll always be my little brother Tom.” She said.

They walked on in silence for a little while but something was on Tommen’s mind.

“I’m sorry Cella.” He said.

“What for?”

“I’m not a kid anymore, I should have protected you from him. I should have come to the North, I should have tried more, I should have….”

“You should have thrown on a cape and called yourself superman?” She joked.

“I’m serious Cella.”

“You can’t reason with the irrational Tom. Joffrey is unpredictable, always has been. You couldn’t have stopped him.”

Tommen listened but he didn’t look convinced.

“I’m fine. Look at me, I have a good life here, I’m happy.”

“I’m guessing a certain Stark has something to do with that.” Tommen said with a smirk.

“He’s wonderful.” She said wistfully.

“I can see that. Any guy that can make my sister smile like that is okay by me.” Tommen said, assuring her that Robb had his approval.

“So… is Sansa single?” He asked and Myrcella shoved him playfully, both erupting in laughter.

……………

“Tommen should come visit more, he’s a good guy.” Robb said.

“He thinks the same about you.” She said, happy that the men in her life got along.

“Robb?” She said.

“Yeah?”

“I love you so much.” She said, her cheeks turning a dark shade of red. “Everything you’ve done for me… I can’t begin to thank you…”

Robb walked up to her and cupped her face in his hands, “You don’t have to thank me Myrcella, it’s just what you do for the people you love.”

He kissed her deeply, letting their happiness wash over them.

#robbcella #robb x myrcella #Robb Stark #Myrcella Baratheon #jon x ygritte #Sansa Stark #Arya Stark #bran stark #rickon stark #Tyrion Lannister #Theon Greyjoy #Tommen Baratheon #game of thrones #modernAU #anonwriter27

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justanartsysideblog · 6 years

Note

I noticed that you love asoiaf like me and I love you writing , so I though I’d ask for you for one of the suggested prompts in your blog “Look at me - just breathe, okay?” For an asoiaf pairing, I love Jonrya but I totally understand it if it’s not your cup of tea and you would prefer doing another pairing :)

Hi fellow asoiaf buddy! I’m not the biggest fan of Jonrya as a romantic pairing, so I thought I’d write some familial bonding for them instead, I hope that’s alright! I set this in my arbitrary “Rhaenys, Jon, and Aegon are raised together” AU. Let the angst commence! Warnings for character death.

---

Jon is the quietest of his siblings; the youngest, the mostsomber, the palest. Sunburn is a constant companion to hischildhood, and no matter how much ointment his mother smears on him, it alwayswashes off in the Water Gardens. Or, sometimes, deliberately.

Jon wants to look like his siblings. He wants to belong.He wants to look properly Dornish, like his big sister Rhaenys, whom he followsaround like a lost puppy from the moment he can walk. Even Aegon, despite hisTargaryen hair and lighter complexion, still looks like a Martell.He hates that he is so obviously the odd one out, even if his siblings do nottreat him as such.

Withdrawn fits of melancholy are a gift of his late father,he learns. Another polarizing bit of personhood that has him standing on theoutside of his own family.

It isn’t until he’s a bit older that he realizes that hissiblings feel as separate as he does; because they’re not Martells either, justlike he’s not a Stark. They carry their mothers’ looks but their father’s name,all three.

Targaryen.

And while he doesn’t look Dornish, at least he doesn’t lookTargaryen. He remembers when he and Aegon were ten, and Rhaenys had helpedAegon dye his hair black as pitch, to hide the white legacy of their father; atemporary solution that had done little to hide the truth of his parentage. Heremembers the first time he saw Rhaenys practicing her spearwork with UncleOberyn, and saw the light shine off of deep violet eyes, and thought “thatis what a dragon looks like”.

When he’s twelve, it is deemed safe enough for his motherLyanna and himself to visit the North. He’s nervous, and more than a littleunsure of leaving his siblings behind; Aegon will write, at least, to keep himinformed, but Rhaenys might go on an adventure while he’sgone. What if she finally gets that boat Uncle Oberyn promised her and sails offto Old Valyria without him?

When they arrive at Winterfell, he meets his Uncle Ned forthe first time—second time, his mother reminds him. Eddard had come to Dorne secretlywhen he’d learned of Jon’s birth, to see his sister and her son and deemed itsafer for them to remain unknown in Dorne than face the wrath of his late friend, RobertBaratheon.

He is shorter than Jon thought he’d be, but he shares such asolemnity and sternness that Jon feels an instant kindred spirit. It eases theodd tightness in his chest, the part of him that thought he’d come here andthey would take one look at him and tell Lyanna to take her Targaryen childaway.

And then he meets his cousins.

Robb is wary of this newcomer to the fold; protective of hissiblings, every inch the eldest and the heir. A warrior, and a leader, andconfident in his place in a way that reminds Jon terribly of Rhaenys. Itdoesn’t take long for Robb and Theon Greyjoy to pull him into their antics.

Sansa is pretty, and polite, and curious about life inDorne, but she is too much a lady already to ask him about it.

Arya is not.

Arya, who everyone says looks like his mother did at herage, who has all her wildness (a wildness Jon had always thought the hallmarkof a Stark, with only his mother as an example before this). She latches on toJon the moment they arrive, and peppers him with questions while Bran andRickon clamber over Old Nan, and Sansa sits near the window with her embroideryand tries to look like she’s not listening intently.

“Does everyone in Dorne carry spears? Is it true that girlsget to wear pants? And that they get to fight? Why didn’t you bring Princess Rhaenyswith you?”

He learns early on that he’s playing second fiddle to hissister. But he’s twelve, and the opinion of a young rambunctious girl mattersless than that of the boys his age, so he doesn’t take it as personally as hewould otherwise. It still stings, in that way it always has, the idea that he’ssecond best and other.

But Arya’s curiosity never seems abated, and after a whileit turns toward him, and not his more infamous elder sister.

“Did you like living in Sunspear? Are they nice to youthere? Could you teach me to fight with a sword like yours? Are you going toleave us?”

The last line is a surprise, and a rush of fondness he’dnever felt for anyone but his mothers and siblings fills him like a warmsummer’s sun.

Arya’s rambunctiousness comes, he learns, from not beingtaken seriously by her siblings; brothers that placate and find her desire tobe a fighter a flight of fancy, and a sister she cannot relate to for lack ofsimilarities.

Jon likes it, that she comes to him, and even if Robb andTheon tease him mercilessly on the days he declines a hunt to show Arya how tostrengthen her sword-fighting stance, the look of adoration on Arya’s face morethan makes up for it.

“Have you ever seen someone die?” Arya asks one afternoon,as she sets her footing, grip tightening around the slender hilt of her newlysmithed sword. Needle, she’d named it, when he’d given it to her as a namedaypresent, “All good swords have names, you know.”

“No,” Jon answers, coming up behind her to fix her grip. Theclosest he can think of is when Aegon’s favorite pony had been bitten by avenomous snake, and Sir Arthur had put her down to save her from a slow andpainful death. He’d been young, but the sight of the life draining from hereyes had haunted him for several months.

“How do you kill a man, do you think?”

“Stick him with the pointy end, I imagine,” Jon jokes, towash the bitter memory away. He holds up his own training sword, and helps herthrough an exercise.

It doesn’t take long to find a place for him in Winterfell,to find his place as a Stark, a name that sticks itself in that safe haven againsthis ribs and runs through his blood like it was meant to be. And when thedirewolves are found and Robb hands the small, white, wiggling runt to him, hefinds it hurts a bit to breathe.

“The runt of a litter for the Targaryen,” Theon scoffs, butJon barely registers the jibe.

A direwolf, the sigil of the North. His in a way that no onecan deny. Ghost, he names him, and everyone thinks it’s for his fur. But he’sthe spirit of all the uncertainties Jon’s ever had about himself: buriedfinally, but still present; not fully laid to rest, but bearable.

---

Rhaenys and Aegon are insanely jealous when Jon returns toSunspear with him. Ghost spends most of his time in the Water Gardens, pantingin the shade or swimming in the water to cool down. Dornish weather does not agreewith him, and neither, Jon realizes, does it agree with him. Not anymore,at least. He’d always been weak to the heat, but it had been bearable. Now hefinds himself keeping Ghost company in the shade more often than not.

“You spent too much time in the North, you’ve been ruinedfor the sun,” Rhaenys jokes as she slides down next to him on the cool stonebench and idly scratches Ghost between his ears. Her voice is thoughtful andmore than a little worried, like she’s afraid something’s changed.

And it has, he knows, but not in the way she thinks. He’sfound another piece of himself in the North, a piece he’d needed; but it won’treplace the part of him that belongs with his brother and sister.

“Jon’s just grateful he found a place he can walk outsidewithout getting sunburnt,” Aegon quips, taking the spot on Jon’s otherside. “Our baby brother needs to embrace his strengths where he can.”

Rhaenys scoffs, and reaches over Jon’s head to hit Aegonwith a fond smile, and Jon finds a smile of his own stretching across his lips.He’d worried a bit himself, that he’d changed too much and that his siblingswouldn’t feel the same about him now that he’d become a Northerner in full.

But he knows he isn’t the only one that’s changed in theyear he’s been away. Both his siblings are taller, and confident in a way he envies;Rhaenys is seventeen now and looks more and more like their mother Elia witheach passing day, and Aegon, despite being only half a year older than Jon, isa head taller, willowy and more a Targaryen than either of his siblings inappearance.

He doesn’t dye his hair anymore, Jon thinks insurprise. Aegon catches his eye and fingers a lock of white hair with an oddlook that Jon can’t quite place. “My skin looks darker, when it’s thiscolor.” My skin looks more Dornish, is what he means, of course,and Jon can’t deny it, or fault him for wanting it that way.

His sister’s eyes are different too, but not in color.There’s something hollow behind them, a look that worries him.

Aegon tells him later, about a hidden blade in the night anda thwarted attempt on their sister’s life that had ended in the death of herfriend and lover, Teora Toland.

Jon remembers Teora vaguely: plump and shy and so unlike herelder sister who he’d found unnervingly beautiful at twelve, and even more sonow at thirteen. She’d had visions, his cousins the Sand Snakes claimed;prophecies, some whispered.

“Rhaenys killed the man that did it,” Aegon whispers. “No one knows how he got so close, to get into herbedroom. He didn’t know Teora would be there. If she hadn’t been...” He trailsoff, voice tight.

Jon swallows. He wasn’t there when his sister needed him,had been running around the North while Rhaenys had nearly died. Heknows he shouldn’t be grateful that Teora had died instead of her, but he is.He hopes it doesn’t make him a bad person.

He finds his sister the next morning, and asks her if she’dlike to talk about it. She tells him, in a voice so soft and full of grief hebarely recognizes it as her own, about Teora’s death; of her last, whisperedwords as the life had drained out of her in his sister’s arms.

“She had dreams, you know,” Rhaenys murmurs, staring down ather feet in the water. A few fish swim lazily around their ankles, as Jon waitsfor her to continue. “Some people called them prophecies. You know how Ihate that. Prophecies,” She gives a derisive scoff, and kicks herfoot, the fish darting back at the movement. “Father believed inprophecies and got himself killed because of it. People will do anything totwist the words of prophecy to truth, even if it means destroying what shouldhave been. But Jon...Jon she had one before she died. Told it to me, insteadof listening when I told her I loved her, and to hold on untilthe Maester arrived.”

His sister reaches a hand up, to scrub tears from hercheeks. “She never said it back. Just kept repeating her stupid, stupid dream.”

Jon holds her as she cries, and can’t help but wonder if thehollowness in his sister’s gaze would have lessened with three words, insteadof more of the promises of Targaryen greatness that they’ve been running fromsince birth.

---

Jon is fifteen, the next time he sees Arya. He’s walkingthrough the courtyard of his mother’s Sunspear palace when a shriek echoes soloud that even the howler monkeys in the orange trees nearby go silent, and ittakes a moment for him to realize it’s someone calling his name before he findshimself tackled to the ground.

Arya grins down at him, hair a wild, tangled mess of browncurls escaping a sloppily braided plait. “Father said I could come visityou!”

Jon tries to smile back, but Needle’s hilt is digging intohis ribs and he can’t find enough air in his lungs to greet her. It takes aminute or so for him to get to his feet and manage it, while Arya stands a fewfeet away with her hands behind her back, looking impish and only a littleguilty.

She’s grown; still shorter than him, with baby fat clingingto her cheeks and arms, but looking more like his mother than before. Morelike him. Before he can say anything else he hears a startledscream, and both he and Arya turn to the door as Arya’s face falls and she runsfor the arched hallway with a yell of, “Nymeria, I told you to staywith Robb!”

---

Arya becomes a quick favorite with his cousins the SandSnakes, particularly Nymeria, who finds her direwolf counterpart to be a properand worthy holder of the name. Arya seems both pleased and a little overwhelmedat all the attention she receives, and the sight of so many women wieldingweapons.

“Jon, how could you ever leave here? If I lived in DorneI’d never leave,” She gushes over dinner one evening, unableto keep her eyes off the dagger Nymeria had gifted her that afternoon.

His sisterhad been gone on a trip with Princess Arianna, surveying some of Dorne’s noblefamilies, but comes to see Lyanna and Jon’s honored guests the moment she’swashed the dust off her skin, dragging Aegon with her.

Arya had met Aegon days earlier, with little of thehero-worship she held for Rhaenys. “My sister would like you,” Arya hadtold him, as if it were the only compliment she could muster, and that onlybarely. Jon supposes that a well-spoken musician with a penchant for courtpolitics was of very little interest to a young girl that wanted nothing morethan to become a knight.

“I’ll take that as a sign that your sister has good taste,”Aegon had drawled, and had managed to earn Arya’s approval, if not affection,by the end of the evening through the telling of several embarrassing storiesat Jon’s expense.

The look of barely contained excitement on Arya’s face atthe sight of his sister is amusing to behold, even if it does make him a littlewistful for the days in Winterfell when she’d followed him like a shadow. By the end of the night he fears he’s no longer thefavorite, a title he hadn’t realized he’d coveted before.

“She’s different than what I expected,” Arya confides a fewdays later, after a training session with Rhaenys and the gift of awell-crafted spear that Arya is more than eager to begin practicing withimmediately. “She likes dresses.”

Jon can’t help laughing at that. “You can likefighting and dresses.”

“I guess,” Arya seems doubtful of that, and something in hertone eases the worry in Jon’s chest.

He’s still the favorite.

---

When the Dead rise, Jon and his siblings go to meet them onthe battlefield. Initially Aegon argues against it. (“Let the North dealwith the Dead, we have other battles to fight.”) And it’s true, with theirUncle Viserys posing a great threat in King’s Landing, and the debate overlegitimacy, and Rhaenys’ potential claim to the throne.

They know now, who sent the hired assassin in the night tokill her, who killed her heart instead.

But Jon is of the North just as much as he is of the South.His cousins are in danger, and wolves fight in packs. They need him, just ashis siblings need him. Arya needs him, and what kind of favorite cousin wouldhe be if he left her to fight the dead alone?

It is Rhaenys who makes the final decision. “We goNorth.”

Aegon’s eyes narrow, “I thought you hated prophecies.”

Rhaenys says nothing, but the look on her face is enough.Jon doesn’t know what Teora Toland told Rhaenys the night she died and hedoesn’t think anyone ever will.

His sister hates prophecies, he knows. But he thinks shemight still believe in them.

---

Arya is fifteenthe next time they meet, at Winterfell. Needle remains attached to her hip, butit is a larger blade she wields now, one fit for battling more than a singleopponent; white walkers do not duel, after all.

Wrapped in a cloak and surrounded by snow, Jon feels more athome than he ever has before. He feels badly for his siblings, who lookmiserable in the cold and out of their element.

The Northern Lords regardRhaenys and Aegon with caution; Jon may have Northern blood but they do not,and they look more Targaryen than he ever has.

Viserys has not made himself popular, and everyone rememberswhen Eddard Stark’s father and brother went to King’s Landing while the MadKing reigned.

Jon’s sister meets their gazes, unflinching, and if anyonedeigns to call her a Dornish whore, they do so in private. Jon hears about itthough; how Greatjon Umber called her sand rat, and of Robb setting Greywind looseupon him before Eddard called both son and wolf to heel.

If it weren’t for Lord Umber’s subsequent missing fingers,Jon knows he would have personally made the man pay for the insolence. And heknows despite it, he will need to keep an eye on Aegon, who does not forgivequite as easily and who is likely planning the man’s downfall should they allsurvive the winter.

---

“Rhaenys should be queen.” Arya stares out across the wall,eyes trained on the treeline. “Viserys isn’t here defending the North, but sheis.”

It is late, and Arya should be asleep, not prowlingWinterfell’s walls like one of the sentries. But she’d found him hiding fromslumber as well, and he cannot deny he could use the company. Her cheeks arered and chafed from the wind, and her eyes are red rimmed—frustrated tears,from a fruitless argument with her father on joining the armies heading to theWall.

“She should be queen,” Arya repeats, looking straight ahead.

Jon thinks about his sister, sitting with Lord Eddard and Robband the Northern Lords, pouring over battle plans—wrapped in a mountain of fursbecause the North is cold and it is not in her blood, but she believes sheowes these people her aid nonetheless.

“She should,” Jon agrees. “But no one will be rulinganything if we’re all dead.”

Arya shoots him an impish grin, warmth returning to her face,“Do you think she’ll let me be a member of her queensguard?”

---

“You are not supposed to be here.”

Jon has never heard Robb yell, but he thinks now mightpossibly be the first. Barely checked fury is etched into the line of his jaw,and the thinness of his lips as he presses them together to keep from shouting.

Arya stares at him defiantly, Nymeria at her side and swordin hand; armed and armored and every inch a warrior. “I can fight.”

“You are needed at Winterfell,” Robb seethes, “I am sendingyou back, before father discovers you’ve arrived—”

The door opens, and Lord Eddard himself walks into the hallwith Rhaenys and Night Commander Mormont. Arya involuntarily blanches as herfather’s gaze lands on her, and his frown deepens.

“Arya.”

“Father, I…” She swallows. “I deserve to fight for myself.”

The room is silent, but Jon can see the look in his uncle’seyes. Eddard is not going to allow Arya to fight; he’s going to send her home,to Winterfell. Obara and Nymeria exchange looks with Rhaenys, and Jon knowswhat they’re all thinking. Let her fight.

Jon doesn’t want her to fight. He wants to her to remainsafe in Winterfell with his mothers and Aunt Catlyn and Sansa. He wantseveryone he loves to remain safe. But if no one fights, they’ll all die. Andeven if he doesn’t want his little cousin to do so, he has no right to denyher.

Jon takes a step forward. “Uncle, Arya deserves to choose for herself.”

Robb lets out a strangled curse, and Eddard turns toward Jonwith that same solemn expression. It is Rhaenys who steps in to break thetension, laying a hand on Jon’s shoulder; an anchor. “My brother is right, LordStark. If we do not all fight, then we will all perish.”

Lord Eddard says nothing more, but the look he gives Jontells him all he wishes to know. The world is too cruel and violent for LordStark to protect his daughters…and he has run out of the strength to makehimself believe he can.

---

Jon soon forgets what it was like to have a good night’ssleep. He wakes in the darkness to the sound of wolf howls and is unsure if itis night or day. The sun rarely seems to shine on the wall, and the heavyblanket of snow and frost blocks out what meager sunlight may have existed.

His siblings huddle together for warmth and it reminds himof simpler times, when he and Aegon would slip into Rhaenys’ room after anightmare, or all three would go to find their mothers after a telltale bump inthe night had them scurrying for safety (often after an evening of frightening stories from Princess Arianna and Nymeria Sand). He remembers beingcurled up together in Rhaenys’ bedroom in Sunspear, with the sound of the windwhistling past the open window.

Now the three huddle beneath fur, the air cold and sharp andsapping away any warmth that escapes. There is comfort, in the steady presenceof others in the night, even if one of them is often called away for a meeting,or to the wall.

The battles are…nightmarish. It is difficult to find rest atall, after setting eyes on the undead. There are thousands upon thousands ofthem, and no matter how many the army of the living destroys, their numbersnever wane.

When their own fall they are burned, so that the bodies donot rise against them the next morning. The air is thick with smoke. It is ablessing that the cold hides the smell of rot, but it cannot hide the smell ofburnt flesh.

Arya knocks on the door to the siblings’ room one night, withthe telltale signs of a nightmare only moments passed. She stands in thedoorway, unsure, gaze trained on the floor; her expression is determined,because Arya dislikes showing weakness more than anything.

If she went to her father or brother for comfort, they wouldtake it as a sign of her resolve crumbling; they would order her to return toWinterfell. And so it is Jon she comes to, in her moment of weakness, becauseJon understands.

Jon glances back at his siblings; Aegon’s only response isto sigh and shift a bit on the bed to make room, while Rhaenys gives a nod, andasks Arya if she’d like to sleep with them for the night.

It becomes routine, after that, to wake in the darkness to findArya slipping into bed with them, and even if Aegon grumbles about less room tostretch his legs, no one asks her to leave.

Some nights she and Jon lay awake, whispered conversations eatingup the silence and lessening the fear of the day to come, or to speak of thefallen. Jon does not like to tally how many have died, both those he knew andthose he did not, but it helps Arya to speak of them.

“Thank you Jon,” She whispers one night, half asleep. In thefading light of the dying fire in the hearth, Jon can see the outline of herface, eyes shining like coals.

He reaches out a hand and ruffles her hair, like he’d done somany years ago. “Goodnight, Arya.”

---

It happens so quickly.

She doesn’t make a sound, when the spear goes through herstomach, but the whoosh of air through her parted lips seems to echo across thebattlefield.

Nymeria lets out an ear-splitting howl; the sound chills himto the bone, as the other wolves join in, Ghost among them.

Jon drops to his knees beside her, the roar of the battlemuffled around him, like he’s trapped underwater and everything else is abovethe surface; everything but him and Arya, who looks up at him with wide eyesand blood bubbling up from her lips.

She doesn’t say anything—can’tsay anything, it comes out as a cough, and more blood flecks against hisbreastplate. Her mouth is forming words, his name, he thinks. Jon. Jon.

She’s afraid, as she fumbles for his hand, fingers slippingon ice-covered steel, but he grabs it before it falls to the ground. “Look atme,” Jon pleads, holding her hand so tight he’s certain he can hear the bonessnapping, “Just breathe, ok?”

She nods, but he can see it, see the light dimming in hereyes, like the life fading from Aegon’s favorite mare. No no no, this is Arya. This is his cousin. His littlecousin who is supposed to grow up and become a knight and be in his sister’squeensguard.

He wonders how Teora Toland could have told Rhaenys a prophecyas she lay dying, when Arya can’t even say his name. She tries again, breathcoming out as soft whistle, blood frothing at the corners of her mouth. Jon, her mouth forms the word, but itnever makes it past her lips.

“Just breathe,” Jon repeats, looking around for help, foranyone that can fix this. Nymeriawhines, circling them both.

She’s dying. Aryais going to die. His little cousin, who wanted nothing more than to proveherself just as good as her brothers. Arya, who followed him like a ducklingaround Winterfell. Arya, the first person to ask him to make him feel like hewas allowed to be a Stark.

The tears on his cheeks have frozen by the time his brotherand sister drag him off the battlefield, still clutching Arya’s body.

---

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it anon.

#filled prompt #angst prompt #asoiaf #jon snow #arya stark #game of thrones #got #a song of ice and fire #rhaenys targaryen #aegon targaryen #warning: character death #Anonymous #cinn replies

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ijustwant2write · 7 years

Text

Stand Up For Yourself-Jon Snow x Reader One Shot

(GIF credit to owner)

Masterlist

Summary: Requested by @lachicadelamanzana: ‘Hi! Can you make a Jon Snow imagine? They are children, like 4 or 5 years old. He wants to play with the Starks but Lady Stark says he can’t and the boys make fun of him. He leaves and the reader (the daughter of a maid) finds him crying, and comforts him. Then, when they are older they are still friends and she is his maid, but they love each other. One day she defend Jon from his mother, so she threw her out into the wild. Jon goes after her and run away together?’

Characters: Jon Snow x Reader, mentions of the Starks

Meanings: (Y/N)= Your name

Warnings: I left out the boys making fun of him, sorry 😞 and it’s a bit long

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Snow was falling softly from the sky on that day, coating the grounds of Winterfell. I remember walking beside my mother, taking me to the market to collect the fabrics she needed. She was just a simple maid to the Starks, as I would be in my future. Clutching onto her hand, I merrily skipped beside her, happy to see the white snowflakes all around me.

I remember how harsh and bitter the cold was. But what really stuck out were the Stark children, also enjoying the snow as I had. Robb and Theon had been teasing Sansa, throwing snowballs at her (as well as each other), which she had squealed at. There had also been Jon Snow standing beside them, timidly joining in but with a big smile on her face. The stall we were stood by was close to them, I was able to hear everything. Just as Jon went to throw another snowball at Theon, a stern voice rang out.

“Jon! Stop that at once!” Lady Catelyn had stormed towards them, her handmaiden taking the Stark girl away.

The boys jumped at the tone of voice, looking guilty as they watched their friend take the blame. Jon looked scared, dropping the snow instantly.

“I-I am sorry. I only wanted to play-” I could see him shaking.

“You shouldn’t be playing with them anyway, you know that. Go away and bother somebody else.” Lady Stark spat, ushering Robb and Theon inside.

Without hesitation, Jon ran away, dodging anyone who he came across. There had been a horrible feeling in my stomach that day, like something wasn’t right and I could fix it.

“Mother, may I go see if Anne would like to play?” I asked sweetly.

“Of course. Just be home for lunch.”

As soon as she dismissed me, I ran after the young bastard, wanting to comfort him for some reason. It wasn’t hard to find him. He was in the Godswood, I had seen the trail of his footsteps. Crouched down by a tree, I could hear him sobbing, covering his head as if he wanted to dissapear.

“Hello.” I greeted.

He lifted his head, furiously wiping away the tears.“Who are you?”

“I’m (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” I curtsied,“you are Jon Snow.”

“Yes. Please can you leave me alone.”

“Um, I’m sorry but I just wanted to say that I think Lady Catelyn was really mean to you.”

Jon looked confused.

“She shouldn’t say things like that. She’s not a very good mother.”

“She isn’t my mother.”

“What?”

“Lord Stark is my father but I have a different mother.”

“Oh.”

“That’s why she doesn’t like me.”

I walked forward and sat beside him.“Well that’s very stupid.”

He giggled, not believing the things in was saying about her.“You’ll get in trouble if you say those things.”

“Only if I get caught.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Now years later, Jon Snow and I had become close friends, more than that really. I had started working for the Starks as soon as I turned sixteen, much to my luck becoming Jon’s maid; he may have been a bastard but he was still treated to these things. After I comforted him that day, we would play together all the time. I really like Jon, he was a great friend as a child and now a great love of mine.

Of course it was all a secret. Bastards could be married off to, maybe not to very important people but still put into an arranged marriage. Jon never strayed though.

Knocking on his bedroom door, I heard him call out before I was able to enter.“Good morning, my lord.”

He turned around, smiling.“Good morning my lady.”

“I am not a lady, you know that.” I placed his fresh sheets at the end of his bed.

“And you know that I told you not to call me lord.” Jon pulled me towards him, kissing me.

“Jon, we have to be careful. Eyes could be anywhere.” I whispered.

“You say this each time and yet you continue to let me do this.”

Footsteps started to echo down the hallway, in a moment of panic I broke out of his embrace, starting my chores again. The door opened without a knock. Peeking over my shoulder, Lady Catelyn was closing the door behind her. I turned and did my regular curtsy, waiting for further instructions.

“Wait outside.” she ordered.

Keeping my head down, I curtsied again, doing as I was told. My lady was an awful woman. I couldn’t see past how horrible she was to Jon. It made me despise her. Some days I wished to slap her arind the face, knock some sense into her. I would lose my head for that. No one stood up for Jon, ever, not even his father. It tortured me to the core, how dare they speak to my Jon in that way!

Leaning my ear against the door, I prayed that no one would walk down these corridors and catch me. It wasn’t hard to hear the one sided conversation as Lady Stark raised her voice.

“Robb and Theon are taking Bran for his first hunting trip today. You will be with them to collect whatever they kill. You better not mess this up like last time, you’re only attending because Bran wanted you to.”

I could picture his face now. He wouldn’t talk back, he was too polite, too scared.

“If I had my way, you wouldn’t even be in these quarters. Ruin Bran’s day, and there will be consequences.”

Something must have come over me, perhaps it was all the built up anger. My hands pushed at the door, making it slam against the wall. Lady Stark and Jon looked at me in surprise, their eyes wide open.

“What do you think you are doing? Get out this instant and there won’t be any punishment.” Lady Stark shouted.

I stood a little straighter, trying to seem taller.“Lady Stark, I cannot idly stand by while you throw such disgusting words in my lords face.”

Jon shook his head, silently trying to stop me. I ignored him.

“He has been nothing but loyal to you, I cannot recall a time in which he disobeyed you.”

“Young lady, you are not permitted to speak to me this way.”

“It’s not nice, is it? That is how Jon feels everyday, tiptoeing around you so that he doesn’t accidentally do anything disrespectful.”

“How dare you-”

I screamed at her.“You only hate him because he is the result of your so called 'honourable’ husband fucking a whore rather than you!”

Two sets of wide eyes stared me down. I could see the panic and sadness in Jon’s face. As soon as the words left my mouth I felt a huge relief but also stupid. I was about to lose my job, my love and possibly my head.

If Lady Stark opened her eyes any further, I was sure they would pop out of her head.“No one has ever talked like that to me in my entire life! I want you out of my castle and out of Winterfell!”

My pride got in the way.“Good. I didn’t want to stay here anymore anyway.”

I sat in the servants quarters, trying not to break down as I packed my things. I had been able to say goodbye to most of my friends, but some were still working and I’d never be able to see them again. After my mother died, they had all become even closer family. Looking at my surroundings, I sighed; this had been my home for so long, now I had thrown it all away. Stupid, stupid girl.

The snow crunched underneath my feet as I walked out of the castle with my head down. What was I supposed to do now? I had nowhere to go, no family, no friends outside of Winterfell. A part of me wondered whether I could go back inside, grovel on my knees and beg for forgiveness. Lady Stark was a headstrong woman, she wouldn’t go back on what she said.

And Jon…I wasn’t able to go to him. That’s what broke me the most. Surely he would come to see me? Were we supposed to break it off here? Would we never be together again?

“(Y/N)!” my name was called out.

Happy tears bursting from my eyes, I turned around to see Jon running towards me. He swooped me up into his arms, holding onto me tightly. His grip didn’t falter as he set me on the ground but I could see that he too was crying.

“Jon, what are you doing? You’re going to get into trouble.” I spotted a bag on his back.

“I’m going with you. You didn’t think I would let you go?”

“You would leave all of this behind? For me?”

“Winterfell isn’t my home. You are. And we’re going to go out there and build a new life for us.”

#game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones imagines #game of thrones one shot #game of thrones x reader #jon snow #jon snow imagine #jon snow imagines #jon snow x reader #jon snow one shot #theon greyjoy #theon greyjoy imagine #theon greyjoy imagines #theon greyjoy x reader #theon greyjoy one shot #ned stark #catelyn stark #robb stark

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