#Day 10: Arya’s Pack

[bookgendrya]

“[…] the crying girl’s no use either.”“You leave Weasel alone, she’s just scared and hunger is all.” Arya glanced back, but the girl was not following for once.

“Then just leave him, Arry,” Lommy pleaded. “They don’t know about the rest of us. If we hide, they’ll go away, you know they will. It’s not our fault Gendry’s captured.” “You’re stupid, Lommy,” Arya said angrily. “You’ll die if we don’t get Gendry out. Who’s going to carry you?” “You and Hot Pie” “All the time, with no one else to help? We’ll never do it, Gendry was the strong one. Anyhow, I don’t care what you say, I’m going back for him.”

She make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave them. They were her pack, her friends, the only living friends that remained to her, and if not for they would still be safe in Harrenhal, Gendry sweating at his forge and Hot Pie in the kitchens.

There was no use trying to convince the Bull of anything. Still, he was her only true friend she had, now that Hot Pie had left them.

Hot Pie and Gendry had left her just as soon as they could, and Lord Beric and the outlaws only wanted to ransom her, just like the Hound. None of them wanted her around. They were never my pack, not even Hot Pie and Gendry. I was stupid to think so, just a stupid little girl, and no wolf at all.

[laurellerual]

Day 2 and 10: Loyalty - Arya’s Pack

"She's not alone." Gendry rode out from behind the cottage wall, and behind him Hot Pie, leading her horse. In his chainmail shirt with a sword in his hand, Gendry looked almost a man grown, and dangerous. Hot Pie looked like Hot Pie.

[jackoshadows]

There is a section of fandom who think that Eddard Stark not treating Arya like Randyll Tarly treated Sam is favoritism. If they had their way, what Ned should have done is pack Arya off to the silent sisters like Randyll send Sam to the Wall. One would expect such opinions from the denizens of Westeros, not from the so called feminists of the asoiaf fandom. 

Even more mindboggling is that this very same section of fandom are also Jonsa shippers who think that, growing up in Winterfell, Jon Snow had a crush on 10/11 year old Sansa and fell in love with her because she was just so beautiful!!

Imagine reading the books and thinking on the one hand that Ned showed favoritism to Arya and on the other writing about how Jon Snow admired and loved Sansa. Just looking at the numbers alone of Arya/Sansa mentions by Ned Stark and Jon Snow:

Imagine looking at the numbers above and thinking that Ned showed favoritism while Jon lurves Sansa soooo much! Keep in mind that the rare Sansa mentions in Jon’s POV happens when he groups her together with his other siblings or when he groups her with Arya when they are in KL. Jon has never, not once over 42 POV chapters in 5 books mentioned Sansa by herself with any emotional weight.

If they think that Ned showed favoritism to Arya - which is canonically untrue -  then I find it baffling they are shipping Sansa with a character like Jon Snow who does canonically show favoritism towards Arya over all his siblings and thinks that Arya is the pinnacle of femininity. Jon Snow would trample all over Sansa without a second thought if it meant getting to Arya and saving her. That’s how much he favors one sister over the other.

While Jon agonized over Arya’s marriage and has two kings trying to save his sister, canonically he does not even spare a thought, not even one single thought of concern or worry - over Sansa’s marriage, situation and current status.

Jon Snow has canonically showed disdain for girls like Sansa, while comparing every girl he admires, appreciates and loves with Arya.

Lady Catelyn always wanted her to be like Sansa, to sing and dance and sew and mind her courtesies. - Arya, ASoS

Her mother used to say she could be pretty if she would just wash and brush her hair and take more care with her dress, the way her sister did. - The Blind girl, ADwD

Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me - Sansa, ACoK

A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. - Jon, ADwD

It was all Jon could do to stop himself from walking out. Was he supposed to churn butter and sew doublets like a girl for the rest of his days? "May I go?" he asked stiffly. - Jon, AGoT

Imagine shipping Sansa with a character like Jon Snow and then writing essays about how Sansa was traumatized by Ned’s favoritism towards Arya and that she was bitter about Ned and that Ned groomed Sansa and abused Sansa etc.

If Sansa was so bitter about Ned’s favoritism towards Arya, why in the world would she love or even like the bastard Jon Snow who quite clearly favors her ‘unsatisfactory’ little sister Arya over her? Amirite? There’s clearly some kind of disconnect going on here....

[onthesandsofdreams]

A Stark She Remains [6/?]

Fandom: ASoIaF Character: Sansa Stark Prompt: @fictober-event #10 Summary: ‘Is this normal?’ Sansa asks herself as she watches Meryn Trant’s body being taken away, and feels nothing but relief and joy.

On AO3

‘Is this normal?’ Sansa asks herself as she watches Meryn Trant’s body being taken away, and feels nothing but relief and joy.

And truth be told, she does not have an answer. After all, she is turning into a bit of a bloodthirsty person. But… is she not a Stark? Yes, she is. And her father had spoken of both her late uncle and aunt as having the wolfblood. But, was this different?

No.

Her house history had members who did what they had to do to protect their people. They fought back. The did not rolled and showed their bellies. They were wolves who haunted and ended with bloodied maws.

She could not yield a sword, or dagger and she did not know how to string bow and arrow; but she could command death. And so, she pretends to be shocked and scared, lets those present see a simpering girl, while she pulls strings from the dark.

She knew that she had to channel her inner Arya, and by the Gods, did she miss her sister. She prayed that Arya had managed to escape. Because no matter what, Arya was her sister, and she loved her no less than she loved Robb, and Bran and Rickon. And even Jon, even if she only called him half brother. Her heart yearned for her family.

She yearned for her pack.

That is when she had a moment of clarity, as she made her way back to the Godswoods. She realized that she was not the sheep the Lannisters and Joffrey made her to be. She was no less a wolf than her father had been.

After all, the wolves had to be quiet when hunting.

She sits on the ground and rest her head against the trunk of the tree, closes her eyes and savors the warmth of the sun in her skin. Soon, she will have to add more names, and these will be big ones.

She would not give them the opportunity to escape. She was the wolf hunting in the dark and she scented prey. And she would not give up soon. Not until she was safe.

And then, oh.

Tyrion Lannister would also have to go. Such a shame, he had been good in stopping her beatings, but there was only so much that he could do. As soon as the Queen left her apartments or Joffrey remembered he was King, anything could happen, especially now that Ser Jaime was dead. But whose name to add first? Tyrion or Tywin or Kevan. Tywin, the answer was Tywin and she almost felt silly for having to question which name.

Without Lord Tywin, House Lannister would lose a powerful backer. The Queen would not always remain in control, Joffrey would come of age and she doubted that he would allow his mother to do as she pleased. So, that decided it. First Tywin, then Tyrion and then Ser Kevan.

Joffrey would follow them.

And she would watch as the Queen crumbled before finally writing her name. Oh well, such a shame that things had to be that way. She had asked for mercy for her father and the result was his head on a pike. So, she would not stop now. And when she was finally home, she would rest and cry and mourn.

Not a day before.

[makahimetenshi]

How i meet your mother and the story of how Arya Maxson was concieved - Chapter 19

Im better than last time I wrote the last chapter

If you are very very very delighted with one fic and want a continuation I didn’t write or post you can donate me at least $5 bucks, most of this fics have next chapters I don’t finish because lack of motivation but hey a $5 is a $5, I see a few reviews and comments that fics that are abandoned months laters receive comments of wanting to know what happens next. Here it is, I finished my handling with you all, enjoy the fic

As far he knew only traveling in the train tunel to Pittsburg its a 3 days ride. This was fucking stupid, unnecessary, but know understand why she said he would radio him.

And 10 days later he received a radio message, of course, from Paladin Danse, obviously. He was getting tired of it, tired of Danse around them but it wasn’t the man fault entirely, it was Noras fault for not pushing him off either, of course she didn’t want to push him out.

He was asking him to come over, and of course in the same moment Nora leave he was already packing in case she called…and all his work was worth it because she called, and now he only had his bag with clothes and some supplies for his pregnant woman prepared and ready to leave.

Arthur leave the Citadel like he never did in years in company of five of his best paladins to watch his back. Pittsburg was a dangerous place after all, althought Nora once told him that the entrance and the path from the train tunel to the forge was cleaned and secured for several reasons like the wellbeing of her workers and providers but anyway he didn’t trust, and he feared for her.

There was already people waiting for them to arrive at the train stop, apparently it was an studied circuit that doesn’t have any variation so the speed should be always the same from DC to the Pitt and from the Pitt to DC back again if they didn’t meet any monsters in the way of course, she at least hoped for him to arrive that day, that’s for sure, which implies that at receiving her message he would run behind her heels, and he did god dammit.

-We are responding to the radio message of Paladin Danse -said one of his escorts, today he was not dressed as usual, today, unlike what she always told him, he was more incognito, he was different, like another soldier since it was an unknown territory and it did not seem convenient to go around showing off his person. That way, he was valuable and he knew it. Anyway if he was surrounded by 5 paladins he was obviously someone important. Also she said something about not being sentinel anymore and things should not be so brotherhood centered or something like that

They made them wait at the train station for about an hour until another troupe of brutes came walking towards them, all dressed like raiders, with bared best and spike armors, the only reason the brotherhood squad wasn’t shooting at them it was because they were chill and non aggressive, and because Nora kinda talked about him how the things were at the mill her place, so he learn something and wont be doing stupid to compromise her nono, his classism can wait a bit longer, at least until he was in front of her to reclaim stuff.

One of the raiders stand in front of them with a different port from the other weirdos, different way of standing or holding his rifle, a totally different aura…and when the man dressed in Raider blastmaster armor stranding with port and class took off his Makeshift gas mask every one was hella surprised, another of his escorts talk

-Paladin Danse!? –the escort talk, the man just nodded with a serious and authoritative countenance.

-Theres nothing to fear I assure to you all, its us under the command of Nora

-Why are you dressing like that? –ask another guard, Arthur didn’t want to talk, his paladins can manage the situation just fine.

-Oh once we reach the mill you will understand, a power armor its not exactly a good fit for that place –wait…what was Nora wearing then?

-Is it safe here?

-In the places we have control yes, that’s why we don’t fear to go around with almost no armor –wow seeing him without armor clothing was really a novelty, rare to see- come with us, we already prepared a room for you all to rest

They all walked together to the forge, Danse's small group of raiders and Arthur's escort. He really understood what the paladin told them when they saw that the sky was set on fire and the flames were burning the clouds, coming out of the chimneys like someone using a flamethrower, it was like a giant flamethrower on a large scale. And it was beautiful, scary, imposing, and very impressive. Very very impressive.

Nora bought this, this was hers, she owned hell in earth. She's A Demon, She's A Devil, she is a catch! Feeling the rain of fire almost practically fall on his body from the sky when it burns the clouds makes him worry for Noras well being here.

In this heat, his daughter must be cooking like a roast chicken in an oven in his woman's womb. Gosh they were cooking inside the power armors, he understand Danse a lot now! really a lot! It was unbereable to keep on! He felt trapped inside, like wanting to tear his skin off his muscles, jump out from the power armor, the more they walked the worse those urges grow! He never felt like this with a power armor, what is this feeling!?

-In the name of everyone on this troop we aren’t doing well –said one of the brotherhood soldiers and thank god he said it first, no one should normally talk about another brother but dear god this was difficult!

He did practices and works in field in cold environments, never hot environments, and less this hot. There was adapted power armors suited for alternative temperatures and environments but shit he never encounter something like this before. Nudity was something rare for him to see since the wastelands were so dangerous to go around in skin, a fucking mosquito can suck the blood out of you, a radroach can give you a big bite, a molerat can jump from the ground and try to eat your face, only degenerates like raiders do such stupid things

But damn it was difficult to walk or even exist inside the armor, he felt his lungs fighting to work with more air. Was he out of shape? Does he need more power armor training? In different enviroments at least…

Why was he doing this again?

The other soldiers walked among him and damn they were suffering as much, his correct mind will think in punish Danse for not wearing uniform and stain the name with the brotherhood with those filthy robes but he understand the man so much. Also he remember the day he got into the ventibird with Nora and the initiates.

She is not a butthurt, wont snitch on anybody for not wearing uniform correctly. I guess Danse get passes on that because she was a sentinel before.

What are they now? Coworkers no…friends for sure…he said she is like his sister, family. If he wasn’t anything from her he wouldn’t came to this hell by his own…

-We have already a room cold tempered for you guys, open windows and operating fans, some bulks to rest and spend the night, a fridge, a bathroom with showers and hygiene products, a power armor station and some chests to leave your personal stuff under lock –wow she always organize such accomodations for brotherhood soldiers in everyplace she goes, heard about that once, she call it guest room, odd, guess she take some advices from Danse

The inside of the forge wasn’t like anything he had see before, and it was weird, why he never come to this place to check out? Nora take the forge a few years ago with the brotherhood, it was so strange that nobody asked him to supervise the operation in which the brotherhood and its resources take part of…but the place was almost magical, a show of strength and human effort in so many aspects. The people working with all their strength, the knowleage put into protection and security to protect the workers hard labor and integrity in such a hard and exhausting enviroment, surely Nora ideas from the old world because he hadn’t see nothing like that before, the organization of the ways, walks, supervisors, proctors, indications, signalization, the smells of melting metal, burning charcoal, sparkles of fire and magma flying around in the air as particles…he swallowed saliva and for some reason felt a heavy presion in the chest

The entire process was…mesmerizing to see and take part of, maybe not working because it was exhausting and very physically demanding for what he can see but just being able to move his head around while being scorted was such a luxury.

There was fire in the air, his eyes burned and he needed to close a bit his lids to see better the process in which they recycled metals to burn and melt them inside a very hot furnace inside trays of god knows what type of material, taking the processed product out as melted shiny metal liquid on top of a showel out to move it to some molds, different kinds of molds, different stuff, different uses, some liquids had a different shine or colour and they go to different molds, he supposed some were bullets, another guns, another seems to be by the size armors, like, metal armors, some pieces even for power armors, and some other were very very small, didn’t actually see what they were because there was a red fog in the air clouding his vision.

Danse was scorting him, particulary him, to Noras quarters, how the hell does she lives in this hell? Not live full time but it was kinda enough to stay here for a few days…and the man at his side seem just fine with it, I mean, sweating a lot, out of uniform like he wasn’t used to see him but he doesn’t have a problem to accompany her to hell itself.

If something happened to her, he surely would commit suicide to walk together to hell just like now.

It wasn’t an easy way, of course not, neither perfect, more precarious when you stop being amazed and start seeing things clearly. The floors were broken and sagging with large cracks so the workers although they had very heavy and big boots walk looking to the front and ground, trying to not burn someone to death with melted metal and also watch for their steps to not fall and broke their noses to the ground. Even for Arthur it was kinda difficult to walk with the big power armor feets.

Also there was a huge hole in the ground with bars too, strange.

Once they surpassed the factory they walked to a place Danse called Haven…and of course such a place will be Noras quarters and residence, the only fucking reason she choose the Tenpeny tower over this place surely is the weather around, and maybe the possibility of cancer of course but godamn wasn’t this part of her refined tastes?

There was also something kind of surprising, the old statue of a slave with chains near to fire exits, which he heard of in reports but actually never see in person since he never came to this place now had another sculpture from the same materials and in the same style, the other sculpture was breaking his chains with an axe.

I mean it wasn’t perfect, and it was pretty difficult to see but you can get the general idea knowing the context of the place.

Tho it obviously wasn’t Nora idea of course, this place has much history than only her.

That’s right, he shouldn’t think so high of her, he shouldn’t be that surprised, she isn’t perfect, she isn’t a goddess, she shouldn’t be that big of a deal to him, to not hurt himself, that’s right.

The inside of the building was nice, nicer than most buildings but its not like they were teleporting outside of the wastelands some collapse here and there, some stairs in poor condition, a hole in the ceiling, fallen plaster, lots of debris... typical, the only really really dangerous thing was a column supported by scaffolding but meh normal, of course it compromises the structure and integrity of the building but nothing he hadn’t see before.

Danse abruptly stop in front of a door, a door that was guarded by two people who may seem like your typical raiders for how they were dressing but their gazes were more soft, chill, relaxed, surely now they were living the vida loca not fighting everyday to have 3 meals, away from the trog menace, which lower risks of getting sick now, with a roof over their heads to sleep almost comfortable every night...surviving but for good surely, wasn’t that bad.

His paladin open the door a bit with the handle and Arthur understood, he get in front of the opening and quickly get inside as the other man open and shut the door behind him.

There was a breeze running in that room, as every window was open wide but quickly his eyes find what he was looking for.

Well wasn’t this a hot view? More than hot, almost umbereable, damn now he wanted to take the power armor appart from his body!

Nora was laying on a sofa looking at him dressed in a Country girl outfit, her big belly exposed and surely breathing even if he can swear her white skin will be burning under his hand if he posed.

-Welcome –she said with a muffled voice.

A sharp pain hit the back of his mind, he crossed his eyebrows worried as instincly coming out from his power armor, like there was no danger around, around her he should be fine, his body needed to feel safe to take out the damn armor that was right now a furnace

-Its something wrong? –he ask coming out and getting comfortable, oh my god that was necessary, its like a big cloud of hot air sluddenly leave his entire body.

-Im just down from the temperature, that’s all –she said as he take off desesperatly even his black suit goddamnit-I have some clothes for you, I was waiting.

-Not dressing like raider scum even inside here –he said firmly.

-Okay –she mumble smiling- I also have some shorts and shirt…

-Right now short is enough –he heard her laugh in the distance.

Once he was dressed with the clothes she leave in top of the table the first thing he did was place a hand on top of her forehead, checking while she was laying.

-You can also bathe but im afraid we don’t have hot water here…-she said with a defying smile, Arthur pick up her cheeks with a hand and moved her face around playing, laughing.

-Alright, give me five –Arthur sat on the ground next to the couch to not bother, and also, the ceramic was a bit more fresh than the leather couch- Are you alright?

She nodded- Its not easy on this body, but im at least taking care of what I needed, people I needed to see personally to make them understand shit

-You don’t intimidate me with that big thing –he said laughing.

-Not me, but maybe my guards

-Oh yeah the big bulk guy with the scar in the eye, you know the one with the three sunburns dots…-Nora look at him for a moment and then laugh- big arms and pects.

-I don’t think so, the fact that he is so hairy makes him look like a teddy bear

He imagined Danse as a teddy bear, yeah, maybe, he can see it.

-Why did you call me here? I received his message but not yours, didn’t say much

And frankly, he couldn’t help much if she had some pain or infirmity, that’s the simple true, sure, he can be at her side but it wasn’t actually urgent for him to be here.

-What? Its it really that bad here? –the man stood in silence, so she understand the hint- i…i…-she swallowed, it wasn’t something actually easy to say, less to rationalize, it was stupid and it will sound stupid, selfish, a waste of resources because she had cravings-I wanted to see you

The man raised an eyebrow and look at her, a mean comment resonated in his mind like an impulse, a flashback from so not long ago- really?

That felt like a kick in the lower stomach for Nora-also Arya started moving when I ask for that message so…-instinctively like nothing else matters his hand moved to her belly, it was nonsense but he hoped to felt something, her hot palm posed on top of his carefully moving it around

-Right now was specially quiet because im not active but…-it just felt right for her just guiding his hand around, he had the right tho, he was the dad of their daughter, and he really seemed to want to stay around-hold on-gosh the look on his eyes, he was so focused on her belly, he has love puppy eyes-I felt something

It surprised Arthur even if she announced it, he felt a pressure on his palm, coming from her skin, a buldge hitting there, Nora see the change on his eyes and leave his hand alone to move around so it wasn’t a trick or she wasn’t modifying anything, he can live the experience his own and damn this was the second time she experienced it with a man at her side, it was magical everysingle time doesn’t matter it it was the old world or now. Sure it take her by surprise when she was alone a few days ago but she knew the first thing she had to do was contact Arthur, it was a promise and it felt wrong to not have the man at his side

-It is her? –she nodded.

-Of course silly- who else who it be?- I didn’t just swallow a molerat!

A second hand place around as the other moved, looking for more kicks-it gets more strong like this?

-I didn’t want to touch it much–she responded and the man look at her confused- it’s a thing we should do together

That was odd-Well –he cought a bit getting closer, placing his cheek on a side of her belly, still touching-you should wait on the citadel with me until she started to kick, to have our first time together-Nora laughed, what about first times? Her cheeks blushed, they weren’t on that level…or did they? Did he want to be on that level? Maybe…but what about her? Did she want?-It turned worse than this? –he knew it could be kinda painful more than just surprising, gosh he lost his breath and cant get it back even now, the feeling on his palm robbed something out of him, didn’t know if it was his reason or his heart.

-Sometimes, not much tho, she still needs to grow much more

There was a fog in the mans brain, like he cant focus his thoughts, his hand moved by its own searching for the next kick all around Noras belly, never actually see it that big until now. All his life he knew this moment will occur, he had this visions or images of the life around his heir but there she was now in reality, the real Maxson heir, Arya, underneath his hand, and he didn’t knew if he ever felt so much emotion for something that was kinda like a promise, Nora make him a promise to give him a child, that child wasn’t on his hands…until now…and damn he was so emotional about it.

Another kick in his hand make him jump a bit, scaring Nora in the process.

-Its so hot in here but it was worth the trip –he said smiling at her, he seemed at peace, eased, and Nora liked to cause that even if it was a primitive feeling because he was her partner and kinda have this connection because of their daughter right now, she wasn’t razionaliting things well, but the feelings were nice, a nice change of all the rush you can feel in the wastelands

-Im happy you are here- and he came as fast as it was possible by the time she ask for the message also. Arthur raised a bit his head and look into her eyes, that was odd from her part.

In some moments he wanted to believe, to enjoy this moments without thinking much, to actually felt loved back but no. This was her pregnant brain talking, the hormones, this wasn’t her. She loved Danse. And himself as a man of reason, he thinks enough and understand that she will forever love the paladin, what ever comes from her mouth is meaningless, he shouldn’t take her feelings seriously.

No matter how charming she is, or how much he wish a woman like her to actually love him back, she will not be the one. He was getting used to the idea of also reject her feelings, for his own sake, to not hurt his heart with dumb illusions she cant keep up because the paladin crave deep into her heart without wanting it.

He will rationalize this, be smart, not trust and don’t let himself get carried in feelings that will only crush his heart apart.

Nora will be the mother of his childrens, that’s all, as she will always love Danse.

It will be hard to carry on as they had a very good relationship and he actually wished a woman like her…but not her, he learned enough about it, after all the paladin is around them even in this hell The Pitt is.

[bookhousestark]

She dreamed of wolves most every night. A great pack of wolves, with her at the head.

— A Storm of Swords, Arya XII 

We’re incredibly happy to announce the ARYA STARK APPRECIATION MONTH as our next event! 31 days dedicated to the book character Arya Stark from the “A Song of Ice and Fire” series by George R.R. Martin — from May 1st to May 31st. We’ll accept edits, metas, art, any other fan work or simply your favorite moments about Arya Stark in her book version to celebrate her character together 💚

Please, remember to use the tag #AryaStarkMonth2022 so we can find and reblog your posts. If you missed a day we’ll still accept your submission afterwords!

Here is the list of prompts:

Day 1: Nature motifs.

Day 2: Nymeria.

Day 3: Jon Snow.

Day 4: Favourite quotes (about or by Arya). 

Day 5: House Stark. 

Day 6: Favourite book moments.

Day 7: Personality traits and underrated qualities. 

Day 8: Favourite books, chapters or arcs. 

Day 9: Smallfolk. 

Day 10: Women in Arya’s life

Day 11: House of Black and White (The Faceless men)

Day 12: Braavos.  

Day 13: Friendship

Day 14: Identities

Day 15: Romantic interests. 

Day 16: Magic and skinchanging. 

Day 17: Relationship with trauma. 

Day 18: Mentors 

Day 19: Intelligence, skills and learning. 

Day 20: Politics.

Day 21: Bravest moments. 

Day 22: Humorous and soft moments. 

Day 23: Men in Arya’s life.

Day 24: Compassion and kindness. 

Day 25: Family

Day 26: Lyanna Stark.

Day 27: Historical/mythological/fairytale parallels.

Day 28: Parallels with other characters. 

Day 29: Feminist moments. 

Day 30: Anticipated meetings. 

Day 31: Ending speculations

[buttercuparry]

Day 8: favorite arc

My favorite Arya arc would be the current one; of her time in Braavos.

Throughout the series, we have seen this 9 year old girl suffer unimaginable horrors. Forced to flee into the streets of KL- Arya has known what it is to starve. She learns that in a world that only knows need and hunger, she would be killed for the boots on her feet and the cloak on her back. She realises that for those who live beyond the walls of a castle, life doesn't bring them a knight from a song. Because when these iron clad men do come; they come to rain fire, death and destruction...tearing them apart like a pack of wolves or like a pride of lions.

Arya has tasted death; she has bit into maggot filled apples that grow between hanging men and perhaps even drank from lakes that have become watery graves to bloating bodies. She has heard the screams of those who have been violated- used as a commodity only to be killed when met with resistance.

Arya has lost her kin, her home, her friends.

So even if her Westerosi arc is filled with powerful moments; I prefer the Braavos one.

Mind you that by this I don't mean to indicate that her time with the FM is a flowery field; she is in a constant peril of losing the tether to her identity. But even so I love it as she once again gets to play at being a 10-11 year old.

There is something almost beautiful in getting to see Arya freely interacting with people again. In getting to see her appreciate the "pink and blue" dawn and the "sharp and salty" air that blows over the canals. She isn't constantly looking over her shoulder to see if she being chased by the bloody mummers or by Lannister men and what's more is that she is not starving anymore:

Supper was her favorite time. It had been a long while since Arya had gone to sleep every night with a full belly. 

I feel like these lines have both literal and figurative significance:

Westeros has been ravaged by war- a vision of which Dany was shown in the house of Undying. While the powerful sups on swan meat and makes provisions to arrange luxury parties at the onset of winter, the common folks suffer not only the misfortunes of the season but they also have to deal with being collateral damage in the play of politics. The result is a kingdom full of rot, hunger, starvation, stagnation, death and misery.

In Braavos though, Arya gets to witness the life a commoner leads when it is untouched by war. It is not perfect, nor is it without its danger, but still somehow it carries a hope of a future. It allows one a moment of serenity, it allows its young lovers to frolic in peace.

Brusco's daughter Brea meets a boy on the roof when her father is asleep, she thought. Brea lets him touch her, Talea says, even though he's just a roof rat and all the roof rats are supposed to be thieves. 

It also allows a confluence of cultures (which in turn hints at trade and a relatively steady economy) and a laugh to be shared among friends

She liked the sailors too; the boisterous Tyroshi with their booming voices and dyed whiskers; the fair-haired Lyseni, always trying to niggle down her prices; the squat, hairy sailors from the Port of Ibben, growling curses in low, raspy voices. Her favorites were the Summer Islanders, with their skins as smooth and dark as teak. They wore feathered cloaks of red and green and yellow, and the tall masts and white sails of their swan ships were magnificent...

Cat had made friends along the wharves; porters and mummers, ropemakers and sailmenders, taverners, brewers and bakers and beggars and whores. They bought clams and cockles from her, told her true tales of Braavos and lies about their lives, and laughed at the way she talked when she tried to speak Braavosi. 

Hence why is the Braavos storyline my Favourite out of all other Arya arcs.

[lj-todd]

A Wolf and a Mountain

So, @mischief11things requested a follow up to this post and while I didn’t have the creative energy to write out full scenes/ficlets like I normally would have, I did try and answer the questions I failed to cover in earlier works.

2. Would Ned somehow live longer or survive if he is mainly focused on his missing son than about the Lannisters?

- Word reaches Ned of Jon’s “abduction” a day or so before he confronts Cersei with his stupid paper shield and, fearing now not only for his daughters but his “son”, Ned leaves Kings Landing with Sansa and Arya in tow and all but flies for the North, where he intends to learn what exactly has happened and where to begin the search for Jon and Gregor.

With Ned’s survival and search for his “son”, Joffrey is proclaimed King without much fuss but, unfortunately, this also means that when Stannis, who has already received Ned’s letter, rises in rebellion he has a very loyal Warden of the North to back him when the time comes.

4. In what ways would the mountain go about trying to keep Jon if his family wanted to reclaim him?

- Gregor is definitely heading for the Westerlands and the protection of House Lannister whom he has served loyally for years.

Lord Tywin is not pleased to find one of his most loyal bannermen has turned up at Casterly Rock with the bastard son of the Warden of the North but Gregor has been insanely loyal but does not turn them away. Gregor does not tell Jon that his family is searching for him, instead he acts as though everything is fine and continues as they had been.

In the end though, Tywin is no fool, he knows one loyal dog is not worth facing the wrath of an entire wolf pack and, as such, orders Gregor to either return Jon or make peace with the Starks as best he can.

8. Could Jon’s place being the rightful king protect Gregor from Daenerys’ desire for revenge for her murdered family if he chose to use it so?

- It’s not going to matter if Jon is the rightful king or still just a bastard from the North, Daenerys looks at Gregor the same way she looks at Jaime Lannister. Killer. Monster. Butcher. This is a man who directly participated in the slaughter of her family, of her nephew and her sister-by-law, and she will not forget or forgive it. She tolerates both only so long as they are useful but has already decided that the moment that usefulness is no more or the moment he does something she deems wrong or monstrous she will have vengeance.

10. Would zombie!Gregor recognize or hurt Jon?

- This is tricky because it was demonstrated that zombie!Gregor is capable of recognizing people, otherwise I doubt very much he would have protected Cersei but at the same time the amount of recall and recognition is uncertain and not guaranteed.

So, personally, I think at first zombie!Gregor would perceive Jon as a threat and would attack him and it would only end when Jon, who didn’t want to hurt Gregor, was left with no choice but to strike a killing blow.

And just because I love my angst/heartbreak, in Gregor’s last moments, dying in Jon’s arms, he recognizes his beloved wolf and, with his final breath, whispers the young man’s name for the last time.

[saphira-approves]

Eragon’s Guide to Alagaësia: A Brief Review/No or Little Context Reactions To Certain Features of the Book

okay so i had planned to publish this post the day I actually got the book but uh. I had just moved out of my dorm for winter break after pulling an all-nighter to pack/clean my room, gotten to my sister’s house, read the book, wrote this, decided not to post it because I knew I was sleep deprived, promptly passed out and then… completely forgot about this post.

SO. here it is. my Belated Review. enjoy ;)

1. okay so obviously the -ology book nostalgia, I just have to get this out of the way. I had two whole copies of the Princess one, I was absolutely obsessed with them, and all the little pockets and samples and envelopes and hidden flaps are bringing back MEMORIES alright

2. overall quality is… well. -ology book quality, ya feel? terrified the little envelopes and hidden flaps are gonna rip from the slightest touch of my fingers. but honestly considering how much these must cost to make compared to a regular book i don’t really blame them. just wish my anxiety wasn’t debating with me the merits of never seeing something if it means i don’t rip the thing.

3. OKAY actual content review stuff now: ERAGON WHAT DARK SHADOW, WHAT UNSETTLED TIMES, WHY ARE YOU NOT AT THE HALL OF THE RIDERS, DID MURTAGH CALL YOU???? WHAT’S GOING ON I WANT TO KNOW—

4. that is NOT how i expected dragon wing to feel. huh.

5. ah, Eragon, still pining for Arya I see.

6. Having felt goats before, that is NOT how I expected giant goat fur to feel. I’ll take it though. Is soft.

7. That is an… interesting illustration of Shruikan. He looks like he wants… belly rubs?

…has Shruikan ever GOTTEN belly rubs????

8. …I have questions about the saddle design.

9. ……Eragon, did you get your hand all dusty so you could put your handprint in here??? WHY IS YOUR HAND SO SMALL—WHY IS MY HAND BIGGER THAN YOURS—

10. I’ll admit, I was expecting the elves to have slightly nicer-feeling fabric than that. Unless you made that yourself, Eragon, in which case I don’t mean to be harsh but why is it woven so loosely—

11. sure hope you got the grammar right this time

12. Eragon pines for dwarven cities almost as much as he pines for Arya. I have spoken.

13. ERAGON WHO ARE YOU TRUSTING WITH THIS INFORMATION, EVERY NEW RIDER WHO COMES TO MT ARNGOR?!

In conclusion: something shady is going down, and Eragon is still very quintessentially Eragon. Also someone please get this boy some brain cells.

[alinaastarkov]

Motherhood - Arya, Daenerys, Brienne and Sansa

So this is in response to an ask I got and it ended up really long so I thought I would post separately. I’m not great at writing proper metas but this is my poor imitation of one at least, so here goes.

Motherhood and children are key parts of Arya, Brienne and Dany’s arcs. They all act as mothers to other characters in their stories and seem to have a natural maternal instinct that you normally don’t find in female characters who are gnc because men usually just can’t write strong women. Ususally female characters get the choice between children or having skills, but Brienne, Arya and Dany get both in their arcs. On the flip side, Sansa on the outside is a prime candidate for motherhood - she dreams of having children, is romantic, traditionally feminine, etc. But GRRM deconstructs these tropes by almost making her not very maternal at all.

Sansa outwardly conforms to patriarchal gender norms but she doesn’t take joy in or have the instincts of a mother. Her dreams were usually limited to marriage and not much beyond that. She’s growing out of her superficial desires, obviously, but she always thought about romance and being a lady, and having babies was a part of that because of the society she grows up in. She never wanted to actually care for children, she was just told that was an essential part of a “happy ending” and so she bought it. Her dreams about children were only ever about babies. She wants the fantasy, not the reality of raising kids. We can see with her behaviour with Sweetrobin - though it is improving - she really doesn’t have those motherly instincts and disdains the truths of having to care for someone younger.

It was more than Sansa could stand. "Robert, stop that." Instead he swung the doll again, and a foot of wall exploded. She grabbed for his hand but she caught the doll instead. There was a loud ripping sound as the thin cloth tore. Suddenly she had the doll's head, Robert had the legs and body, and the rag-and-sawdust stuffing was spilling in the snow. Lord Robert's mouth trembled. "You killlllllllled him," he wailed. Then he began to shake. It started with no more than a little shivering, but within a few short heartbeats he had collapsed across the castle, his limbs flailing about violently. White towers and snowy bridges shattered and fell on all sides. Sansa stood horrified, but Petyr Baelish seized her cousin's wrists and shouted for the maester. - Sansa VII, ASOS

Robert's lip quivered. "I was going to come sleep with you." I know you were. Sweetrobin had been accustomed to crawling in beside his mother, until she wed Lord Petyr. Since Lady Lysa's death he had taken to wandering the Eyrie in quest of other beds. The one he liked best was Sansa's . . . which was why she had asked Ser Lothor Brune to lock his door last night. She would not have minded if he only slept, but he was always trying to nuzzle at her breasts, and when he had his shaking spells he often wet the bed. - Sansa I, AFFC

Alayne understood all that well enough, but it meant that the burden of getting Sweetrobin safely down the mountain fell on her. "Give his lordship a cup of sweetmilk," she told the maester. "That will stop him from shaking on the journey down." "He had a cup not three days past," Colemon objected. "And wanted another last night, which you refused him." "It was too soon. My lady, you do not understand. As I've told the Lord Protector, a pinch of sweetsleep will prevent the shaking, but it does not leave the flesh, and in time . . ." "Time will not matter if his lordship has a shaking fit and falls off the mountain. If my father were here, I know he would tell you to keep Lord Robert calm at all costs." "I try, my lady, yet his fits grow ever more violent, and his blood is so thin I dare not leech him any more. Sweetsleep . . . you are certain he was not bleeding from the nose?" "He was sniffling," Alayne admitted, "but I saw no blood." "I must speak to the Lord Protector. This feast . . . is that wise, I wonder, after the strain of the descent?" [...] "Just give him a cup of the sweetmilk before we go, and another at the feast, and there should be no trouble." "Very well." They paused at the foot of the stairs. "But this must be the last. For half a year, or longer." "You had best take that up with the Lord Protector." She pushed through the door and crossed the yard. Colemon only wanted the best for his charge, Alayne knew, but what was best for Robert the boy and what was best for Lord Arryn were not always the same. Petyr had said as much, and it was true. Maester Colemon cares only for the boy, though. Father and I have larger concerns. - Alayne II, AFFC

In the last quote she says she has “larger concerns” than Robin’s health. All these characters are forced into motherly roles, even if they don’t like it at first, but Sansa is the only one of them who never actually feels that instinct to care for the child over other concerns. Not all people have motherly instincts so this is not a bad thing, it is simply a truth about her character. She does not have the connection to motherhood and children that others do.

Brienne, Arya and Dany on the other hand don’t conform to gender norms but they don’t disdain traditionally feminine women and all have super maternal instincts. Motherhood and children are an important part of all these characters’ arcs. With Dany, it’s blindingly obvious, and Brienne and Arya have this on a smaller scale, but they all care for and protect people like mothers. Sometimes this means being forceful to ensure they listen and are protected, but all mothers do the same.

The fire leapt from one house to another. Arya saw a tree consumed, the flames creeping across its branches until it stood against the night in robes of living orange. Everyone was awake now, manning the catwalks or struggling with the frightened animals below. She could hear Yoren shouting commands. Something bumped against her leg, and she glanced down to discover the crying girl clutching her. "Get away!" She wrenched her leg free. "What are you doing up here? Run and hide someplace, you stupid." She shoved the girl away. - Arya IV, ACOK

They found Gerren too, but he was hurt too bad to move. As they were running toward the barn, Arya spied the crying girl sitting in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by smoke and slaughter. She grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet as the others raced ahead. The girl wouldn't walk, even when slapped. Arya dragged her with her right hand while she held Needle in the left. Ahead, the night was a sullen red. The barn's on fire, she thought. Flames were licking up its sides from where a torch had fallen on straw, and she could hear the screaming of the animals trapped within. Hot Pie stepped out of the barn. "Arry, come on! Lommy's gone, leave her if she won't come!" Stubbornly, Arya dragged all the harder, pulling the crying girl along. Hot Pie scuttled back inside, abandoning them . . . but Gendry came back, the fire shining so bright on his polished helm that the horns seemed to glow orange. He ran to them, and hoisted the crying girl up over his shoulder. "Run!" - Arya IV, ACOK

"Mostly just roofs," Arya admitted, "but some chimneys were smoking, and I heard a horse." The Weasel put her arms around her leg, clutching tight. Sometimes she did that now. [...] "If we see any leg potion, we'll bring it," Gendry said. "Arry, let's go, I want to get near before the sun is down. Hot Pie, you keep Weasel here, I don't want her following." [...] "You leave Weasel alone, she's just scared and hungry is all." Arya glanced back, but the girl was not following for once. Hot Pie must have grabbed her, like Gendry had told him. [...] Lommy and Hot Pie almost shit themselves when she stepped out of the trees behind them. "Quiet," she told them, putting an arm around Weasel when the little girl came running up. [...] "She ran off when she heard you coming," Lommy said. "You made a lot of noise." And Arya thought, Run, Weasel, run as far as you can, run and hide and never come back.  - Arya V, ACOK

She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave them. They were her pack, her friends, the only living friends that remained to her, and if not for her they would still be safe at Harrenhal, Gendry sweating at his forge and Hot Pie in the kitchens. If the Mummers catch us, I'll tell them that I'm Ned Stark's daughter and sister to the King in the North. I'll command them to take me to my brother, and to do no harm to Hot Pie and Gendry. They might not believe her, though, and even if they did . . . Lord Bolton was her brother's bannerman, but he frightened her all the same. I won't let them take us, she vowed silently, reaching back over her shoulder to touch the hilt of the sword that Gendry had stolen for her. I won't. - Arya I, ASOS

Arya with Weasel is such a strong example of her motherly instincts. Even though Arya is only 9/10 herself, she takes it upon herself to care for others even when everyone else is telling her not too. Like every other mother, she forces Weasel to do what’s best for her, protecting her even if it makes Weasel upset for a while. At least she’s alive and safe. And she’s good at being motherly too. Eventually, Weasel is actively seeking out Arya as her protector, clinging to her leg, and Arya holds Weasel so casually and naturally, it’s pretty much automatic. And her attachment to her “pack” throughout is just an extension of this because she is always “at the head”, the leader, the protector, the mother.

"They will not hurt me," she told him. "They are my children, Jorah." She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode to them, the bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her. "Mother," they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. "Mother," they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. "Mother, Mother, Mother!" - Daenerys IV, ASOS

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. "No," she said. "I will not march my people off to die." My children. "There must be some way into this city." - Daenerys V, ASOS

Safe. The word made Dany's eyes fill up with tears. "I want to keep you safe." Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. "No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don't always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …" "… mother," whispered Missandei. "Mother to dragons." Dany shivered. "No. Mother to us all." Missandei hugged her tighter. "Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court." "We'll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes." When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle. - Daenerys II, ADWD

The motherhood part of Dany’s arc is pretty much undeniable. She is the mother to dragons, mother to all her people. She calls them her “children”, they call her “Mhysa” and their care is her primary concern. As seen in the last quote, she agonises over not protecting them well enough, she worries constantly that she is putting them in danger when all she wants to do is keep them safe. Missandei reminds her that she is their mother and she is protecting them as best she can, and like Arya and Brienne she acts motherly in a more personal sense here, making Missandei giggle. Without a doubt, Dany is the best protector her children could have asked for. Motherhood I’m sure will only become more prevalent in Dany’s story going forward.

So far he had been true to his word, and Brienne had been true to hers. Podrick had not complained. Every time he raised a new blister on his sword hand, he felt the need to show it to her proudly. He took good care of their horses too. He is still no squire, she reminded herself, but I am no knight, no matter how many times he calls me "ser." She would have sent him on his way, but he had nowhere to go. Besides, though Podrick said he did not know where Sansa Stark had gone, it might be that he knew more than he realized. Some chance remark, half-remembered, might hold the key to Brienne's quest. - Brienne III, AFFC

Brienne had been betrothed at seven, to a boy three years her senior, Lord Caron's younger son, a shy boy with a mole above his lip. They had only met the once, on the occasion of their betrothal. Two years later he was dead, carried off by the same chill that took Lord and Lady Caron and their daughters. Had he lived, they would have been wed within a year of her first flowering, and her whole life would have been different. She would not be here now, dressed in man's mail and carrying a sword, hunting for a dead woman's child. More like she'd be at Nightsong, swaddling a child of her own and nursing another. It was not a new thought for Brienne. It always made her feel a little sad, but a little relieved as well. - Brienne III, AFFC

One of the women was very old, one was heavy with child, and one was a girl as fresh and pretty as a flower in spring. When Meribald took them off to hear their sins, Ser Hyle chuckled, and said, "It would seem the gods walk with us . . . at least the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone." Podrick looked so astonished that Brienne had to tell him no, they were only three marsh women. - Brienne V, AFFC

"Podrick has never harmed you. My father will ransom him. Tarth is called the sapphire isle. Send Podrick with my bones to Evenfall, and you'll have sapphires, silver, whatever you want." [...] Brienne felt the hemp constricting, digging into her skin, jerking her chin upward. Ser Hyle was cursing them eloquently, but not the boy. Podrick never lifted his eyes, not even when his feet were jerked up off the ground. If this is another dream, it is time for me to awaken. If this is real, it is time for me to die. All she could see was Podrick, the noose around his thin neck, his legs twitching. Her mouth opened. Pod was kicking, choking, dying. Brienne sucked the air in desperately, even as the rope was strangling her. Nothing had ever hurt so much. She screamed a word.  - Brienne VIII, AFFC

Brienne is similar to Arya in terms of motherly instincts. She maybe begrudges her responsibility to Pod at first, but she recognises that responsibility straight away and takes it on nevertheless, protecting him, teaching him, encouraging him. Pod meanwhile seems to love Brienne, taking pride in being her squire, wanting to be at her side at all times. In the end, honour, quite possibly the most important thing for Brienne, is sacrificed to save Pod’s life.

It’s another deconstruction of classic fairy tale characters. Motherhood is associated with protection, and so the gnc women in the series taking on protector roles of the more traditional sense (ruling, wielding a sword, knighthood, etc.) are also mothers at the same time, and the classic princess is what she would realistically be like - superficial and largely without those instincts. It’s another reason to think Arya/ Brienne/ Daenerys will end the series with children of their own.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 10

Rated Explicit.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Ten: In Pieces

"In pieces does it go.

He may collect them bit by bit – he may clutch them tight to his chest, settle them side by side hoping for them to slip into place like jigsaws, but they will always stay as pieces.

This is how longing goes." -

Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"I hope you are enjoying Winterfell, my lord," Catelyn says with a nod Jon's way, eyes warm about the hall as their guests dance. Three days after he and Sansa's arrival, the Tyrell procession had made its way to Winterfell as well, and the festivities had begun in earnest. Amid the flood of bodies engaged in the hall, Robb twirls Sansa around merrily, and Lord Stark dances with Lady Margaery, while the rest of the Starks watch on from their places at the head table.

Jon raises a cup to Lady Stark in his seat beside her. "You've all been very welcoming, I thank you, my lady." Not that he would expect a Targaryen prince, even a bastard one, to ever be turned away. The Starks are too honorable for that, and too keen to the North's already shaky relationship with the crown.

Catelyn smiles shrewdly at his compliment.

Jon catches the motion, and thinks perhaps she understands better than any of them.

"You haven't even been to the training yard yet, Jon," Bran bemoans, picking at his meal.

Arya raises a brow at the casual address. "Oh, 'Jon', is it?"

Catelyn sends a reproachful look Bran's way. "That isn't proper, Bran."

"Well, he's our brother now, isn't he?" Rickon asks around a mouthful of food.

Catelyn tuts at her youngest's manners, a sharply raised brow sending the boy scrambling for a napkin to cover his mouth, a sheepish look adorning his face.

Jon chuckles beneath his breath.

"He lets me call him Jon," Bran argues, turning to him then. "Don't you, Jon?"

Jon leans back in his chair, setting his wineglass back to the table. "Aye, that I do."

"Except, of course, when we're sparring," Bran continues, attention turned back to his meal nonchalantly. "Then it's always 'my lord'."

"You could still do with a bit of deference, after all, little lord. And sparring requires discipline," Jon chuckles, bringing his glass to his lips when he sees Lady Stark glance his way again curiously.

"Ha! Discipline," Arya scoffs, head cocked Bran's way. "I'd pay to see that. This one has all the discipline of an ass – and the stubbornness, too."

Catelyn's chiding 'Arya' is a soft hiss of breath, and Jon wonders if this is what all Stark dinners are like. Something about it settles steady in his chest, an anchoring – an ease.

Bran glares at his sister. "Ser Jaime thinks I'm coming along well," he defends. "And he certainly knows better than your 'dancing instructor'," he mocks.

Arya's eyes narrow so quickly Jon almost misses it. The look is so strangely reminiscent of Sansa, but in a blunted, imprecise kind of way, that Jon is actually taken aback.

"Syrio could wipe the floor with your precious knight," she sneers back.

Bran opens his mouth to retort but Catelyn's voice cuts through the conversation then.

"Ser Jaime Lannister?" she asks, lips pursed tight.

Jon glances to her, watches her shoulders bunch minutely.

She wipes her hands over her skirts demurely, brushing away imaginary lint when she fixes Bran with a raised brow. "Your father hadn't informed me of that."

Bran almost looks contrite. "Jon helped me get the position. And Father did approve, eventually. Really, Mother, it's a good arrangement."

Catelyn shifts her gaze to Jon, cool and unaffected, but the lift of her chin tells Jon to be wary. "You had a hand in my son's squiring?"

Jon nods, fingers thrumming along the stem of his wineglass. "I did."

She purses her lips, hands bunching in her lap. "Ser Jaime Lannister, hmm? And you thought that wise?"

There's a current of something in her voice then, something Jon cannot identify, but it makes him no less apologetic. "It was the boy's wish," he tells her, no appeasement in his tone. Only truth.

Catelyn watches him for a moment longer, and then she offers a tight smile. "Sometimes it does to deny a boy's wish, my lord," she says meaningfully. "They do not always understand what they ask for, after all."

Jon nods, rolling the words along his tongue, before tilting his head toward her when he speaks, "The men they become understand well enough, my lady, one way or another."

A smile cracks the edges of her lips, a faint nod offered in his direction before she's reaching for her mug of ale. "I suppose you are right."

Jon takes another swig from his own drink in acknowledgement, a thrum of understanding passing between them unspoken.

"I'm not a 'boy'," Bran grumbles from the other side of Lady Stark, hardly audible.

Arya beams victoriously at him.

"I thank you all the same, my lord, for your attentions to my sons," Catelyn says, her shoulders easing somewhat as she settles back in her seat, her heavy mug held surprisingly delicately before her lips. "It was not them you were wed to, after all." She releases a graceful chuckle with the words.

Jon allows a small smile in return. "No, but," and he looks at Bran then, face softening, "They are my brothers as well now, are they not?"

Rickon beams around another mouthful of food. "Hear that, Mother? I'm brother to the prince!"

"You're an animal is what you are," Arya laughs. "Come here." She wipes at Rickon's cheeks with a napkin, shaking her head at him. He only takes another forkful, eyes bright as he watches her tend to him. She rolls her eyes and gives up, napkin thrown to the table, though she's trying desperately to hide her own amusement at his antics.

Jon watches the youngest Stark girl, her impulsive mothering of Rickon at strange odds with the snappish, forceful young woman he's seen of her thus far. It has him stilling his wineglass at his lips, gaze thoughtful, remembering –

My mother was a Tully, Sansa had told him once. Is a Tully, she'd corrected. As much as she is a Stark.

Jon thinks he understands now.

Family, duty, honor. Those were their words.

And all these last moons it's been Winter is coming. But perhaps they aren't so different.

(Yes, he thinks he understands now.)

For what does one do when winter comes?

You seek warmth. You seek each other.

Family – pack.

No, not so different. Not so blaringly apart. But Jon has been living in the in-between (between Targaryen and Stark, between Fire and blood and Winter is coming) for so long. that he doesn't know how to exist fully in either, how to be anything but split apart, a jumble of pieces. He doesn't know how to be one as much as the other.

(And maybe that is the point. Maybe they aren't supposed to exist equally. Maybe this is the choice he was always meant to make.)

Arya rolls her eyes at her youngest brother, but she's already shoveling the rest of her unfinished pot roast onto his plate. Jon notices Catelyn smiling fondly at the motion, hidden somewhat by the mug in her hand.

Jon clears his throat, squashing the tumult of emotions lighting in his chest. "You train, Lady Arya?" he asks instead, brow piqued.

Arya gives him a devilish grin, settling back into her seat now that Rickon has tucked into his food once more. "I do, my lord."

Bran scoffs, drawling his response with a fork waved vaguely at his sister. "Our father's indulgence."

"Don't be jealous," Arya says primly.

Bran shakes his head, fork tipped back to his plate. "Jealousy requires an envious subject." His eye roll is accompanied by a faint smile though, and Jon's chest aches inexplicably at the sight.

He glances to the Lady Stark to find her rubbing at the space between her eyes. "Seven, give me strength," she mumbles, barely audible.

Jon barely suppresses a laugh.

Arya leans forward suddenly, arms linked over the table, eyes bright. "Would you spar with me, my lord? I should like to test myself."

Jon's eyebrows rise into his hairline. "You wish to spar?"

Rickon looks up at the exchange with a mouth full of pork.

Arya is practically bouncing in her seat. "If you would have me, of course. I daresay I'd present a far better challenge than my brother here." She hooks a thumb toward Bran and ignores his glare, even as he stuffs a buttered potato into his scowling mouth.

Jon does laugh this time, raking a hand through his hair. "If your lady mother should approve," he grants, eyes flickering toward the Stark matriarch.

Catelyn's shoulders pull back, lips pursed at the address. She arches a brow Arya's way, only to find a pleading expression that instantly has her shaking her head and chuckling, eyes heavenward. "I suppose I can hardly decline a prince," she says with a mock sigh, eyes glinting when she looks back to her daughter.

Arya's mouth breaks into a wide grin, words at the tip of her tongue, sitting straighter in her seat when –

"After, of course, you finish your sewing lessons with Septa Mordane," Catelyn finishes archly.

Arya slumps back into her seat, instantly deflated.

Catelyn takes a sip of ale to hide her smile. "You see, my lord," she begins, eyes glancing back to Jon, "Parenthood is often compromise."

Jon is quiet then, fingers tightening over the stem of his wineglass. He thinks of his father's hands at his shoulders, along his cheeks, eyes set on his.

Not so much a compromise as a demand.

One he would have been eager to meet, before.

Before –

"Something you may learn yourself, soon enough," Catelyn finishes, a nod set his way.

And then it is Sansa's hands at his shoulders, at his cheeks, eyes set to his. The warmth of her beneath him, the spread of her copper hair along his pillows, the hook of her legs around his waist, the throaty moans she never bothers to smother, the heady flush of her pleasure at his fingertips, along his tongue, wrapped tight around his cock, the unspoken promise between them, when his hands light along her stomach and she presses flush against him, when he's spilling hot and frenzied inside her, the slow-growing hope branching through his lungs each time he spends his seed within her.

Jon shifts in his seat, throat clearing subtly. He glances across the floor for her form, catches a flash of red along the dance floor, his chest rising steady and slow with his inhale.

"'Soon' is exactly the word," Bran bemoans, his fork speared through a potato, "If what I've heard is anything to go by." He fights a grimace.

Jon snaps his gaze to the young man, heat rising to his cheeks without his bidding. His mouth tips open but no words follow.

Bran scrunches his nose. "You can only be so quiet in tents," he supplies, returning to his food.

Jon takes a long, deep swig of wine, decidedly not looking at Lady Stark, especially when Rickon bursts into laughter and Arya releases a disgusted noise.

Gods, but he could kill the boy.

Jon barely resists the urge to push from the table and never look back, or perhaps to slink down beneath it.

"Bran," Catelyn censures dryly, "You're being too informal. And your sister is a married woman now. She has a duty to her husband."

Jon's throat tightens, his wineglass stilled halfway between his mouth and the table, a grimace overtaking his lips before he can stop it, the word a visceral reminder.

Duty,

It seems a dirty thing, now. To think that anything between them could be described as 'duty'.

Not when she rests her fingers tenderly along the nape of his neck, and not when she presses her mouth to the hollow of his throat, and not when she curls into his side and rakes a hand over his chest when they are sated and drowsy.

Not when she falls asleep facing him, implicit in her trust, her openness, her wanting of him.

Not when he wakes with her bundled in his arms and the light of dawn cascading over her form and every line of her body is molded perfectly to his.

Not when she is every horizon he never dared to reach for.

Jon's eyes wet instantly, without warning. He blinks it back harshly, mouth a tight line, and when he glances back up, he finds Lady Stark staring at him, an unrecognizable look to her face. Her mouth tips open, but then –

"She likes you."

Everyone stills.

Jon blinks unfocused eyes toward the youngest Stark, watches as he shovels another forkful of pork into his mouth.

Arya raises a brow his way, patient for his explanation.

Catelyn shifts in her seat, her mug of ale returned to the table.

Rickon looks about the table, at the expectant faces turned his way after his comment. He shrugs, swallowing back his food. And then he motions to Jon. "She made it for you, didn't she? That cloak?"

Arya glances back to Jon with a perusing eye. Bran is silent as he eats, a knowing smile at his lips. Lady Stark is unnervingly still, her gaze settled on him once more.

Jon finds his hand reaching for the strap at his chest, fingers edging over the leather gently.

The wolf beneath. Just on the flipside.

Jaw clenching, hand retreating from the strap, Jon nods at Rickon. A single, swift assurance.

Rickon waits a moment, head cocked. And then he smiles – brilliant and wolf-bright. "She likes you," he says succinctly, turning back to his plate without preamble.

Jon feels the breath rake from his chest without warning. He watches the boy, throat parched, words stilted along his tongue.

Catelyn taps a thoughtful finger along the handle of her mug.

"She doesn't sew me cloaks anymore," Rickon tacks on grudgingly, suddenly sullen.

Arya barks a laugh, and it's like a crack of wind, a welcomed rush of air.

Jon feels it unwind from his chest, suddenly - a slow-thawing winter.

Catelyn sighs. "Perhaps if you stopped ruining them," she replies sagely, a meaningful look her son's way.

Rickon grins cheekily at her. Bran snorts a laugh into his fist.

And Jon is blessedly, inexplicably –

Content.

* * *

"Oh Sansa, it's beautiful," Margaery sighs beside her, trekking into the clearing of the godswood, eyes alighting the heart tree.

Sansa watches her make her way toward the ancient weirwood, a subtle smile gracing her features, following shortly after her.

Margaery glances back at her, silken hair slipping over her shoulder. "You were right. I would love to be married here."

Sansa settles along the edge of the pond just inside the clearing, a thin layer of ice already forming over the water, a gentle drift of snow layering everything. Sansa takes a deep, crisp breath, lets it fill her lungs, exhales it just as cleanly. She bundles her gloved hands before her, looks up at the overarching branches of the weirwood.

A red shadow overtakes her vision, slips of light falling in prisms through the blood-toned leaves.

It is not the temple of her mother's gods, not the sept where she falls to her knees in worship, but there has always been something ancient and intimate here, something greater than oneself. She understands the draw of it, the weight of it, the way it fills the lungs with wonder.

Margaery presses a gloved hand to the rough bark and stares at the touch. Sansa watches her from her place at the edge of the pond.

Someplace greater than oneself. It always seemed an appropriate place to marry, to become something greater than oneself. A part of a whole.

Sansa's throat tightens, her smile watery.

Would she have taken Jon for her husband here? Of her own choice? Would she have wed him in the sight of the old gods?

"May I tell you something, Sansa?"

Margaery's voice is soft, brittle in the gentle wind. It barely reaches her ears. Sansa takes a step closer. "Anything," she promises her.

Margaery's hand slips from the tree, but she stays turned to it, gaze shifting up to glance overhead at the swaying branches. "I don't think your mother likes me overly much." It's a chuckle that leaves her with the words, but it's far shakier than Sansa expects.

Her brows furrow. "Robb is her firstborn. Her son." Her gaze turns soft. "She is cautious."

"Does she find me scheming, do you think?"

Something about the words throws Sansa – the tremor with which they're said.

Margaery still will not look at her.

"Margaery - "

"She would be right," she gets out, strikingly sure, finally turning to Sansa. Her eyes are wet, her smile like glass. "She would be right, you know."

The wind seems to stop. A steady beat of silence passes between them. They stay staring at each other through the filtering snow, still and waiting – precariously close to a ledge Sansa has only ever glimpsed at from a distance.

She sucks a shallow breath between her lips. "What are you...?"

And then Margaery clears her throat, stalking back over to her, taking her hands in hers suddenly. "Sansa, I love your brother. I love him so dearly now, but I – I did not always." She shakes her head, takes a breath, looks back up at her. "Do you understand me?"

Sansa stares at her, watches the shadow of flickering leaves break across her features, tendrils of hair sweeping across her earnest face with a Northern gust. Her heart clenches in her chest.

She went for the next best thing: the heir to Winterfell.

Sansa remembers the words, even now. Hadn't admitted to the home they made in her heart, even as she refused them. That lingering doubt.

But Sansa has always taken people at more than their intentions.

Margaery shifts her eyes between hers, searching, narrowed. "You must know, Sansa. Somewhere inside, even if you won't admit to it, you must know." She swallows thickly, hands tightening over hers. "That I approached you with this goal in mind – from the very start." Her gaze breaks, her eyes fluttering down, focused on their joined hands. A heavy breath leaves her.

She understands though. She gets it now. There is no protection for women in this world but the kind you marry into, and is it a sin for a woman to choose that protection? To have a hand in it? To not sit idly by?

She is a faithful daughter, yes, and she heeded her parents' wishes for her own marriage. Her father's wishes. And perhaps she is luckier than most that her husband seems genuine in his regard for her, in his desire to protect her, but this cannot be the case for all. She sees this now.

Her own mother had no guarantee of love or affection when she married her father, but protection at least, was ensured. Her father has always been an honorable man, after all. And maybe Sansa had always taken that for granted, had always found the ease in such a marriage, never knowing the trials.

King's Landing was an awakening, to say the least.

Part of her resents that Margaery had such designs on her brother, of course, but she thinks she understands now. That resentment is more for her situation than it is the woman in particular. For the world that forces her hand so. For the cage she is just now seeing the bars of.

And yet always, her words echo in her ear.

Duty is all well and good, Sansa, but will it keep you warm at night? Will it weather the years with you? Will it grow old and grey beside you?

They each long for love, even if Margaery does not say it in so many words. They will do what they must to survive in this world, yes, but she knows Margaery has tasted loneliness. She knows she has yearned for more.

Anyone who could say such words, after all, must yearn for more.

It is not a crime Sansa finds unforgivable.

"I would be lying if I said I hadn't suspected it," she says slowly, finally, licking her lips with her trepidation. She takes a breath, lets it taste air. "But I would also be lying if I said I hadn't suspected more."

Margaery glances up at her again. The snow falls soft around them.

"I chose to believe you were more than that, and you have proven that belief worthwhile."

A sound escapes Margaery's throat, her lips parting. She shakes her head again, a sharp furrow to her brow. "Sansa, how can you...?"

Sansa steps into her. "I was right to trust you. So trust me now."

The other woman blinks salt-tinged eyes at her, mouth pursing closed, riveted.

"Give her time. My mother will see what I see. She will see the love you bear her son, and she will welcome you whole-heartedly. Family, duty, honor, you remember? Always family first." Sansa sets an imploring gaze on her, nodding, a steady smile branching across her lips. "So love my brother. Just...love him. The way I know you already do. And everything else will follow, I promise."

"Sansa - "

"You did not have to tell me this, and yet you did. I thank you for that."

Margaery wipes at her eyes, heaves a breath. She keeps her other hand firmly clasped in Sansa's. "Gods, but can you forgive me?"

Sansa laughs, short and bright – nothing incredulous about it, only warm. "I don't think you need my forgiveness, but you have it nonetheless."

Margaery nods, thumb grazing over Sansa's knuckles. She glances back to the weirwood, steady and looming behind them. The snow never stops falling, and the cold stays always in the bones up here, but it is an embrace Sansa has missed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she finds Margaery swallowing back a shaky breath, her eyes wet, her shoulders tight. Sansa uncurls her hand around the other woman's so that she may instead thread her fingers through hers.

She sighs, the air crisp on her tongue. "You make my brother happy," she says, surprised at the choke behind the words, the threat of tears lining her voice. "And for that, I think I could forgive you anything."

Margaery's free hand goes to her face, covering her sob, her crumbling features. Sansa tugs her toward her by their joined hands, embracing her before the watching weirwood, letting her bury her face in the fur at her shoulder. "Welcome to the North," she breathes into her hair, smile widening, "Sister."

Margaery curls her hands around Sansa's shoulders, sighing against her, a watery laugh leaving her.

The shadow of the heart tree stretches ever wide across their forms.

* * *

"Not much for snow, are you, my lord?" Robb jests as they ride their horses along the banks of the wolfswood.

"It is...cumbersome," Jon grumbles, hands twisting in the reins.

Theon barks a laugh on his other side. "I think the capital's made you soft, my lord," he sneers.

Jon throws him a baleful look. "And you're a Stark now, are you, Lord Greyjoy?" Jon snaps back, irritated at his presence already, and their hunt has only just begun.

"Iron and snow, my lord," Theon replies glibly. "The two go hand in hand. Takes a special sort to weather either."

"Aye, you're a special sort," Robb laughs, shaking his head.

Jon's mouth opens in retort but then Ned's horse goes thundering past. "Quickly now, boys, if we plan to bring anything back in time for dinner."

Bran and Rickon follow shortly after, taunting each other as they race, and Robb glances back to Jon one last time with a wide-set grin, before urging his horse on.

Jon sends a final glare to the smug-looking Theon before he's off as well, his horse's hooves kicking up snow and dirt. Hounds and men follow behind them, racing deeper into the wolfswood in search of game.

Jon clenches his jaw at their company. Men of the North. Some of whom have made their distaste of a Targaryen bastard, even one of Northern blood, not so hidden. Jon hardly expected a warm welcome when he'd arrived, but in some small measure, he'd hoped for it.

Perhaps it's the Starks who've made him soft.

Jon urges his horse on.

Lord Stark had made it abundantly clear that his nephew was welcomed amongst Winterfell's halls during the first night's feast, and Jon had glanced around the room at Lyanna's mention, cups raised solemnly in answer, before hearty men dipped their heads and downed their glasses in thunderous remembrance, bellows echoing throughout the hall, fists on tabletops, and Jon had never seen such a thing before.

Even when they still sent him wary glances, even when they grumbled their distaste, even when they refused to be shy about their opinions on his presence when he attempted to converse with some of the lords, even then - for all its boisterousness and impropriety – Northern court felt uniquely intimate. They would follow their lord, that was abundantly clear, but they didn't have to be quiet about it.

It almost makes Jon want to laugh.

And yet, there is no true dissension in their ranks. Ned had not bothered trying to silence them, and though Jon first took this in with a mark of concern, he finds now that he should have taken it with a mark of respect. For so long, he's watched his father silence his opposition with a ruthlessness he once admired, a single-minded vision, and consequently, he has watched their empire crumble, bit by bit, with whispers and deception, with his family's own weapons used against them. There is nothing of the sort here. Here, a man says what he means. And he says it loudly. There is no intrigue or courtly manipulation. There is no hidden meaning beneath one's words, nor hidden ambitions beneath one's actions. There is only a man and his lord. A service unto each other.

And he finds his father was right to fear the North.

"She make that for you?" Theon asks him when they've slowed to a trot, motioning to the heavy cloak adorning his shoulders.

Jon remembers the smell of her when she'd wrapped him in the cloak's warmth, the feel of her cheek against his beard, the soft curl of a smile tugging at her lips.

He arches a brow Theon's way.

"Sansa," he clarifies, though it needs no clarifying.

Jon doesn't like how he says her name, nor the casualness with which he says it. He grumbles his ascent, wondering why the Greyjoy has lined his horse with his. Up ahead, Bran and Ned are trailing the hounds, and behind them, Robb is teaching Rickon how to sit astride while pulling a bow.

Theon tips his head in thought, mouth pursed. "Figured she'd always make a dutiful wife."

"Not yours though." It's petty of him, he knows, but he can't help the words as they leave his mouth.

Theon rests his arms over the horn of his saddle, leaning forward slightly with a glint of amusement in his eye, the reins held leisurely in his hand. "No, she was never meant for me," he says.

Jon is acutely aware how the man does not deny any desire on his part though, and his hands tighten over his reins at the thought.

"Always thought she'd be a queen though," Theon continues, glancing ahead.

"Not a bastard's bride, hmm?" Jon says archly.

Theon laughs. "Your words, my lord. Not mine."

Jon leans back in his saddle a bit, watching him. "And you think you could offer her better?"

Theon glances back to him, straightening in his seat atop the horse. "Does it matter now?"

Jon clenches his jaw, teeth grinding, eyes flitting ahead at Lord Stark's hollering. The hounds have caught a scent.

Jon takes a deep breath, gathering the reins in his fist. "She deserves far better than either of us," he answers beneath his breath, before he's digging his heels in and racing after his uncle.

He misses the look of surprise on Theon's face.

Later, when they're chasing down an elk, his arrows missing by a hair's width, Robb's teasing egging him on, he's not particularly surprised when Theon's arrow hits the mark right between the eyes.

He glances across the snow-capped ferns at the Greyjoy, Bran and Rickon already bounding over to the felled beast. But Theon isn't looking at him. He doesn't look at him the entire ride back.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf is howling.

"Direwolves," Rickon tells him as they make their way back to Winterfell, nodding up toward the far hills, the sun dipping down along the horizon in a streak of red against white.

Jon glances up to where the youngest Stark motions, eyes scanning the horizon, but nothing emerges. Even still, he knows he is right. Something tells him to trust the boy.

Something tells him to trust the North knows how to bare its teeth as well as any beast.

* * *

"Ha!" Arya shrieks, her sword clashing against Jon's, before she's pushing off, twirling her sparring blade in her grip, taking a lower stance.

Jon shakes his head, smile blinding, curls clinging to his forehead with sweat. He changes sword hands, notes the flicker of unease in her eyes when he does so. "Never let your enemy read your movements."

Arya purses her mouth, a frown marring her features, and then she's lunging again.

Jon pivots away, striking out, catching her swing mid-arc, but she recovers quickly, thrusting again, and Jon barks a laugh as she pushes him back, pure delight at her enthusiasm, swift and agile as she is.

She tips left, and he catches the arc of her blade with his own, stepping into her lunge, grabbing at her other wrist with his free hand, ignoring her shriek of surprise and yanking her off balance. She stumbles toward him, sword up, but he's braced for the impact, twisting to use her momentum, letting her tumble into the dirt, his sword swift at her throat when she scrambles onto her back.

She lays there huffing, staring up at him, and Jon's chest is heaving as well, he must admit.

A mischievous smirk breaks across her face and she shoves a hand into the air, expecting his assistance without word, and he grants it, grasping her arm, hauling her back to her feet with practiced ease.

Arya dusts off her leathers, picking her sword up off the ground. "Alright, Jon, time to come clean,"

Jon wipes at his sweat-laced brow, leaning back on one foot with an inquisitive brow arched her way. "About what?"

"After all these spars, you've got to see that I'm better than Bran."

Jon chuckles, waving her over to the nearby bench. Along the yard, Rickon trains with Ser Rodrik, and on the other side, Bran is sinking arrows beneath the deriding teachings of Theon. Jon places his sparring sword back along the rack, taking up his own sword as it lays unattended along the bench, unsheathing it and laying it in his lap. Arya watches him quietly a moment, following suit shortly after. Her own blade is thin and short, closer to a dagger than a sword, and though Jon had, at first, chuckled at the sight, he sees now its value in such a hand as hers. Not all blades are made for blind destruction. Not all warriors are made for blunt force. This teacher of hers, Syrio Forel, knows more than he'd originally given him credit for.

Jon takes an oiled cloth to his blade, the motion always soothing to him after a fight. Clean. Clipped. A smoothness to the even swipe of his hand along the blade, something grounding. His heart settles back into an easy pattern quickly, gentled by the motion. Arya takes after him almost on instinct, and he smiles inwardly at the sight, watching her unsheath her blade with a reverence only a true swordsman would have for their weapon. But he keeps these musings to himself. He doesn't think his wife would particularly appreciate his encouraging of her sister's aggressions.

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, her own oiled cloth gliding smoothly over her blade. "It's true though, isn't it?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm better than Bran."

Jon spares a chuckle. "You're...different."

Arya huffs, eyes back on her blade. "That doesn't mean 'better."

"Doesn't mean 'worse' either."

Arya silences then, continuing in her cleaning. She straightens suddenly, hand stilling while she glances out across the yard. "You know, it took me years to convince Mother I could train as well as the boys."

Jon hums a noise of acknowledgement. "I can imagine."

Her face narrows, a scoff leaving her. "I doubt it. Men have never had to prove themselves like women have."

"No, but bastards have." He doesn't know what compels him to say the words, but they make it to air regardless, and he cannot take them back.

More than that, he doesn't want to take them back.

Arya glances at him a moment, silent and musing.

It's unnerving, he realizes. And he finds he's not particularly fond of Stark women peering at him. Makes him feel undone in his own skin.

Jon clears his throat suddenly, hand harsh in its swipe down his blade. "I mean, I think I understand you."

Arya nods slightly, a thoughtful lilt to her mouth. "Aye, perhaps you do."

"And what, you never thought to live the life of a lady? Never thought to make yourself comfortable in some man's castle?" It's not said derisively, just curiously, and he wonders at this newfound ease he finds with her.

"Is Sansa comfortable?" she asks without pause.

Jon stills at the question, shifting toward her.

Arya does not look at him, just continues the motion of her hand along the blade.

Jon swallows thickly, glancing out over the yard, eyes alighting on Rickon when he falls back into the dirt, a frustrated grunt breaking from his mouth.

A lick of his lips, his gaze flickering away, his hand resuming its motion, Jon replies, "I should hope so." It's not said with the sort of confidence he would have liked.

"Shouldn't you know? Being her husband and all?" she asks derisively.

Jon sighs, shaking his head. "Marriage isn't so clean cut, Arya," he says lowly, "Especially not in the capital."

"Then make it clean cut," she pushes.

He arches a brow at her.

Arya huffs, focus resumed on her blade. "You're pack now – to each other. And the lone wolf may die but the pack survives, so...survive. Whatever you need to do. Survive. Together." She glances at him with a dark look, the familiar grey of her eyes startlingly clear. "She can be a wretched thing, believe me, I know, but – but she's my sister. My sister. She's..." Arya trails off, glancing away from him, mouth pursed in a tight line.

Jon heaves a breath, finds the word easy on his tongue. "Pack?"

She looks back at him with a raised brow.

Jon nudges at her shoulder, turning back to the cleaning of his blade, unable to keep her eye. "You Starks aren't so hard to read," he says on a laugh, throat tight without knowing why.

Arya releases a similar chuckle, shaking her head. "We Starks, you mean."

She says it so easily, and there again, that clench in his chest, that hitch of air in his lungs.

Jon swallows back his retort, because it seems pointless now – now when he's sitting here with his little cousin, polishing blades, sweating even in the frigid Northern air, the laughter of her brothers filtering through the chill toward their ears. A great many things seem pointless suddenly.

Jon breathes deep, lets it fill his lungs, exhales slow and steady.

They continue on in silence for a time, a contented silence that Jon doesn't remember ever feeling in his own home, especially not in his own training yard. No. That place is reserved for sharpened barbs disguised as brotherly taunts, for an overseeing eye, for scrutiny in every corner and praise so hard to come by he'd beamed beneath even the faintest of his father's smiles.

Jon doesn't know how long they sit like this, only that the shadow of the sun has shifted over his shoulder, blaring bright even through the crisp winter air.

"You trained under Ser Arthur Dayne, didn't you?" Arya asks softly.

Jon is grateful he doesn't falter in his motions, nor stutter in his words when he answers her. "For a time."

"He why you're so good?"

Jon laughs at the question, even more so at the unladylike way she pieces the words together. And yet, it suits her. It suits her just fine. "He's a large part of it, yes."

"And the other part of it?"

Jon's lips thin into a tight line, his teeth grinding. "Ambition." He swallows, glances to her. "Perseverance."

She considers him quietly, returns to her blade with a thoughtful look. "I hear he was a great swordsman." The words are soft, compassionate.

Jon is grateful for it.

"He was more than that." His words are a croak, and he has to clear his throat before he continues, eyes focused on his blade lest he lose himself. "He was the greatest man I ever knew."

Arya stills her hand along her blade, watching him. "The greatest man you've ever known?"

Jon nods silently, throat bobbing.

"Not your father?"

Jon's hand halts mid-swipe, his lips parting. He turns to her swiftly.

She's looking at him expectantly, one brow raised, eyes unblinking.

Jon swallows thickly, schooling his features back to impassiveness. "My father is a king," he grinds out.

Arya turns to him more fully, her own blade forgotten in her lap. "Is he not also a man?"

Jon sends her a warning look, back straightening.

Arya seems to read the stiffness in his posture, the furrow in his brow, because she's turning away from him then, disappointment shadowing past her features, a resigned scoff leaving her. "Are you not also a man, simply because you are a prince?" she grumbles out.

Jon stares at her, mouth parting over words he doesn't know how to bring to air. But he doesn't get the chance to voice them, nor the tangle of emotion left withering in his throat.

"Targaryen."

Jon looks up to find Robb's grim face framed by sunlight. He nods for him to follow. Jon grabs for a clean cloth to wipe down his blade. "What is it?"

"Deserter from the Night's Watch," he says solemnly. "Come on. Time you saw a bit of Northern justice."

Jon stands, sheathing his sword. He glances back to Arya, who's already standing herself, sighing as she tosses her rag aside. "Not that Father would ever let me join."

"Arya," Robb admonishes, but it's with a tender sort of resignation Jon hasn't heard before.

Arya waves him off easily. "I know, I know." She sighs heavily, nodding up at her eldest brother. "I know, Robb."

Robb chucks her beneath the chin, a soft smile sent her way, before he's urging Jon after him. "Bran, Rickon," he calls across the yard. The boys look up simultaneously. Theon seems to somber when he catches the look on Robb's face. "Father needs us."

Jon follows the Starks and Theon wordlessly, Ser Rodrik sighing as he racks the sparring blades and trails after them. Glancing up, Jon catches sight of the afternoon sun hanging low over the ramparts. Even now, he can tell the snow will still fall come nightfall.

Even now, he can feel the crawl of winter.

(It is coming.)

He looks ahead, keeps his stride.

(It's been coming for such a long, long time.)

* * *

Sansa trails her hand over the hilt of Jon's sword as it lays sheathed along the rack in their chambers. She'd known about the execution earlier that day, known about Jon's presence with her father and brothers when the sentence came down. Arya had told her upon her entrance to the hall midday, where Sansa sat sewing with Jeyne, shoving a bread roll into her mouth after the news.

Dinner was a quiet affair.

Now, alone in their chambers once more, Sansa can't help thinking of it. In the flicker of firelight from the hearth, she can see the etched lines along the hilt of his blade, the simple decoration. No dragons. No flames. Nothing to tie it to its master, truly. In a way, it's settling, though she can't precisely determine why.

"There's a thought in that head dying to get out, I can tell," Jon chuckles from his seat at the edge of the bed. He drops his boot to the floor, finally free of the day's trappings, his leather jerkin laying over the back of the nearby chair, clad now in only his breeches and untucked tunic.

Sansa turns to him at the comment, a brow raised.

He quirks a smile, leaning back on his hands, watching her. "I'm not completely unobservant, you know."

Sansa shakes her head, a soft smile at her lips. "No, you certainly are not." She turns back to the sword, hand gliding over the thick sheath, contemplative.

Jon watches her in silence, taking her in.

And then she sighs, turning back to him, her hand slipping from the blade. "I don't understand Arya's fascination with it. With killing, fighting, all of it."

Jon nods thoughtfully a moment, eyes drifting to the racked sword when he asks her, "Are you sure that's what the fascination is?"

Sansa furrows her brows, mouth pursed.

He glances back to her, straightening up. "Take it."

Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "What, your sword?"

Jon chuckles at her, motioning toward it. "Aye, the sword."

She eyes it doubtfully a moment, giving him one last incredulous look, but at his expectant expression, she squares her shoulders, brushing her hands over her shift in nervousness before reaching for it. It's far heavier than she expects, and her elbows buckle slightly as she lifts it from its place on the rack, unprepared for the strain.

Behind her, Jon smothers a laugh into his fist.

"Don't you dare mock me, Jon Targaryen," she warns him with a sly look over her shoulder, hefting the sword in her grasp.

Jon clears his throat, looking abashed, though amused still, and Sansa finds it in her to smile at the expression when she turns fully to him. She grips the blade by the hilt, the other holding up the sheathed end of it. She tips it back and forth in the light, glancing down the length of it. When Jon continues his silent watching of her, she peers up at him, shoulders shrugging. "What now?"

Jon shifts so that he's leaning with one elbow over his knee, dark curls falling over his brow, and the way the fire flickers over his face, suddenly somber and focused, has Sansa heating in her own skin. "You feel the weight of it?" he asks her, low and steady.

She nods, voice lost, taken abruptly by the image of him.

"That weight means something. Something more than the killing or the fighting. It's a responsibility."

"What responsibility?" she whispers, swallowing thickly when she finds her voice hoarse.

Jon tips his head, eyes intent. "To protect what you love."

Sansa clamps her mouth shut, unable to say more.

Jon leans back, motioning toward him. "Come here," he says softly, the words a gentle entreaty. It still feels like a command though, when her limbs go to him of their own accord. He stares up at her, hands going for her hips.

Sansa continues to watch him in keen anticipation, his sword still gripped tight between them, and then he's turning her, edging back along the bed a touch, drawing her down to sit between his legs, his chest pressed to her back through the thin material of her shift and his tunic. Sansa settles the sword in her lap, throat parched as Jon drags his hands down her arms to clasp over her own hands, pulling the blade slowly from its sheath. She feels his breath at her cheek, the scratch of his beard along the juncture between shoulder and neck, and she stiffens at the intimacy of the position, her chest constricting.

Jon seems unaware of her state, continuing to draw the sword out until it pulls fully from the sheath, glinting in the firelight, and he tosses the sheath aside. Sansa draws a deep breath in, eyes fixing to his hand when he takes her free one and turns it palm up, settling the cool steel of the blade atop her palm, the hilt still held tight between their joined grasps. His fingers thread through hers, hand braced beneath hers to hold the weight of the sword.

She can't deny the sense of potency she feels with it in her grasp, the might that fills her, a dark kind of satisfaction with something so deadly cradled in her palms.

"You see that?" he breathes at her ear.

Sansa nearly jumps at his voice, so lost in the sensation she had been. She licks her lips, turns slightly to him over her shoulder. "What?" It's a breathless exhale that passes her lips.

Jon's hand leaves hers beneath the blade, gliding up the length of it, skirting the edge, just a slice away from bleeding. Sansa's breath catches in her throat at the motion.

"The sharpness of it. The thickness of the blade," he rumbles at her ear, hand treading back to hers. "There's power in such a thing. The kind of power that can end a man's life."

Sansa sucks a sharp breath between her teeth, twisting to look at him, but his eyes aren't on her. They're fixed to the blade as he settles it along her lap, dark and glazed over, lost somewhere she may never know.

"It's not a light burden, believe me. And it never should be."

Sansa stills at the words, watching him, face softening when his gaze flickers back up to hers, seemingly just noticing her attention on him, and he dips a reassuring smile to her shoulder, lips warm even through her shift.

"Jon."

"You know, today, when your father had me accompany him to sentence that deserter," he begins, stopping suddenly, licking his lips before he continues, "He told me '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."

Sansa blinks at the words. She's never heard the like from her father, but even now, she can hear his voice in them, his solemn bearing, his noble urging. Yes, it's exactly something her father would say. She finds a warmth in her chest she hadn't thought to find before. Gently, Sansa extracts her hand beneath Jon's around the hilt, lifting it to his cheek instead.

He glances at her, their faces only a breath away.

"I think I understand," she whispers, hand cradling his jaw, and she catches the way his gaze falls to her lips briefly, before shifting back to hers.

Jon clears his throat, looking back down to the sword from over her shoulder.

Sansa's hand slips from his cheek, her fingers tingling, winded somewhat. "Where did you get this sword?" she asks in a breathy whisper, cursing her faltering voice. She winds her hand back around the hilt, anchoring it to her, anchoring him to her.

Jon unthreads his hand from hers and slides his calloused palm over her thigh, up toward her hip, settling there with ease. He sighs into her shoulder, watching the shadows that flicker over the blade. "Ser Arthur commissioned it for me." His voice grows small, his hand curling over her hip. "Years ago. Before I was truly ready for it."

Sansa leans back against him, taking a deep breath. "You miss him."

There is silence at her shoulder for many long moments, his thumb rubbing circles along her hip in some measure of comfort, she knows. And then his other hand leaves the hilt of the sword in her grasp, fingers gliding over the tops of her thighs, and then dragging back along the swell of her hips, rolling her into him, a low groan leaving his chest at the motion.

Sansa arches slightly at the touch, mouth parting.

"Aye, I do," he rumbles into her neck, nosing at her hair. "But right now," he gets out on a rasp, fingers tugging the edge of her shift up over her thighs greedily, "I'm missing something else."

Sansa hums appreciatively, head lolling back along his shoulder, as she rolls her hips in his lap, reveling in the impatient huff that leaves him. "And what is that?" she manages through her hitched breath, lip caught between her teeth.

He bunches her shift at her waist efficiently, hand dipping down between her thighs. "This," he groans out, fingers sliding over her slickness, a curse grit out against her shoulder when he finds her without her smallclothes.

Her smile curls devilishly across her lips, unseen. She arches back against him, mewling when he slides a finger into her cunt, and she can feel his hardening cock at her backside, bucking against her with a low moan.

"Sansa," he manages in a croak, lips at her throat, a second finger sliding alongside the first.

She gasps, legs spreading over his lap, eyes slipping languidly shut. "Hmm?"

"Put the sword down," he growls out, pumping his fingers slowly in and out of her, his other hand dragging her back along his cock in a steady motion.

She hums in thought a moment, turning her head so that he has better access to her throat. "I don't know," she gets out between pants, smirk rising. "I rather like the feel of it in my hands."

Jon presses a long groan into the skin of her throat, teeth baring over the flesh, his fingers digging painfully into her hip when he grinds her back along his length, hard and aching for her. His fingers curl inside her, his chest pressed tight to her back when she gasps at the touch, at his hungry mouthing at her neck. "Careful," he snarls beneath the cover of her hair. "You might hurt yourself."

Sansa blinks back the haze, one hand leaving the sword in her lap to wrap around his at her hip. "I trust you," she whimpers, cunt clenching around his fingers.

Jon's hand stutters in its motion for the briefest second, his breath catching at the shell of her ear, and then he's pressing into her, forehead braced to her temple, a ragged sigh leaving him, and Sansa feels it all throughout her, a quiver beneath her skin, an ache between her legs that thunders all the way out, to the edges of her fingertips, to the tips of her toes, to the place where his mouth stays pressed to her sweat-dampened skin.

"I trust you," she whispers again, hand leaving his to tug pointedly at the material of his breeches, lifting her hips at the motion, and his hand leaves her hip to tug at his laces immediately, already keen to the meaning, fumbling to rid himself of them, and she laughs at the motion, leaning over the side to set the sword down as gently as she can against the edge of the bed with his fingers still inside her and his breeches being dragging down over his thighs, Jon unwilling to lift her fully from his lap and lose the feel of her. "But just to be safe," she giggles, releasing the hilt and letting it fall, forgotten, jostled to the floor when he tugs her back against him, fingers driving deep inside her, eliciting a sharp gasp when she braces a hand along his thigh to steady herself.

"Fuck the sword," he growls out, grinding against her, panting into her neck, and Sansa laughs again, fumbling for his cheek at her shoulder – anchoring.

* * *

The night before the wedding, Ned takes Jon down into the crypts.

He'd seen the entrance before, caught sight of the twin direwolf statues standing like guards before the darkness.

"The family crypts," Sansa had told him at his side, arm in his as they made their way toward the main courtyard upon the Tyrells' first arrival. He'd slowed to a halt at its edge, her whisper still in his ear.

"And all the Kings of Winter," she'd gone on to say, something wistful about the words, and he'd turned to her, recognized the tender look on her face, that one she always donned when recounting her tales and songs, her age-long loves. He'd been unable to do anything but share her awe, and he hadn't even stepped foot in them.

And yet now, when Ned claps a hand along his shoulder, a heavy sigh leaving him, nodding toward the darkened entrance with a gravelly "Come on then", Jon finds his feet rooted in the dirty snow. He stares long down the corridor, the flicker of torchlight casting faint, eerie shadows across the threshold, and he thinks maybe some things are supposed to stay dead.

But he can't seem to stop drudging up graves he hadn't meant to ever dig, and his mother's is only the first.

He thinks Ned knows this, in some regard, in some small measure. Because he stops to look back at him when Jon does not follow, and the sharp crease to his brow, the gentle dip of his frown, it all seems terribly, terribly unfair.

And Jon could laugh at such a thought.

"You owe this to her, boy," Ned says in a rough voice, and Jon hasn't even the mind to rankle at the address. Ned softens then, a hand wiping down his mouth with a sigh. "You owe this to yourself," he finishes, and after a moment's pause, he turns back to the crypts, striding in without waiting to see if Jon will follow.

He must know he will, though. He must know.

And he would be right.

There are torches propped along the wall at intervals all throughout corridors, the heat of them bleeding into the dirt and stone, suffusing him as he stalks on, following the dark image of his cloak-lined uncle, eyes flitting to the stone statues all along the way.

He does not recognize any of the faces, and he wonders if he should. But then, stone has never done a man justice, and so Jon looks on, follows Lord Stark silently through the turns of shadowed halls, until they slow finally, coming upon a woman who must be his mother, he knows, and yet, could be anyone down here in this haunting tomb.

Jon swallows thickly, coming to stand beside his uncle as he looks up, notices the fresh wreath of winter roses placed along his stone mother's hands.

Ned releases a soft chuckle beside him, and Jon glances toward him, brow raised in question.

Noticing his look, Ned nods to the flowers atop her open palms. "Must've been Sansa," he says.

Jon's eyes prick with tears before he can stop them, his gaze shifting back to the stature with a swiftness, his throat tight when he sucks a harsh breath between his teeth. He rocks back on his heels, bunches his hands into fists at his sides, takes a moment to steady himself.

They stand staring at the statue for an immeasurable amount of time.

Jon is beginning to think it's up to him to say something, but nothing makes any sense to say, and so he stays quiet. And so, he just breathes in the dark.

Lyanna, they called her.

The name feels wrong in his mouth. Nearly as wrong as 'mother', but for none of the right reasons.

Jon hangs his head.

"You know," Ned begins, voice hoarse from disuse, clearing it before he continues, "I realized today that I'd been angry with her for all this time."

Jon looks up at him.

He's staring at his sister's stone visage, chin high, eyes blinking furiously. His mouth is a thin line, a winter's cut, and there is grief there, Jon realizes suddenly. The kind of grief that never leaves.

The kind you lay down beside your bed at night and take up again every morning, like a mantle.

"For leaving us," he says, jaw clenching.

Jon turns his gaze back to the floor. "And angry at me," he finishes for him lowly, barely a whisper.

For killing her, he doesn't say.

Ned turns his heavy grey gaze upon him, jaw still clenched. "For a time," he tells him.

Some part of Jon is grateful for the admission. Grateful that Ned does not spare him the lance of his honesty, biting though it is.

The torches flicker around them. The heat settles slow into their bones.

Jon stays staring at the ground.

"I almost lost my wife when Arya came into this world," Ned says suddenly, voice tight.

Jon licks his lips, takes a steady breath. He does not lift his gaze.

"I remember thinking," Ned begins, throat constricting, shaking his head, "'How can such a small...such a small, helpless thing, ever be a killer?'" The words are a struggle, his voice cracking with them, his hand going over his face for a blinding, breathless moment.

Jon finally looks up at his mother. She is unmoved. Everlasting. He imagines she is cold to the touch, even with the blaring heat of the torches at their sides.

Something comes undone inside him, splintering out.

"You didn't take her from me," Ned says finally, hand drawn down over his mouth. "The gods did. And for whatever reason, I cannot fathom, but – but this I know. You did not take her from me." He turns then, watches Jon in the dim shadows, eyes a harrowing grey.

Jon takes a breath, holds it tight in his lungs, uncurls the fists at his sides. He can only nod, his voice laying slaughtered in his throat. He does not trust it to air.

Ned sighs deeply, turning back to Lyanna's statue. "I know you have questions. And I'm afraid I have very few answers. I never saw her again after she left Winterfell with Rhaegar. I never...never got to say goodbye. I mean, I don't - I don't even remember what words we last spoke to each other." He shakes his head, clears his throat.

Jon finally looks to him, and when their eyes meet, he finds the tears are already hot along his lids, his mouth a trembling line, the breath raking from him in short, shallow bursts.

It's a keen sort of longing. The regretful kind.

Jon feels it curl tight around his heart and tug, splitting all those years of resentment into shards that will never fit together properly again – that will never make a whole.

In pieces, Jon realizes.

In pieces does it go.

He may collect them bit by bit – he may clutch them tight to his chest, settle them side by side hoping for them to slip into place like jigsaws, but they will always stay as pieces.

This is how longing goes.

It is never whole.

"I cannot tell you what she hoped for in leaving, or what she hoped for in your father," Ned says on a rough exhale, shoulders pulling back. His eyes return to his sister, eyes softening somewhat.

Jon is lost somewhere between them.

The shadows make for fine comfort here.

"But I can tell you this," he says, voice sure suddenly, a step taken toward him, the brush of his shoulder just barely registering to Jon, his hand anchoring along the back of Jon's neck like a ghost, "She would have loved you."

Jon blinks up at him, unable to stem the sob that tears through his exhale, nor the quiver to his lip. "Uncle."

"As fiercely as she loved any of us, she would have loved you," he tells him, hand tightening over his neck, "Above all else," he promises, eyes intent on his, head dipped toward his nephew's, the tremble to his jaw staggering Jon where he stands.

He misses her, Jon realizes. And he doesn't know how.

He misses her more than he's ever missed anything.

'Lyanna's boy', they call him.

And oh, how he yearns for it now.

Lyanna's boy, Lyanna's boy, Lyanna's boy.

Like a song. Like a promise.

He thinks he would have liked to have a mother, after all. Maybe especially her.

Ned takes a soldiering breath, drags his hand from Jon's neck. Many moments pass as he stands staring at his sister's statue once more. And then he takes a step back, glancing at Jon one final time. "Take your time," he says, and nothing more. He lays a hand along his shoulder, a gentle squeeze, and then he's gone, disappearing the way he came, and Jon is left staring at his stone mother, this silent ghost, this reminder of everything he'd never thought to want.

He doesn't know how long he stands there. He only knows that the shadows of the torches have shifted when Sansa makes her way slowly toward him. He sees her in his peripheral, has become attuned to her footsteps.

He would know her anywhere, after all.

"My lord," she greets, voice a gentle lull, and he cannot help the breath that leaves him at the words.

Like a lullaby. Like a cradle of winter wind.

Jon closes his eyes and breathes deep.

"I'm sorry if I've intruded," she says, halting just out of reach, her hands bundled tightly before her.

"You haven't," he tells her, a slow shake to his head, and the words are raspy for their disuse.

Sansa stays standing just outside his reach, watching him quietly, and he stretches a hand out toward her, eyes opening to fix once again on his stone mother.

She comes dutifully, a whisper of a promise. She takes his arm, settles against his side to stare up at her aunt, a reverent silence overtaking the both of them.

His eyes drift to the winter roses immediately, but his tongue is still heavy with loss, still unused to these words. They start and stop and start again along his tongue, only to be swallowed back with uncertainty.

Sansa stays quiet at his side, mindful of his turbulence, unobtrusive in her presence.

He grips at her arm with a need he doesn't know how to voice.

"I don't know what to say to her," he croaks out finally, a breath catching jagged and tear-laced in his throat.

Sansa tips her head up toward him, gazing at him quietly, before she brushes a loose curl back from his forehead, her hand grazing his temple in a slowness that has him leaning toward the touch, his mouth parting silently.

She settles her hand at his shoulder, her gaze still fixed to his profile. "Then say nothing," she tells him. "Or say everything – all of it."

Jon clenches his jaw, eyes blinking furiously through their salt-sheen.

Sansa sighs beside him, her hand dragging down from his shoulder, along his arm, settling against her other hand held in the crook of his elbow. "Say what you must. There is no need for more."

Jon screws his eyes shut, a shuddering breath leaving him.

Did you know all this would happen? he means to ask her, as though that is the question that matters.

Jon shakes his head, frown deepening.

And more than that –

More than that, he cannot stop the way it all comes frothing to the surface.

Did you know what you risked when you did it? Did you ever regret it? Did you wish for me, or was I simply an accident? Did you welcome me when you finally knew? Did you sing to me? Did you laugh when I kicked? Did you call me yours?

And this is where he breaks.

Did you suffer, in the end? Did it hurt beyond imagining? Did you resent me for it? Did you wish I'd never been? Did you even hold me before the end? Did you want to?

Jon sucks a sharp breath through his teeth.

And did you cry?

Gods, but he hopes she didn't. He hopes beyond anything else that she didn't cry for him. Not for him, not for – him.

Jon's head dips down, a hand braced to his mouth.

Sansa stares at him with tear-filled eyes, a soft sniffle leaving her, and then she wipes at her eyes, pulls her hand from the crook of his elbow, smoothing down her skirts in a nervous, self-conscious habit that he has grown far too accustomed to now to ever dismiss again.

"I'll not intrude any longer, my lord," she says on a shaky whisper, turning to leave him.

And did you hope, in the end? Even through the pain – did you hope? Like I have?

Jon reaches out, snatching for her hand before she can step any further.

Sansa stills in his grasp, glancing down to his touch, to the needy curl of his fingers along hers.

"Stay," Jon rasps, eyes still fixed to the statue before him, still unwavering, still tear-laced.

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, stares at him in the flickering torchlight of the crypt.

"Please," he manages, voice barely more than a choke, "Will you stay?"

She stays watching him in the faint light, her hand limp in his trembling grasp, in his fervent grip.

Eons and epochs and the long wind of winter passes through them before she breathes again, before she steps toward him, before she turns her palm and threads her fingers through his.

"Okay," she says simply, stepping into his side.

Jon nods, unable to look at her, face crumbling, hand over his eyes when the first sob takes him. "Okay," he says, a tremulous gasp, hand gripping hers.

Sansa nods, nose pressed to the furs at his shoulder. "Okay," she says.

And so they stay.

And so he weeps.

And so it goes – in pieces.

(Bit by bit, it falls away. Bit by bit, they make a whole.)

[beautifulinsanesanity]

The Second Part of A Surprise for Yana

Ok this one took three days and I absolutely loved every part of re-reading all of the chapters!! So without further ado, here are all the sentences/half sentences that have either spoken to me or have just made me happy inside from the available chapters of The Last Time by @yanak324

THE LAST TIME

Ch.1 -The fight has seeped out of her, replaced by a dull ache that has only now in her sister’s presence begun to lift -Too bad she can’t fool herself as well as she can fool others -It seems like time hasn’t changed that, and in the proximity of the kitchen, she can’t avoid him forever Ch.2 -Relief that she’s alive, that she is here, that she had somehow found her way home again -But calling anything with Arya easy would be misleading -It’s a dangerous thing though, hope, especially when it comes to the woman across from him -And not the temporary kind of sadness, but rather the kind that roots deep into your bones and doesn’t let you go Ch.3 -But as they kept texting, all it did was make her feel warm, warm like only family can make you feel -I’ve been angry many times before, over a lot of things, and it’s never gotten me anywhere so, why resort to that? -Over the years, Sansa has learned to give her space, but her fascination with Arya’s and Gendry’s relationship has always overridden boundaries Ch.4 -She really is a child of the wilderness, Gendry thinks, as he treks behind her, admiring the snow-capped trees lining their path Ch.5 -Someone who protects and looks after the people around him -So much has changed since they saw each other that his general sameness grounds Arya in a very unexpected way Ch.6 -To not have a cloud of sadness following her at every turn -Suppose you can take the bastard out of Flea Bottom, but you can’t take the Flea Bottom out of the bastard -Having a slice of the Baratheon fortune did not mean he also had to inherit the fury Ch.7 -She misses him, and not like she would miss a friend -They’d helped each other grief and in the process, forged a new level of understanding, which has only grown -And how is that not love? (This one has a great callback, 7 chapters later)  -Who has grown into a man that has repeatedly shown her kindness she doesn’t deserve -It’s what brought her home as well – her pack -The only indication that he’s struggling with his temper is how tightly his fist curls around the bottle -But Gendry is different -After all, honesty has never done more harm than lying by omission -How could she, when even now, after mere months back in his orbit, she’s lightheaded all over again -Not when it’s making her feel more like herself, more alive than she has felt in ages Ch.8 -What he does know is that it’s only gotten more difficult to deny what his heart and mind are now firmly aligned on -Sure, it had been Sansa who introduced him to the family, but it was Arya who made him stay -He would have coped -In recent weeks, he’s begun to accept that caring about Arya Stark is as innate to him as breathing, and there’s nothing he can do about it other than embrace it -I’m still going to care about you Ch.9 -And it’s beyond that, he accepts her -Already a little drunk from both the two glasses she’s had and the firmness of Gendry’s grip on her hand -The way her siblings hang onto her and each other fills Arya with pure joy -The entire car ride was a blur – a dreamlike state of anticipation that left her feeling weightless, unfocused, dizzy – anchored only by the weight of his hand on her thigh -She could stay here forever, balanced tightly on the knife’s edge of euphoria -How perfectly he fits against her Ch.10 -Instead, he’d ridden the high of the last week that they’ve been officially together right into the ground -But Gendry learned a long time ago that wanting something didn’t equate to it being good for you -She too wears a layer of restraint like armor, but it doesn’t feel as right on her as it does on him Ch.11 -His sharp edges have smoothed over and in their place stands a well-molded man, who seems so sure of what he wants and doesn’t play games Ch.12 -Never trusted any of ‘em enough to let them -Fogging up both the windows and his mind with her breathy sighs -Maybe it’s the inevitability of it all, surrendering to the fact that Arya Stark is and always will be his weak spot -Gendry has never really believed that everything happens for a reason Ch.13 -Every time she’s in his arms, it feels a little bit like the absolution she’s been searching for -It had felt like she finally started to peel back the layers of armor she’d unknowingly put on -As though if she waits, he’ll slip through her fingers the same way Sandor did as he bled out onto the concrete floor -It haunts her now more than the scars from her own bloody knife -She feels restored and unbalanced at the same time, certain of some things but still wary of others -How seamlessly they fit together, as though they're two puzzle pieces falling into place Ch.14 -Just because her knife wounds have healed and scarred over doesn’t mean her body is completely back to normal -Her openness doesn’t so much catch Gendry off guard as it unfurls something deep inside him -Her grip on his forearm tightens and it feels like an anchor tethering him to this moment, to the space between them -Joy that he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in far too long -And well that just isn’t something I want to think about -Wants to let them percolate in his head and wrap around his heart the way he surely knows they will, leaving him to ponder all the possibilities she’s just unwittingly opened the door to (ONE OF THE BEST LINES EVER!!!) -He wonders if there will ever be a time when he’s not utterly captivated by her sheer presence alone -Standing so close, Gendry can see exactly how many variations of gray make up the unique shade of her eyes -Because it is love (And here is the callback from chapter 7!) -I’m never not thinking about kissing you, Arya -She turns to look at him and her eyes appear almost silver against the light of the moon, leaving him a little dizzy and a lot smitten -We were friends first

I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT WAIT for the next chapter to come out!! These are beautiful, you are beautiful Yana, everything is beautiful!!! 

[jonryaweek]

There’s 10 weeks until Jonrya Week!

Again here are the themes and more about what they could entail...

Saturday 25th January - Creatures

Have you imagined Jon as a dragon rider? Arya getting the chance to ride a dragon? Or both of them as ancient legendary figures in Valyria who could skinchange into dragons? Arya as the queen of a great wolf army? Jon and Arya reuniting while they warg into their direwolves Ghost and Nymeria? What about the two of them fighting the Others or the White Walkers side by side? In modern times, could they be proud parents to a pack of fluffy wolves somewhere in the wild where they work from their cosy cabin, using their laptops? Could they be on the run in a post-apocalyptic world infested with zombies? How about them being Hogwarts students who have to hide not only their baby dragons but their pack of wolves in the Forbidden Forest? Or a coffee shop AU with them as baristas in a dog or cat cafe? How about a Pokemon AU? Or them being the only ones in their family who are wolf-blooded with wolf ears and heat and rutting cycles?

Sunday 26th January - Dark

How do you think death will affect Jon after he gets resurrected, especially since his last obsessive thought was Arya and his protective desire to save her from Ramsay Bolton? Will death affect him like it did Lady Stoneheart and Lord Beric Dondarrion? How has war affected them? Does Arya have nightmares from witnessing the death of her father, seeing Robb’s desecrated body, and saving her mother’s mangled body from the river? Not to mention experiencing what constitutes as being a child soldier and witnessing murder, rape and torture in Harrenhal? How will they deal with their bond after their tragic experiences have changed them so much? Will they be even more skin-hungry and cross the line of their unconditional love? In modern times, what if they both return from deployment and are the only ones who could understand each other enough that it blurs their previous innocent relationship? What about a High School AU where they actually deal with a creepy Ramsay Bolton who is obsessed with Arya?

Monday 27th January - Touch

They have always been close. Before they even parted, Arya‘s face would flush because of Jon. They were always hugging and Arya had a tendency to shower Jon with a rain of kisses. She was the only one who could always make him smile, enough that the memory of her laughter warmed him on the long road north towards the Wall. But after they reunite after missing each other so much, how will they act? Will they still hug and kiss each other so much? Will Arya creep into Jon’s room to share his bed to find comfort? Would lying next to each other be the only way for them to get a full night of sleep void of nightmares? Are they openly affectionate in public just like when they were children? How would the others react to their closeness? They seem a bit too close for a brother and a sister. In modern times, how will they suppress their affections for each other in front of their family and friends? Or will they not even notice when they’re cuddling on the couch long after they should probably have outgrown it? Or being in the military, especially as commanding officer and new recruit, will they forever just rely on social media DMs and lingering touches in the hallway?

More prompt posts to follow! Please reblog this post so we could get as many contributors for Jonrya Week!

Again, here are some details:

What is Jonrya Week?

It will take place on the 25th to 31st January (25/01/20 - 31/01/20). Everyone is welcome to participate, no sign up required! This is just a fun week to spread love for our ship! All content will be welcomed with open arms, whether that be fanfics, art, comics, edits, gifsets, videos, headcanons, meta, playlists, memes, social media parodies, song compilations, or excited inchoherent shipper screeches! If you can please share this so we can let as many shippers as possible know!

Themes for the week! 

Each day has a different theme that can be interpreted however you want.

Saturday 25th January - Creatures 

Sunday 26th January - Dark                      

Monday 27th January - Touch

Tuesday 28th January - Mythology                        

Wednesday 29th January - Wounds 

Thursday 30th January - Soulmates

Friday 31st January - Seasons

How to Participate? 

When Jonrya week arrives, post whatever content you’ve made and put #jonryaweek2020 in the tags, that way everyone can find your work a little easier! :)

Questions?

If you have any questions please don’t hesitate to drop us a message/ask, via this blog or via the jonrya chat called Stick them with the pointy end! We’re more than happy to answer any questions! For more updates, follow @jonryaweek.

Credits

A big shout out to @blndraws for inspiring our small but passionate fandom with her lovely art and @weirwood for providing the excellent gifs for our announcements.

10 weeks until Jonrya Week! Get drawing, writing, meta-ing, videographing, memeing or whatever else. Let’s make Jonrya Week January 2020 a big celebration!

[gizkasparadise]

1,500 miles (Sandor + Arya, Gendrya)

Day One.

There’s 1,500 miles between them and King’s Landing. He bites down on an apple as he rides, sending her a side glance.

“Can still turn around,” he comments.

“Fuck off,” she replies, looking ahead.

He raises his eyebrows, takes another bite of apple. “Suit yourself.”

Day Three.

They stop at an inn because his balls have retreated into his fucking stomach and he’s tired of pissing in the snow. Arya wordlessly drops coins onto the counter in a way that speaks to little rich girl, and then they sit at a long table. They get looks, him more so than her. He always gets looks. That’s what happens when half your face is burned off.

A serving girl drops off two bowls of meat and two tankards of ale.

She raises an eyebrow from her seat across from him. “Really?”

“What.”

“Chicken.”

Sandor glares as he picks a tiny sliver of bone out of his teeth. “What’s it matter? All tastes like goat shit.”

She lets out a short scoff, then tears off a leg and bites down.

Day Five.

“You still got your stupid little list of names, then?”

“Yes.”

“Half the bloody kingdom’s dead. Who the fuck’s left?”

“Cersei.”

“You got bigger balls than a bull.”

“Thanks.”

Day Six.

They’re leading the horses to water when she speaks for the first time in a few hours.

“You think you’ll like it?”

“Like what?”

“Killing him.”

He doesn’t answer right away, patting the side of his horse’s neck as it bends down to drink. Would he like it? Sandor remembers what it meant to cower like a kicked dog. Remembers the face of his brother as his hand wrapped around his head, shoving it down.

“Like’s got nothing to do with it,” he states. “Dead’s dead, that’s what matters.”

Arya stares at her horse, looking thoughtful. It’s a few minutes before she speaks.

“I think I’ll very much like killing Cersei.”

“‘Course you will.” He fills a skin of water, tosses it to her. “You sick little fuck.”

Day Eight.

It’s finally getting warm enough for them to camp. She hunts for game as he starts fire and tends to the horses. Two hours later the sun’s setting and they’re eating fucking squirrels.

“And you give me shit for chicken,” he mutters. The meat is gamey as all hell, and there’s too many little bones.

“It’s what was around.”

“Bring back some bloody rocks next time. Rather chew on that.”

“Piss off.”

“Hunt better.”

After they’re done eating, he lays by the fire, one of his elbows propping him up into a lean. Across from, Arya sits, her elbows on her knees and thoughts somewhere else. She’s a right shit, but that doesn’t stop him from noticing she’s young. Not that it matters, out here. No one’s young in Westeros.

Sandor’s face screws into a frown. His thoughts drift to that stupid twat in Winterfell. Who just wanted to thank Arya fucking Stark. Sandor doesn’t need to know anything about that, where it went, where it didn’t went.

But it’s fucking boring out here. So he asks.

“Whatever happened to staying away from miserable old shits?”

She doesn’t even look up. “Miserable old shit, now.”

He lifts his eyebrows, her point made. “Miserable old shit, then.”

Fucking Beric Dondarrion. His corpse had been heavy as hell lifting onto that shit pyre. If he were still alive, he’d probably gotten off on it, what with his hard-on for fire.

He’d died for her. Sandor didn’t realize until after it was over that that’s what he was doing, too. He was just a little faster, is all.

“I thought that was our last night alive,” she says flatly. “It’s different.”

“Fucking how?”

She glances up at that. “What do you mean, how?”

Sandor gestures around. “Bear could be out there. One of your fucking wolves. Rapers.” He tilts his head. “A fucking cough. Any of it could be your last night alive.”

He watches as she shifts, as her hands fold in front of her. Arya’s not the same girl she was before she left him to die, but he can still tell when she’s uncomfortable.

“It’s different,” she repeats, quieter this time.

Day 10.

They have to kill a few men in the morning. There’s little fanfare about it-- just his sword, her stupid little toothpick. The sun rises, and seven fucks are dead.

He presses his foot against one of the men’s backs to pull his sword out of him. It slides and he frowns as he wipes the blood off on the dead man’s tunic.

“How many you get?” He calls out.

“Three.”

“So that’s, what? Seventeen for me, eleven for you?”

“Mine were harder to kill.”

He gestures to the dead men on the ground. “Doesn’t matter to them.”

Arya’s face remains flat as she stares at him and pointedly sheaths her small, little sword.

“It’s just six more,” she says coolly, hoping back on her horse.

“Seven,” he corrects.

Day Twelve.

“Bet it’s not as fun anymore, is it?”

They’re both on bedrolls, staring up at the stars.

“What isn’t?”

“Your list. Haven’t even said it anymore. One day you won’t be able to say it at all.”

She’s quiet.

“Listen to me, girl,” Sandor says, suddenly feeling tired. “It never gets better.”

Arya rolls onto her side, facing away from him as she pulls a blanket over her shoulder.

Day Fifteen.

They’re passing an inn when Arya’s horse pulls into a stop.

“What?” He barks over his shoulder.

She’s staring at a sign. “I want to stop here.”

He looks at the inn again, eyes squinting. Then it clicks. “See your little fat friend?”

Arya’s eyes widen. “You remember that?”

“Think I’m a fucking moron?”

“Yes.”

“Bitch.”

They both tie their horses.

--

“Arry!” The baker says, wiping his hands on an apron as he comes out from behind a kitchen. “They said you were here, and-”

Sandor stares down at him, unimpressed. The baker’s eyes widen in recognition.

“-and I’ll go get you supper,” he says.

The baker, Hot Pie because why the fuck not, and Arya sit. He gives her bread shaped like a wolf, and when he leaves Sandor snorts.

Arya frowns at him. “What?”

“All your stupid friends.” He shakes his head. “Thanking you all the time.”

“Thanking me for what?”

Sandor watches as the boy drops an entire tray of ale.

“Hopefully not the same thing.” He grabs her bread and bites the head off it.

Day Sixteen.

“Why don’t you just turn around?” He asks, annoyed.

Arya glares at him. He glares back.

“Or keep on whingeing.”

“I’m not whingeing.”

“Fine. Sulking.”

“What are you talking about?”

He sighs, looking up. “Go back to that inn. Or Winterfell. Or the fucking Vale.”

Sandor half expects her to tell him to fuck off again. When all she does is frown, then snap her reins, that’s when he realizes that’s what she actually wants to do.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself.

Day Nineteen.

They swap their furs for leathers. King’s Landing gets closer by the day.

And Sandor has something eating at him. Taking small little bites, all up and down his skin. He doesn’t know what it is, only that he looks at Arya and her stupid little sword and her tired horse and it makes him frown more often than not.

“He ever find you?” He asks, and wonders why the fuck he’s asking.

“Who?”

“The twat with the hammer.”

She tenses, the hand sharpening her sword stilling. Her words are carefully flat. “You mean Gendry.”

“Is there another twat with a hammer?”

Arya looks up. “What do you mean, find?”

“At the feast. Bloody moron was wandering up and down the hall like he’d forgotten how to walk.” He raises his brows. “Mooning.”

She visibly swallows, then looks down at her sword again.

Sandor leans against a tree, watching her expression, her body language. And he sighs.

“What’d you do to that poor fuck?”

The whetstone makes a long, scraping sound.

“He found me,” is all she offers.

Day 20.

He sees more and more of those Southern birds. It won’t be long, now, until they reach where they’re heading.

Sandor can’t stop that gnawing feeling. “Your sister’s probably wondering where you are.”

“She’ll figure it out.”

He grinds his teeth together. “Or that crippled god boy you were all so fucking concerned over.”

“...he probably already knows,” Arya says, and for a moment he sees discomfort on her face.

“That bastard brother of yours, then. Or the bastard you’re fuck-”

“I know what you’re doing,” she cuts in calmly. Arya narrows her eyes. “What I can’t figure out is why you’re doing it.”

He doesn’t fucking know, either.

They stare at each other for awhile, at a standstill. Tension between them.

“This is what you’re doing, then?” He finally asks.

There’s a few seconds of hesitation, but she nods.

“Yeah,” she states quietly. “This is what I’m doing.”

Sandor frowns. Then he nods.

“Then stop being so slow. Or the mad dragon bitch will get to her first.”

Arya doesn’t look relieved. But she moves her horse into a gallop, and he can’t do nothing else but follow after.

Day 23.

They’re a day out from the city. She doesn’t want to stop, but he makes her.

“So,” he begins, speaking while chewing with his mouth open. She got rabbit tonight. Better than fucking squirrel.  “You kill the queen. Then what?”

“There isn’t a then.”

He snorts. “You don’t plan to outlive a Lannister cunt?”

Arya’s eyebrows draw down, so he presses.

“You kill her. Her people kill you. Sounds like a draw.” He spits out a bone. “Does it count if it’s a draw?”

Arya takes a long drink of wine, passing it to him as she rubs the back of her arm across her mouth. “Dead is dead, right?”

Sandor brings the wineskin up. “Dead is dead,” he agrees, tilting his head back and emptying it out.

Day 24.

“How many you get?” He asks, stabbing one that’s still kicking through the neck.

“Five.”

“27 and 27,” he notes.

“Guess that makes us even.”

“Guess it does.”

Day 25.

He wakes before she does. It’s still too early for the sun, and so he just watches her. She curls into a ball when she sleeps, like she’s trying to make herself a small target. There’s no whimpering, no kicking out. Arya’s trained herself better than that. It makes the stillness of it all more noticeable.

His throat works.

Then he throws her pack at her head. She’s up just before it connects, grabbing it before she’s even fully awake.

“Get your shit,” he orders. “You’ve got a queen to kill.”

Day 26.

“Sandor.”

He hasn’t heard his name in so long that that alone is enough to make him stop. So stop he does, looking over his shoulder.

Arya stares at him, lips parted and fear in her eyes. “Thank you.”

He takes a long breath. The gnawing feeling is gone.

He can’t find anything to say, and so he doesn’t. His hand goes to the hilt of his sword and he makes himself move.

Dead is dead, after all.

[shewholovestoread]

Game of Thrones Series Finale

This episode was such an epic mess that I don’t even know where to start. All that foreshadowing over the years, the subtle hints, the build up, all of it flushed down the drain in one fell swoop. The episode felt like a fuck you to the characters, the story, the audiences. I have yet to come across a human being who liked the episode.

Dany’s death was by far the cheapest shot. By this time, everyone knew she had to die, but it was the way she died that left a really bad taste in the mouth. I thought the show made it clear that she no longer trusted Jon in episode 5. Why then, did she have a change of heart in this one? Why was she suddenly all in love with him again? What did I miss?

The fact that she died while being kissed by the man she loved is just utter and absolute shit. It could not have been executed worse than this. And that she died literally 10 mins (at least that’s what it felt like) into the episode was also supremely disappointing and anticlimactic. There was no build up!

Where do I even begin with Jon! Except to say that his character was perhaps the most fucked up. What was up with the “she is my/our queen” litany? Who was he trying to convince at that point? The fact that she straight up murdered thousands of innocents and he was still backing her! All of his actions season 7 onwards are out of character. The Jon we saw is not the same guy he was in season 6.

If he really was in love with her, in which case it was one of the worst executed love story ever in the history of cinema and television, what was the point of asking Sansa if she had any faith in him? What was the show trying to achieve? Why frame Jon and Dany so badly that literally none of their scenes together as a couple felt right? It makes no sense!!!!

What’s the deal with Tyrion? He’s made one mistake after another. He backed a foreign invader. Why are the lords of Westeros even listening to his advice? His advice should be worth shit considering just how badly he’s been doing. Why is he The Hand? How is that justice? He’s complicit in the genocide, he’s a criminal, why isn’t he at the Wall with Jon?

Bran is the king of the six kingdoms. Please hold while I try to wrap my head around this asinine idea. How? Why? As the TER, he should be an objective observer. He has no business holding power. I thought the whole point of the story was to dissolve The Seven Kingdoms! But seriously Bran the Broken? What the everflying fuck! Even high on weed, I would have had a tough time swallowing this shit!

Bronn is on the small council, again why? What has he done to deserve the honour? He didn’t kill Tyrion and his payment for that was High Garden. He was a sell-sword and remained one till the very end. Why is he on the small council and Master of Coin at that!?

How did Sam become the Arch Maester? How is he qualified?

What happened to the Ellaria Martel and her daughter? The show conveniently forgot about them.. Who was Varys writing to? What did those letters achieve? Did he even manage to send them?

Sansa as Queen in the North was perhaps the only thing that made sense. This was the only part I liked. But I didn’t like the execution. The most important day in her life and none of her family is around? There’s no Arya, Bran or Jon, no Brienne or Yohn Royce! The fact that you didn’t see one recognisable face among the Northmen is telling. Hell, even Lord Glover was absent. It lacked the scope and scale of the first 2 coronations. Why did Brienne leave Sansa and go south? In the end, Sansa is alone.

What was up with all that Jonsa framing? They were framed as a couple always. What was the point of Ned telling Sansa that someday he’d find someone who was brave, gentle and strong , frame Jon as exactly that and then serve this shit? Why frame Jon and Sansa as couple in everything except name? Why frame Sansa as clearly being jealous of Dany? Why frame Sansa and Dany as romantic rivals? WHAT WAS THE DAMN POINT!!!!!

Arya is off to explore the world and I don’t mind this, but why not have her with Sansa when she’s being crowned? All because D&D wanted a cool intercut between Sansa, Arya and Jon? It wasn’t cool. What was the point of The Lone Wolf Dies but the Pack Survives? The pack broke up, they all went lone wolf. What was the damn point?

What were D&D smoking when they wrote this shit and why did everyone else who read it think this is good? How did nobody raise any red flags? Did no one think this is garbage? Or were they so impressed with themselves that they could no longer see that what they’re writing is unadulterated putrid shit. D&D can’t write original stuff to save their life, they did okay so long as they had GRRM’s books to adapt. As soon as that dried up, the show slowly went from bad to worse. They wrote themselves into a corner and then had no idea how to get out of it. Dany needed more time to devolve, more time for the threat of her to be realised. They needed at least 3 more episodes and better writers.

Now I can only hope that the books are better and that GRRM finishes writing them. In the meantime, there’s fan-fiction and I have never needed it more than I do right now.

[jonryatrash]

Could you gimme some angsty af jonrya headcanons of Jon missing and remembering Arya?

Oh boy, okay! Here’s a few that have appeared in my fic and some others that I’ve not incorporated into anything. 1. After the inevitable fArya reveal, Jon loses all hope that Arya could be alive. Two times he’d believed and once he risked everything just at the promise of having Arya with him again. After Jeyne Poole, Jon swears to himself that he will bring her body home, that it’s the one thing he will ask of whoever it is that sits on the Iron Throne at the end (if the WW don’t kill them all first).  2. When he’s Beyond the Wall, Jon makes it a point to learn the names of the flowers, ones that he’s never seen before (and let’s be real, flower-loving Arya would have taught him flowers when she was little) and ones that have different names in the Free Folk’s various tongues. Once (when he’s particularly missing her and is avoiding the harsh reality that she’s likely dead) he asks one of the Free Folk with a knack for these things to draw him a picture of a flower that he thinks Arya would really like. He tucks the parchment with the drawing in his belongings with the hope to be able to send it to her someday.  3. Jon remembers exactly how Arya smells. He remembers a lot of things about her, of course, but this is the thing that makes his heart seize up out of nowhere. She never smelled pretty like Sansa or the other girls, but she didn’t smell *bad* either. She smelled of dirt and grass and sweat and damp. When something triggers that sense-memory, Jon has to pause and take a deep breath. It’s the only time he’s grateful for the bitter, biting cold.  4. He dreams of her. A lot. When he’s younger, they’re fairly innocent. When he gets a bit older, there are strange undercurrents of longing that are not quite..right. Like, he’s back in the cave Beyond the Wall, but he’s not with Ygritte. He’s with Arya, and she begs him to never leave the cave. This dips into a common theme in Jon’s dreams--never having let Arya go in the first place. Each time he promises her that they won’t and holds her close to him (and for some reason that he doesn’t think about too closely, it’s totally not weird that they’re naked and wet and clinging to one another).  5. More than once Jon imagines a future where he can run off Beyond the Wall with Arya once they’re reunited again (even though he deep down knows that she’s probably dead and he can’t very well just steal his sister). He knows that Arya would love being among the Free Folk and listening to their tales.  6. Sometimes Jon’s wolf dreams make no sense. He dreams of big she-wolf where it’s warm and wet and the sound of water rushes past his ears. He knows the wolf to be pack and feels the urge to find her, but it’s more than just that. There are also other urges, like a desire to lock his teeth around her neck and make her submit to him when she refuses all others.  7. He cannot look at a needle without thinking of Arya.  8. When he meets Alys at the Wall, his mind wanders to Arya and whether she’s grown into her Northern looks and become a Northern beauty like the Karstark girl. Jon’s always known that Arya was pretty (and never failed to tell her when she was little, even when she claimed she didn’t want to be pretty, thank you very much) and always thought that she would turn heads someday. When he meets Jeyne again, he wonders what horrors Arya faced and what became of her body before she died.  9. When little Arya learned that she could not *actually* marry her brother Jon, she’d decided she would marry a man just like him then. Jon often remembers many of these conversations (”And *I’ll* be your lady, Jon.” / “You can’t wed me. I’m your brother.” / “You’re being *very* mean. You’ll have to! Father will make you because he likes when I’m happy, and I’m happiest with *you*.”). He remembers them most when he’s about to make a decision that doesn’t sit well with him and wonders if it’s a choice that Arya would respect. She always thought to highly of him (to the point of thinking him worthy of her hand), and he fears disappointing her.  10. Once Jon found a ribbon of Arya’s tucked in something he brought from home (she was always taking his things without asking and using them for her own purposes). Jon weeps for days at the sight of it. He weeps ever harder when he loses it for good.