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aerltarg · 3 years

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Jon Snow Month 2022

Day 14: Arya Stark

“First lesson,” Jon said. “Stick them with the pointy end.”

Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot. “I know which end to use,” Arya said. A doubtful look crossed her face. “Septa Mordane will take it away from me.”

“Not if she doesn’t know you have it,” Jon said.

“Who will I practice with?”

“You’ll find someone,” Jon promised her. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do…”

Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.

“…don’t… tell… Sansa!”

Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.”

Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. “I wish you were coming with us.”

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?” He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. “I better go. I’ll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer.”

Arya ran to him for a last hug. “Put down the sword first,” Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly and showered him with kisses.

When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. “I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.”

“Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.”

“Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.”

Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together:

“Needle!”

The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north. (Jon II, AGOT)

[...] And Arya… he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. Arya never seemed to fit, no more than he had… yet she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now, to muss up her hair once more and watch her make a face, to hear her finish a sentence with him. (Jon III, AGOT)

Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? (Jon III, ASOS)

“[...] Roose Bolton summons all leal lords to Barrowton, to affirm their loyalty to the Iron Throne and celebrate his son’s wedding to…” His heart seemed to stop for a moment. No, that is not possible. She died in King’s Landing, with Father.

“Lord Snow?” Clydas peered at him closely with his dim pink eyes. “Are you… unwell? You seem…”

“He’s to marry Arya Stark. My little sister.” Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton’s bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she’ll fight him.

“Your sister,” Iron Emmett said, “how old is…”

By now she’d be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. “I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you.” Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton’s throat as easily. (Jon VI, ADWD)

Jon felt as stiff as a man of sixty years. Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life. (Jon VI, ADWD)

“The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you.”

“I have no sister.” The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?

Melisandre seemed amused. “What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?”

“Arya.” His voice was hoarse. “My half-sister, truly…”

“… for you are bastard born. I had not forgotten. I have seen your sister in my fires, fleeing from this marriage they have made for her. Coming here, to you. A girl in grey on a dying horse, I have seen it plain as day. It has not happened yet, but it will.” (Jon VI, ADWD)

[...] Jon Snow sank to one knee in the snow. Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me. (Jon VII, ADWD)

A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage. On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. “Young ones, and pretty,” Mance had said. The unburnt king supplied some names, and Dolorous Edd had done the rest, smuggling them from Mole’s Town. It seemed like madness now. He might have done better to strike down Mance the moment he revealed himself. Jon had a certain grudging admiration for the late King-Beyond-the-Wall, but the man was an oathbreaker and a turncloak. He had even less trust in Melisandre. Yet somehow here he was, pinning his hopes on them. All to save my sister. But the men of the Night’s Watch have no sisters. (Jon VII, ADWD)

[...] “M’lord, you’re wanted. Beg pardon, m’lord. A girl’s been found.”

“A girl?” Jon sat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hands. “Val? Has Val returned?”

“Not Val, m’lord. This side of the Wall, it were.”

Arya. Jon straightened. It had to be her.

[...]

A grey girl on a dying horse. Melisandre’s fires had not lied, it would seem. But what had become of Mance Rayder and his spearwives? “Where is the girl now?”

“Maester Aemon’s chambers, m’lord.” The men of Castle Black still called it that, though by now the old maester should be warm and safe in Oldtown. “Girl was blue from the cold, shivering like all get out, so Ty wanted Clydas to have a look at her.”

“That’s good.” Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. (Jon IX, ADWD)

He wanted to believe it would be Arya. He wanted to see her face again, to smile at her and muss her hair, to tell her she was safe. She won’t be safe, though. Winterfell is burned and broken and there are no more safe places.

He could not keep her here with him, no matter how much he might want to. (Jon IX, ADWD)

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. (Jon X, ADWD)

[...] He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister? Or were you just a ploy he used so I would set him free?

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he’d had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. (Jon XI, ADWD)

“A grey girl on a dying horse. Daggers in the dark. A promised prince, born in smoke and salt. It seems to me that you make nothing but mistakes, my lady. Where is Stannis? What of Rattleshirt and his spearwives? Where is my sister?” (Jon XIII, ADWD)

[...] He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell… I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back…

“I think we had best change the plan,” Jon Snow said. (Jon XIII, ADWD)

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold… (Jon XIII, ADWD)

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her. (Arya I, AGOT)

She wanted Jon to muss up her hair and call her “little sister” and finish her sentences with her. (Arya II, AGOT)

She went back to the window, Needle in hand, and looked down into the courtyard below. If only she could climb like Bran, she thought; she would go out the window and down the tower, run away from this horrible place, away from Sansa and Septa Mordane and Prince Joffrey, from all of them. Steal some food from the kitchens, take Needle and her good boots and a warm cloak. She could find Nymeria in the wild woods below the Trident, and together they'd return to Winterfell, or run to Jon on the Wall. She found herself wishing that Jon was here with her now. Then maybe she wouldn't feel so alone. (Arya II, AGOT)

Lord Eddard Stark sighed. “My nine-year-old daughter is being armed from my own forge, and I know nothing of it. The Hand of the King is expected to rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet it seems I cannot even rule my own household. How is it that you come to own a sword, Arya? Where did you get this?”

Arya chewed her lip and said nothing. She would not betray Jon, not even to their father. (Arya II, AGOT)

“I says, come.” He grabbed her arm, hard.

Everything Syrio Forel had ever taught her vanished in a heartbeat. In that instant of sudden terror, the only lesson Arya could remember was the one Jon Snow had given her, the very first.

She stuck him with the pointy end, driving the blade upward with a wild, hysterical strength. (Arya IV, AGOT)

A whooping gang of small children went running past, chasing a rolling hoop. Arya stared at them with resentment, remembering the times she'd played at hoops with Bran and Jon and their baby brother Rickon. She wondered how big Rickon had grown, and whether Bran was sad. She would have given anything if Jon had been here to call her “little sister” and muss her hair. (Arya V, AGOT)

“Lumpyhead,” corrected Lommy. “He prob'ly stole it.”

“I did not!” she shouted. Jon Snow had given her Needle. Maybe she had to let them call her Lumpyhead, but she wasn't going to let them call Jon a thief. (Arya I, ACOK)

She yearned to see her mother again, and Robb and Bran and Rickon... but it was Jon Snow she thought of most. She wished somehow they could come to the Wall before Winterfell, so Jon might muss up her hair and call her “little sister.” She'd tell him, “I missed you,” and he'd say it too at the very same moment, the way they always used to say things together. She would have liked that. She would have liked that better than anything. (Arya I, ACOK)

They talked over her as she lay hurting, but Arya could not seem to understand the words. Her ears rang. When she tried to crawl off, the earth moved beneath her. They took Needle. The shame of that hurt worse than the pain, and the pain hurt a lot. Jon had given her that sword. Syrio had taught her to use it. (Arya V, ACOK)

She missed Jon Snow the most of all her brothers. (Arya I, ASOS)

Jon has a mother. Wylla, her name is Wylla. She would need to remember so she could tell him, the next time she saw him. She wondered if he would still call her “little sister.” I'm not so little anymore. He'd have to call me something else. Maybe once she got to Riverrun she could write Jon a letter and tell him what Ned Dayne had said. (Arya VIII, ASOS)

She still had one brother left. Jon will want me, even if no one else does. He'll call me “little sister” and muss my hair. (Arya XII, ASOS)

Her home was gone, her parents dead, and all her brothers slain but Jon Snow on the Wall. That was where she had wanted to go. (Arya I, AFFC)

She stood on the end of the dock, pale and goosefleshed and shivering in the fog. In her hand, Needle seemed to whisper to her. Stick them with the pointy end, it said, and, don't tell Sansa! Mikken's mark was on the blade. It's just a sword. If she needed a sword, there were a hundred under the temple. Needle was too small to be a proper sword, it was hardly more than a toy. She'd been a stupid little girl when Jon had it made for her. “It's just a sword,” she said, aloud this time...

... but it wasn't.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me “little sister,” she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. (Arya II, AFFC)

She had never cared if she was pretty, even when she was stupid Arya Stark. Only her father had ever called her that. Him, and Jon Snow, sometimes. 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. To her sister and sister's friends and all the rest, she had just been Arya Horseface. But they were all dead now, even Arya, everyone but her half-brother, Jon. Some nights she heard talk of him, in the taverns and brothels of the Ragman's Harbor. The Black Bastard of the Wall, one man had called him. Even Jon would never know Blind Beth, I bet. That made her sad. (The Blind Girl, ADWD)

#jon snow #arya stark #jonsnowmonth2022 #asoiaf #asoiafedit #valyrianscrolls #jon x arya #jonrya #book jon snow #book arya stark #myedit #rip there are so many quotes from them abt each other i lit couldnt pick any its insane #STOP SIMPING FOR EACH OTHER SM THIS IS RIDICULOUS #also grrm every fucking book: jon and arya the most beloved and important ppl for each other do you remember do you remember :))))#DUDEEE #this is jonrya crying hours byeee #also friendly reminder that if we arent getting the next books then jon dying for arya is our endgame <3333

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lazywonderlvnd · 4 years

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um!! i challenged myself to write smth abt nonsexual intimacy in 500 words n here it is 😔✌️(u can also find it in my oneshot collection on ao3)

His fingertips pass delicate over the ridges of Draco’s teeth; only in this way can he feel the subtle irregularities, the misshapen bumps and valleys in all that unyielding enamel. He wonders if this is what it would feel like if he reached inside Draco’s body and touched his bones.

He presses down on Draco’s tongue, slimy and wet and firm over muscle: unlike his teeth, it yields easily. Coated with spit, he drags them over a slightly swollen lip, smears it across his chin and down his neck and watches it glisten against skin as white as a winter moon.

“You’re skin,” says Harry. He dips his wet fingers into the hollow of Draco’s clavicle. He trails them down his arm, over a slightly rough elbow where the skin is dry and flaking. He touches the skin under Draco’s shirt, stretched across his hip bones; over his abdomen, where the skin is decorated with old scars and adds texture. “Miles of it.”

“What else?” Draco asks.

“Teeth,” says Harry. He touches them again, the canines which are a little too long, the molars with their subtle bumps and valleys. He counts them. “You’re thirty-two teeth.”

Do you like them? Draco’s eyes ask.

“I love them,” says Harry. He does. He slides his finger along Draco’s pink gums, across his lips. He touches his nose and says, “You’re a pointy nose.”

“You’re a wide nose,” Draco says. “What else am I?”

“Hair.” He touches Draco’s hair. It’s whiter than his skin and just long enough to reach his ears and curl over the cartilage. “You’re silver hair. Like a unicorn tail.”

“My wand has unicorn tail hair.”

“I know,” says Harry. Draco smiles sleepily. “Suits you.”

“Tell me more.”

“You’re feet,” Harry tells him. He bends Draco’s leg and lifts his foot, and he kisses the arch. He hasn’t examined many feet, but he thinks Draco’s must be the softest. Then he kisses the sharp ankle bone. “And skinny ankles.”

This time Draco laughs. “You are too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Draco says. “And knobby knees.”

“Knobby knees,” Harry echoes, grinning. “You’re clean fingernails.”

“You’re bitten fingernails,” says Draco. He skims his lips over Harry’s fingers, and then his palm. “And rough hands and dark skin.”

“You’re light skin,” says Harry. He lifts Draco’s arm, kisses the steadily fading mark that is as much a part of his body as his clean fingernails and pointy nose. “And inside you’re blood and guts and atoms.”

Draco smiles, pleased, as if Harry has just recited back to him a secret they share. As if he’s the only one who knows what’s inside Draco’s body, because he’s the only one who’s been allowed to look.

“And you,” says Draco. Harry frowns.

“Me?”

“You’re inside of me,” he says. “With the blood and guts and atoms.”

Harry almost smiles, because it almost sounds corny: then he realises it’s not corny at all, and he stares at Draco a long time.

“You’re inside me too,” he says finally.

#anna writes #drarry fic #👻#i think its the shortest thing ive ever written #cb this accomplishment

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maisiestyle · 4 years

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Jon’s Love for Arya and Sansa are not the same

@sweetlingsansa

Your recent Jon x Love post gave me a chuckle. You appear quite confused in how Jon feels about the two Stark sisters. I’m going to address the way you chose to highlight this point: I sense you’re obviously projecting the feelings he has for one sister that George goes to great lengths to show his readers. In fact, George was specifically asked that question and his answer couldn’t be more clear:

On Jon/Arya:

Granny: Are you trying to say something to the reader by drilling into us how much Arya and Jon love each other?

George_RR_Martin: “Say something to the reader?” I’m just reporting how the characters feel. Of course, everything in the book says something to the reader.

Yet @sweetlingsansa reduces Jon’s feelings for Arya as simple family affection. Sigh. What books did you read? Very suspect. Then you falsely claim Jon apparently feels PURE, PERFECT, UNCONDITIONAL love (where?! lol) for the sister he barely spares a second, third or forth thought on? The sister he can go without seeing again if it meant he could have the other more important people back in his life. The sister that only thought about him when he was the last family she had left.

The sister Jon didn’t spare a thought for over her plight in King’s Landing surrounded by enemies. YET multiple times, he wonders how Arya is… even though deep down he knows she must be dead. Only one sister was worth breaking his vows for. It was only one sister that occupied his last thought before he died. His dearest wishes involved her. When Jon wakes from this “death” like Beric described and Lady Stoneheart is demonstrating, the last things that were most important to the undead person at the end of their life will be their fixation when they rise again. Lady Stoneheart’s search for Arya and killing Freys & Lannisters. Revenge. With Jon, he died with a mission he pledged himself to in riding south to Winterfell to face Ramsay Bolton and get Arya back.

“… I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …” was the last thing Jon considers before he decides to break his vows.

“I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard.”

Jon’s death scene in ADWD was significant. His last word was Ghost, his last feeling was pain, and his last thoughts were about a girl he loved more than anything:

“Jon will want me, even if no one else does.” (Unconditional) - Arya

George is just reporting how the characters feel remember:

The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.

~*~

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, so fierce and willful. she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now...

~*~

He remembered the day he had left Winterfell, all the bittersweet farewells; Bran lying broken, Robb with snow in his hair, Arya raining kisses on him after he’d given her Needle.

~*~

That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont’s permission. It would be good to see Arya’s grin again and to talk with his father.

(These two last quotes above are striking in their exclusion of one sister. Yikes.)

~*~

He remembered suddenly how he used to muss Arya’s hair. His little stick of a sister. He wondered how she was faring. It made him a little sad to think that he might never muss her hair again.

This is from Book 2. He thinks she is still alive? When everyone else thinks she’s dead.

~*~

Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever?

This is just so major, the implications. Wow.

~*~

His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life.

~*~

“I have no sister.” The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?

I love winning.

~*~

Melisandre seemed amused. “What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?”

“Arya.” His voice was hoarse. “My half-sister, truly …”

~*~

Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me.

~*~

He glanced at the letter again. I will save your sister if I can. A surprisingly tender sentiment from Stannis, though undercut by that final, brutal if I can and the addendum and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. But what if Arya was not there to be saved? What if Lady Melisandre’s flames had told it true? Could his sister truly have escaped such captors? How would she do that? Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she’s just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth.

He keeps hitting that right spot. Jon the president of the Arya Stark stanclub from day mf 1.

~*~

What if Bolton never had his sister? This wedding could well be just some ruse to lure Stannis into a trap. A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage. On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. He had even less trust in Melisandre. Yet somehow here he was, pinning his hopes on them. All to save my sister. But the men of the Night’s Watch have no sisters.

~*~

And keep him away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires.”

Arya, he thought, hoping it was so.

~*~

“That’s good.” Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. He rose and donned his cloak.

~*~

He wanted to believe it would be Arya. He wanted to see her face again, to smile at her and muss her hair, to tell her she was safe.

~*~

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart.

~*~

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. “Let him be scared of me.” The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled.

“Winter’s lady.” Jon squeezed her hand.

~*~

He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister? Or were you just a ploy he used so I would set him free?

~*~

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Would she still have that little sword he’d had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true.

Sill worrying about Arya’s wedding night. Wow.

~*~

Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl.

~*~

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

These aren’t even ALL the Jon/Arya quotes from the books, no conjecture, tortured symbolism, imaginary themes/loose connections/extrapolations or weak nonsense explanations, just direct quotes.

Direct. quotes.said.by/about.two.people. Something most Jonsas have very little experience with I know. The Arya quotes would fill pages.

This wasn’t done by accident. George didn’t do this for fun.

These two matter to eachother on a level you don’t seem to understand or want to acknowledge.

#jon snow #Arya Stark #Sansa Stark #house stark #jon x arya #Jon x Sansa #jonrya #jonsa #anti jonsa #asoaif #game of thrones #grrmartin #winterfell #winds of winter #greek mythology

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alinaastarkov · 4 years

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Are there any specific Jonrya Quotes that doesn't mean sibling love? If so which ones?

Yes! Loads! Thanks for this ask.

She [Ygritte] is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. "Will you yield?" he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn't? - Jon VI ACOK

I don’t know about you guys, but it’s not often I’m romantically attracted to someone who immediately reminds me of my sibling. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he'd thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions. She looked plump as she crouched there, but most of that was layers of fur and wool and leather. Underneath all that she could be as skinny as Arya. - Jon VI ACOK

Once again, I tend not to imagine my (future) romantic partner’s naked body and think of my sibling. I’m starting to sense a pattern 🤔

"NO!" Arya and Gendry both said, at the exact same instant. Hot Pie quailed a little. Arya gave Gendry a sideways look. He said it with me, like Jon used to do, back in Winterfell. She missed Jon Snow the most of all her brothers. - Arya I ASOS

Even Arya is comparing her (future potential) love interest to Jon. It’s an epidemic!

She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. - Jon II ASOS

Yet another instance of Jon thinking of Ygritte’s body beneath her clothes and thinking of Arya. Hmm, suspicious 👀

"If you kill a man, and never mean t', he's just as dead," Ygritte said stubbornly. Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? - Jon III ASOS

Kind of strange to question his relationship to Arya, especially after all of those inappropriate thoughts regarding Ygritte. And to question only Arya? Seems like someone really wishes they weren’t blood related so it wouldn’t feel wrong to think of her that way...

"It wasn't Longspear, then?" Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways. She punched him. "That's vile. Would you bed your sister?" "Longspear's not your brother." - Jon III ASOS

Real smooth, Jon. Real smooth. Notice how he totally dodges the question? How we never get an answer on if he would bed his sister? Perhaps because the answer is yes?? Notice how this sounds a lot like it might tie in to “their passion will continue to torment them until the secret of Jon’s parentage is revealed in the last book”? Very suspicious.

"He's with the Night's Watch on the Wall." Maybe I should go to the Wall instead of Riverrun. Jon wouldn't care who I killed or whether I brushed my hair . . . "Jon looks like me, even though he's bastard-born. He used to muss my hair and call me 'little sister.'" Arya missed Jon most of all. Just saying his name made her sad. - Arya VIII ASOS

“I know where we could go," Arya said. She still had one brother left. Jon will want me, even if no one else does. He'll call me "little sister" and muss my hair. - Arya XII ASOS

Maybe not explicitly romantic per se, but it is telling that she genuinely believes her own mother and brother would not want her for superficial reasons and because of the people she killed in self-defense, but her belief in Jon doesn’t waver for a single second.

Jon has a mother. Wylla, her name is Wylla. She would need to remember so she could tell him, the next time she saw him. She wondered if he would still call her "little sister." I'm not so little anymore. He'd have to call me something else. - Arya VIII ASOS

Arya’s questioning her relationship with him too?! To distance herself from him and subconsciously make it easier to deal with romantic feelings in the future?! Will it ever end?!

"It's just a sword," she said, aloud this time . . . . . . but it wasn't. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. - Arya II AFFC

This is so sweet and the specificity of his smile over the more general descriptions of the rest of her family mark it out as different in some way.

Arya loves Jon so much she wishes he could meet her alter-egos too. Ugh, the romantic angst is too much.

"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him. "Your sister," Iron Emmett said, "how old is …" By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily. - Jon VI ADWD

Once again, Jon thinks of Arya in a way that a brother really shouldn’t think of a sister. Funny how he specifically says “Ramsay Bolton’s bed”, and not just any man’s bed? Maybe because he can imagine her in someone’s (his)? Either way, weird thing to think about, Jon. And a very violent reaction to your sister’s marriage. Way more than his reaction to another sister’s marriage. Definitely intense feeling that goes beyond sibling bond.

"I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …" - Jon VI ADWD

Need I say more?

Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. - Jon IX ADWD

This is not so big in terms of non-sibling feelings but it is a very intense reaction and also I love Jon being such an emo little shit here cause... Jon, bby, you’re sixteen. Calm down.

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled. "Winter's lady." Jon squeezed her hand. - Jon X ADWD

This is such a romanticised scene and the fact that it mentions Arya at the same time, and Jon’s intense feeling again, gives me pause and made me put it on this list.

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. - Jon XI ADWD

Again, veeeerrry intense feelings, the mention of her wedding night again, and the fact that he once more questions his relationship with her. It’s too repetitive and obvious not to mean something.

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … "I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said. - Jon XIII ADWD

So, Jon thinks of his former lover and Arya right after, repeats the phrase “I want my bride back” specifically in reference to Arya, and imo “bride” is not what you call someone you have only platonic/ familial feelings for. That would be very weird. Then he abandons all his vows, something he had the opportunity to do and didn’t at least 3 separate times, for and only for Arya, and if that ain’t just the most romantic shit you ever heard. And then of course he literally dies with her as his last thought. Romantic. As. Fuck!

There is more than this, but you asked for things that don’t also mean sibling love, so here you go! 🤗

#asoiaf #jonrya #jon snow #arya stark #jon x arya #jonarya #my meta #sort of #shut up neve #Anonymous #neve has mail

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ladyaryawolf · 4 years

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"Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair [...]His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his [...]He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life." (Jon, A Dance with Dragons).

#jonrya #jon snow #arya stark #jonrya week 2020 #jonryaweek #jonarya #otp that was promised #asoiaf!edit #asoiafedit #got edit #a song of ice and fire #book!jon #book!arya #i want my bride back #the night wolf #the white wolf

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captainfangirlll · 5 years

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BOOK JON SNOW VS SHOW JON SNOW

Books: Jon is 15 years old in books, he still has the mind of a kid, he plays with Robb and his other siblings , the best family relationship he have are Robb and Arya, Bran aswell meanwhile Rickon and Sansa are distant (in Rickon case is because he is practically a baby)

Show: Jon is a teenager in the show, we can see his relationship with Robb in a matured way, we also acknowledge he has a good relationship with Bran and the best with Arya.

Books: Thorne starts to dislike Jon in books when he starts to train his companions, Thorne said to Jon that it would be easier to him teach some tricks to Ghost than Jon teach his friends, Jon answer to him that he would like to see Ghost doing some tricks and everyone laugh at him, since that moment Thorne said to Jon he made a mistake.

Show: Thorne just dislike Jon since the beginning there is no a specific reason why he treated him bad.

Books: Qhorin orders Jon to kill Ygritte, but Jon secretly lets her go instead. Before she leaves, Ygritte informs Jon that Mance Rayder would accept him, if he wanted to join the free folk.

Show: Ygritte scapes from Jon in show so he is captured by the free folk.

Books: Jon is a warg in books like Bran, he sees through the eyes of Ghost, and witnesses thousands of wildlings, and giants and mammoths, before being attacked by an eagle in beyond the wall journet with Qhorin, Jon informs the group, who recognize him for a warg.

Show: We don’t see Jon warg skills in show.

Book: Jon kills Qhorin with the help of Ghost, to win the trust of thr wildings, so they agree to bring him to Mance Rayder.

Show: Jon Kills Qhorin by his own, Ghost is not with them.

Books: Ygritte is kind of adolescent in books meanwhile Jon is a pre teen that’s why he is so scared and nervous about her sexual implications.

Show: Jon and Ygritte have the same age but Jon is still nervous arround her.

Books: Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall and a member of the brotherhood without banners, tells Arya that he is Jon's milk brother, as they shared the same wet nurse, Wylla.

Show: We don’t see Edric in show so Arya never knew this.

Book: Jon didn’t fight with his sword in castle black battle with the wildings he spent all the battle in the wall with the arches helping Donal Noye in the defense of Castle Black against Styr's raider, he finds Ygritte who dies in a grief-stricken Jon's arms.

Show: Jon spends a time in the wall with the archers but then he down for the battle and fight sword to sword with wilds, also he finds Ygritte but Olly kills her before anything happens in front of him.

Book: Mance Rayder figths in casttle black battle this crows vs wildings battle is for days, Donal has Jon command from atop the Wall while the blacksmith descends to defend the gate. After Donal is killed by Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg, Jon reluctantly takes command of the Wall's defenses, after prompting from Master Aemon. Jon successfully holds the Wall against overwhelming odds for several days.

Show: The batlle of casttle black is in one night.

Books: Fearing that Melisandre might burn Maester Aemon and the infant of the captured Mance Rayder for their royal blood, Jon secretly swaps Mance's son with Gilly's son. Jon sends Samwell Tarly to the Citadel to train as Castle Black's next maester, sending Aemon, Gilly, Mance's child, and Dareon with Sam.

Show: We don’t see any intention on Melissandre side to burn Maester Aemon, also Mance doesn’t have a son in show and he is the one burned by Melissandre by Jon kill him before.

Books: In King's Landing, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister is outraged to learn of Jon's appointment as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, as he has given Stannis Baratheon shelter. The small council agrees that Jon must be removed from command. Grand Maester Pycelle suggests informing the Watch that the crown will send no more men to the Wall until Jon is removed. Cersei is delighted with Qyburn's suggestion to send a hundred recruits with secret orders to remove Jon. She plots to send Ser Osney Kettleblack to carry out the plan, but both Osney and Cersei are imprisoned by the Faith of the Seven before these plans can come to fruition.

Show: Jon ascension as Lord Commander didn’t have important in Kings Landing.

Book: Jon never went to hardhome to rescued wildings the ones who goes are his nigths watch companions and some wildings so he actually haven’t kill a white walker yet.

Show: Jon goes to hardhome to rescued the wildings and he fights with a White Walker and killed him also meets the night King who until now doesn’t exist in books.

Show: Jon and The night king exchange a lot of glances.

Book: We haven’t see the Night King in books, there also no evidence about a Knight King just about a leader figured with a white woman by his side.

Books: Jon finds out Ramsay Bolton will marry Arya Stark, Melisandre informs Jon she has had a vision of a girl on a dying horse making for Castle Black. Melisandre reveals that she had changed the appearances of Mance and Rattleshirt with a glamor, so that Stannis actually executed Rattleshirt and that Mance has been serving Jon. Mance is sent to secretly rescue Arya.

“ Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl” — Jon Snow.

- - -

His heart seemed to stop for a moment. No, that is not possible. She died in King’s Landing, with Father.

“Lord Snow?” Clydas peered at him closely with his dim pink eyes. “Are you … unwell? You seem …” “He’s to marry Arya Stark. My little sister.” Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton’s bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she’ll fight him. “Your sister,” Iron Emmett said, “how old is …” By now she’d be eleven, Jon thought.

(...)

While Jon despairs, Melisandre appears and offers a way to save Arya. She points out that Jon has power, and shouldn't be afraid to wield it.

“Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you.” I have no sister.” The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. “What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?” “Arya.” His voice was hoarse. “My half-sister, truly …” “Your Wall is a queer place, but there is power here, if you will use it. Power in you, and in this beast. You resist it, and that is your mistake. Embrace it. Use it.” ...“Take my hand,” she said again, “and let me save your sister.”

Show: Mance is dead in the show burned by Melissandre, and the one married Ramsay is Sansa Stark, Jon finds out about this but he doesn’t do anything to help her.

Books: After Stannis's wife, Queen Selyse Baratheon, arrives at Castle Black from Eastwatch, Jon negotiates with Tycho Nestoris, an envoy of the Iron Bank of Braavos. Jon agrees to a loan so the Watch can purchase food and supplies and hire ships.

Show: We never see this political Jon skills what a shame he he never negotiated with the Iron bank in the show, because stannis borrowed his ships to him.

Books: When Jon finds out about Hardhome he intends to rescue them, but he is interrupted by a taunting letter from Ramsay which claims that Stannis has been defeated and Mance captured. Jon relinquishes command of the ranging and announces his intention to ride south against House Bolton to save Arya and defends the Nights Watch. He does not order the Night's Watch to fight with him, but asks both wildlings and black brothers alike to join him of their own volition. Most wildlings in the Shieldhall agree to support him, but Jon's decision causes great discontent within the Watch's upper leadership.

Show: Jon go to Hardhome and doesn’t recieve any Ramsay letter.

Books: In books Jon is killed by some of the members of night watch in the confusion resulting from Wun Wun's killing of Ser Patrek of King's Mountain, he is attacked in the mutiny at Castle Black. While stabbing the Lord Commander, Bowen Marsh and Wick Wittlestick state "for the Watch" also because he is planning break his vows to rescued “Arya” from marry Ramsay.” with some castle black mans and the wildings.

Show: In tv show the members a of night watch killed Jon because he let’s the wildings pass the wall Thorne and Olly participate in his murder but in books Olly doesn’t exist and Thorne didn’t have part in this and he is still alive.

Books: Jon finals words and thoughts are dedicated to Ghost and Arya:

When Wick Whittlestick slashed at his throat, the word turned into a grunt. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He cut me. When he put his hand to the side of his neck, blood welled between his fingers. "Why?"

"For the Watch." Wick slashed at him again.

Jon manages to ward off Wick's second attack, but when he tries to draw Longclaw, "his fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. Somehow he could not seem to get the sword free of its scabbard." That's when the second knife hits.

Then Bowen Marsh stood there before him, tears running down his cheeks. "For the Watch." He punched Jon in the belly. When he pulled his hand away, the dagger stayed where he had buried it.

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whitspered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…

That's the last appearance of Jon Snow in "A Dance with Dragons, wich is also the last books realized so is the last time we know about him in books, and we all know what happens with him on show.

Other differences

• In books the quote “Love is the death of duty” by Maester Aemon is used when Jon decidesld break his vows from nights watch to save “Arya” (who is actually Jeyne Poole no Arya as I said in my Arya books vs show). Arya is the character Jon loves the most and he thinks on her in every moment:

And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. Arya never seemed to fit, no more than he had … yet she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now, to muss up her hair once more and watch her make a face, to hear her finish a sentence with him. (A Game of Thrones, Jon III)

Jon felt as stiff as a man of sixty years. Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt.His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life.

Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. — Jon when he meets Ygritte

They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.

• Jon is more political in books than show, we seem him negotiating with the iron bank, confronting with Ramsay, taking decisions about Mance and Gilly babies and more, also Jon is not that perfect in books as in show, he have selfish thoughts sometimes but at the end he tries his best.

• His relationship with Ghost is deeper in books, he can warg him and is always by his side.

With all this changes between books and show we can assume that yes, Jon is gonna be resurrected but we don’t know if in the same way, but he will be darker after he comes back, he will abandoned the nights watch to save “Arya” and is gonna be king in the north but we will see it in a different way than the show.

He is gonna be a secret Targaryen too, and also ride a Dragon because in books we have the prophecy of the three heads of the dragon

“He has a song. He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire,” Rhaegar tells the nurse before looking directly at Daenerys and saying, “There must be one more. The dragon has three heads.”

So with that we can assume we will see Jon and Daenerys riding the dragons in books also one more Targaryen (maybe Aemon or Tyrion book reades knows what im talking about )

Also I think he is gonna do more important things to the long night, is very posible we see Jonerys in books too and Jon killing her at the end, but I think is gonna be played different with the Azor Ahai prophecy because I have the strong theory Jon is Azor Ahai:

“There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” — Books prophecy.

Azor Ahai killed Nissa Nissa who was his wife. In order to unleash the powers of the sword Lightbringer so that he could defeat the darkness of the Great Other, he had to sacrifice her by plunging it into her heart. I think we will see that with Jon i Daenerys in a very unexpected way, I mean not intentionally way.

“According to prophecy, our champion will be reborn to wake dragons from stone and reforge the great sword Lightbringer that defeated the darkness those thousands of years ago. If the old tales are true, a terrible weapon forged with a loving wife's heart. Part of me thinks man was well rid of it, but great power requires great sacrifice. That much at least the Lord of Light is clear on.” — THOROS OF MYR.

In conclusion I really have big hopes for Jon finale arc in books, since there is no night king in books I expect Jon contributes to the battle against the others in a really original way, also his real identity as a Targeryen be more important in the history even i he has the same ending in books if he is journey is good it will don’t matter. Also he go to the wall by his choice not because he is exiled.

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snek-snuggles · 5 years

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Head cannon that Crowley and Aziraphale are super insecure about their bodies but the other believes they they are beautiful and sexy to them.

There is something to be said for learning to accept and love oneself through discovering another.

Aziraphale sees that even Crowley has stretch marks- on his thighs and arms and bum, just like him- and so as he kisses them all and finds he truly loves them, he learns to trust that Crowley loves his in return, just as he promised.

Crowley sees the way Aziraphale's knees and elbows are pointy and knobby, and melts in adoration. Then it occurs to him- the angel.had tried to convince him that his own pointy parts were beautiful, and he hadn't believed him. But now he is beginning to see it.

Aziraphale sees the faces Crowley makes, the twisted and contorted and agonized looking faces, the ones he's drawing out with his hands and mouth, and he stops worrying about whether his are unattractive. He likes the honesty, the rawness, the uncontrollable reactions. And he figures Crowley does too.

Crowley sees Aziraphale's messy, unkempt wings and remembers the way Aziraphale dawned over his serpent eyes.

They see one another, and through this, they see themselves. And it's all love.

#ask #good omens fluff #ineffable husbands

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xiaq · 5 years

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Sneak peek for next week’s WDWG chapter:

Moonrise finds them in the loft with the hay doors open: cool fall air, just a hint of bite to it, encouraging goosebumps on the still-damp patches of their skin. Draco is laid on his back in another one of Harry’s too-big t-shirts, limbs akimbo on the mattress. His head is pointed toward the open doors, one elbow over his eyes. His wet hair is making a dark spot on Harry’s sheets.

Harry is sat in the open door frame, one leg tucked up to his chest, one dangling over the edge outside, a mug of tea propped on his bent knee. There are still a few Whippoorwills calling softly to each other as darkness and quiet, hand-in-hand, blanket the rolling landscape of farmland—the black silhouette of the potions barn backgrounded by an ombre blue that turns to star-spangled ink in the endless expanse of sky above them.

Harry thinks that if he ever goes back to London it will feel far too small.

“What are muggle hospitals like?” Malfoy asks, apropos of nothing.

Harry shrugs, realizes he can’t see that, and says, “I wouldn’t know.”

Malfoy rolls onto his belly, shoving hair out of his face, weight on his elbows.

“Why not? Weren’t you raised by muggles?”

“I was, yeah. But I never went to the hospital. I went to the GP a few times to get the jabs I needed for school. But nothing else.”

“Did you never get sick? Or injured?”

“Oh, loads of times. But my Aunt and Uncle…”

He stops. Considers his audience. Starts again.

“Well. I got better, each time. So I suppose I didn’t need to go, anyway.”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are wide and silver and a little too knowing in the low light.

“Did you ever break a bone before Hogwarts?” Malfoy asks. “I did. My arm. I stole my cousin’s broom when I was six and crashed directly into the caterer’s tent. It was my—oh, great aunt, I believe?—it was her fifth or sixth wedding. The ceremony had to be delayed because I was the ring bearer and it took half an hour to get my arm sorted. I don’t know why everyone was so vexed, no one was hurt apart from me and I only slightly dented the cake. It still tasted fine.”

Harry chokes on a laugh, imagining it: a tiny, pointy Malfoy on a runaway broom—likely in equally tiny, formal robes.

“So?” Malfoy prompts, and Harry remembers the story started with a question.

“Ah. Yeah. Few times, I think.”

He remembers an assortment of painful nights that turned into surprised mornings. Looking back, there were a few instances where the Dursleys likely would have had to take him to the hospital within a day or two, had his magic not, apparently, decided to intervene, but there was one time in particular—

“When I was nine, I broke my leg, I think.” He kicks the leg in question against the siding of the barn—still warm from a day spent absorbing the sun.

“My uncle was on a business trip and my Aunt had gone over to the neighbor’s to borrow something or other. My cousin always took advantage of those moments and I knew I was in for it if he could find me once she left. So I hid in the attic, only I couldn’t tell from the attic when she came back, and it was dark and I couldn’t see to get back out again.”

Malfoy blinks at him. It might be encouragement; it might be boredom.

Harry continues:

“So as I was trying to crawl back out, I accidentally fell between two of the joists and went straight through the kitchen ceiling.”

“I don’t understand,” Malfoy interrupts. “Joists? Did it not have a floor?”

“Oh. No, it wasn’t a finished attic. Just insulated. So the only thing between me and the kitchen was sheetrock.”

“Ah,” he looks like he still, maybe, doesn’t understand.

“So anyway, I came crashing down while my aunt was starting dinner and—yeah, the leg hurt when I landed, but her face. And the way she screamed. It was completely worth how angry they were over the hole in the ceiling.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond and Harry feels the grin on his face slip awkwardly into a grimace.

“Anyway. I was fine the next day, so. I guess my magic took care of things if it was broken.”

“You were nine,” Malfoy says. “And your Aunt was more concerned about the kitchen ceiling than your broken leg?”

“I mean. It was a pretty big hole. And I ruined dinner on the stove. What with the plaster everywhere.”

“That’s not—“

Malfoy’s eyes have gone narrow and Harry is suddenly regretting the whole conversation. He turns his attention back to his tea that’s gone cold. He nudges it warmer until hot steam curls up from the surface like a beckoning finger. He breathes it in but doesn’t drink.

“Why were you hiding from your cousin?” Malfoy asks.

“Ah,” a safer topic. “He didn’t like me much,” Harry says. “You two would have probably got on.”

Malfoy goes silent again and when Harry glances up he looks pale.

Well. Paler.

“Did your cousin hurt you?” Malfoy asks.

“I mean. Nothing terrible. I was just small and weird and an easy target. You know how kids are.”

“I,” Malfoy says. He wets his lips.

“I’d like to apologize. For anything I ever did that hurt you. I know I was a bit of a bully at times and there were certainly some aspects of my character that were due to a flawed upbringing and hardly my fault but I do regret—well. I have regrets. So. My apologies.”

There’s an urgency in Malfoy’s tone, under the stilted formality, that Harry doesn’t understand.

He considers the sharp ball of Malfoy’s right shoulder, bone pressed tight to white skin, where the stretched collar of Harry’s shirt has fallen to mid-bicep. He thinks about the faded scars on Malfoy’s chest that he’d seen only for a brief moment as they pulled off their wet clothes outside.

“I have regrets too,” Harry says, setting aside his mug. “And I’m—you were a right tosser at times but. I’m sorry. For the—” he gestures toward Malfoy’s chest. “I didn’t know what it would do.”

Malfoy looks blank.

“What?”

“In the bathroom. The spell I used. I didn’t know it would do that.”

“You used—how could you not know?”

“It was written in the margin of my potions book. It just said ‘for enemies’ and you were about to crucio me, so you fit the bill—”

“Because you’d just barged into the bathroom where I was crying and decided to be an utter arsehole to me!”

“And I feel bad about that now—wait. Why were you crying in the bathroom?”

He asks before he has the sense not to, but Malfoy just curls his lip and waves a hand.

“Oh, take your pick, Potter. The Dark Lord was living in my home along with an assortment of werewolves that took up tormenting me for sport. And my mother’s survival—it was clearly explained to me— depended upon my killing the headmaster of my school, which I’d been completely unable to do. Not for lack of opportunity, but because I didn’t want to kill him. But I also—my mother was—well. The point is, I was having a rather bad day. Week. Year, really.”

Oh.

Neither of them seems to know what to say after that, but they seem equally unable to look away from each other.

“I’m starting to think I made some incorrect assumptions about you,” Harry says finally.

Malfoy exhales.

“It’s possible I did the same.”

He says it soft. Maybe a little contrite.

“We both had rather shit childhoods, didn’t we?”

It startles a laugh out of Harry.

“I dunno,” Harry says. “Sounds like yours wasn’t bad at first. Broom theft and still getting to eat cake afterward? Only cake I ever had was what I snuck from the bin at night. You know my first ever birthday cake was from Hagrid when I turned eleven?”

“Jesus, Potter,” Malfoy mutters. “Alright, you win.”

Harry laughs, standing, and closes the hay doors, chaffing his hands over his bare arms. He summons two Weasley sweaters and tosses the slightly less-garish one to Malfoy.

“What are some things you wish you’d done?” Harry asks, pulling the nubby fabric over his head. “I mean. Are there things you feel like you missed out on?”

“What with my family pledging their allegiance to a storybook villain and my teenage years being lost to tyrannical madness?”

“Yeah, that.”

Malfoy sits up, strangely non-combative about donning a chunky, clearly hand-made, jumper with a giant H on it.

“All sorts,” he says, absently flopping the too-long cuffs of the sweater back and forth over his fingers. “I couldn’t ever have friends visit during holidays because there were always death eaters around having meetings. I wasn’t allowed to befriend half-bloods or muggle-borns. Didn’t have half the time I would have liked to work on coursework—not that I’m a swot or anything.”

Harry stifles a laugh at the hasty correction. “Course not.”

Malfoy looks at him suspiciously but continues: “I didn’t have the time or energy for the Slytherin common room parties or getting into trouble—well, normal trouble, like sneaking out to skinny dip in the lake or playing games of never have I ever with smuggled firewhisky. No dating. No awkward fumblings in the astronomy tower or trips to Hogsmeade with a…paramour.” He shrugs, maybe a little pink. “All sorts,” he repeats. “You?”

“I’d liked to have a pet, I think. Birthday parties. Sleepovers. Maybe played some school sports. I went to the zoo once—I wish I could have gone to more places like that. Aquariums. Museums. And at Hogwarts— Same as you, I suspect. With the parties and things. And I wish there was a way I could have spent my summer holidays at Hogwarts, as well. So I didn’t ever have to go back to my Aunt and Uncle’s.”

It occurs to him that he’s talking to Malfoy. That maybe he shouldn’t be sharing quite so much, except Malfoy has rolled back onto his belly again, his chin braced on one hand that is still completely ensconced in a knobby grey sleeve, looking up at Harry attentively.

“Strange they don’t have some sort of concession for that—especially for muggle-borns,” Draco says. “Seems like an oversight.”

He doesn’t say it with malice or judgment, just honest curiosity.

“I wonder why they don’t.”

“Hermione likely knows.”

“Probably,” he allows, the last syllable swallowed up in a yawn.

It’s early still, barely eight, but Harry is tired and he knows that Malfoy is likely exhausted as well after the last 24 hours. Especially since he hasn’t taken any of his evening potions.

Harry should go downstairs.

He should make himself a bed on the couch and tidy up the kitchen and maybe watch some TV before going to sleep.

But something anxious and pacing in his chest doesn’t want to leave Malfoy alone. Not while he’s weak and vulnerable and wearing Harry’s clothes.

Harry sighs and starts undressing.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Malfoy says, and then, a moment later, “Oh no. Don’t you dare. These sheets are clean and I’ll not have dog hair all over my—oh, honestly.”

Malfoy stops talking about the same time that Harry realizes he’s shoved his nose into Malfoy’s neck. He isn’t sure why, exactly, he’s shoved his nose into Malfoy’s neck, except that Malfoy smells rather good there—right in the soft space between throat and jaw and, as a wolf, he is strangely unbothered about violating Malfoy’s personal space.

He pulls back, remembering that Malfoy likely has a history of traumatic experiences involving wolves violating his personal space, but Draco’s heart rate is perfectly fine and he is muttering threats under his breath but he’s also shoving up his sleeves so he can scratch Harry’s ears.

So that’s fine, then.

Harry bullies him under the covers and then tucks himself against Draco’s side, chin on his ribs, feeling very pleased with himself.

“This isn’t going to become a thing,” Draco murmurs, doing something with his fingers that neither of them will ever admit is petting. “I just want you to be aware of that.”

#unedited so be forgiving #drarry #drarry fic #myfic #WDWG

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trianglegoddess · 5 years

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He Should Have Stayed

Good coffee isn’t bitter. That fact alone makes the cup that Bucky is drinking even more disappointing,but he paid three dollars for it, so he was going to drink it. Because really, that’s all he could do at the moment.

Steve had...Steve had pulled a Stark. Started a family with someone he hardly knew compared to Bucky, and it tore Bucky up inside something fierce. Bucky had never told Steve, not now or then, that the reason he was able to break through seventy years of Hydra programming was because once upon a time, he was absolutely head over heels in love with Steve.

It had snuck up on him. As kids they were best friends. As teenagers they, or at least Bucky, had started exploring. As adults, Bucky slept with every woman who would have him, because it was better than nothing. But he always knew that there was always someone who would rock his world more than any dame he took home.

Steve had had knobby knees and pointy elbows and terrible lungs, eyes, and ears. It seemed like the Universe was trying to kill him every second it got, but Steve ever did give in. He was always stubborn like that. That’s what Bucky admired about him the most.

He had enjoyed looking at Steve’s hands. That was probably Bucky’s favorite part about Steve. He had the hands of an artist, long fingers that had callouses on the side from gripping the pencil to hard. And when he joined the war, they became one of Bucky’s least favorite things about Steve. They were the same hands,long fingers and all, but there were new callouses, from holding guns and riding motorcycles through battlefields. They were no longer the hands of an artist, but a murderer. And Bucky’s were just as red.

Bucky always thought that Steve had joined because of him, but when he saw the way Steve looked at Peggy, he knew that that wasn’t it. Steve just wanted to do his part, just like he had said. Bucky just so happened to be a happy accident in Steve’s path.

Seventy years later, and Steve is the one breaking Bucky free. Memories came flooding back as he went through withdrawals, as he stormed every Hydra facility he remembered, as he swiftly killed the ones who did this to him. All the while memories from the war flashed behind his eyelids.

Then he was in Wakanda for a couple years, getting his shit fixed with Shuri’s help. And when he was finally better, he was fucking dusted. It felt like seconds and years all at once, because any time when he’s not around Steve feels like much to long.

And then, when everything is finally said and done, in those five seconds that Steve had used to return the stones, Bucky knew deep down that he wasn’t going to come back. Why would he? The only people he’s got left is Bucky and Sam and Bruce and all of the other superheroes. But he knew that Peggy was back there, probably waiting for Steve, because if Steve had been as close as he had claimed he was to her, there’s no way Miss Union Jack hadn’t noticed. She was much too good for that.

And when Steve didn’t come back, he was still disappointed. He knew it was too good to be true, to hope that maybe Steve would come back, if not for him then everybody else. Till the end of the line. Jesus, what bullshit.

Bucky watched, as Steve gave the shield to Sam. Which was fine with Bucky, because now that Steve has left him he wanted nothing to do with it. Looking at it made his stomach do flips. Looking at Steve’s aged face, happy and content with somebody other than him? It made him want to vomit.

Bucky sighed as he gripped his coffee mug a little tighter, not caring anymore if it broke. He would rather feel the sharp ceramic piercing his palm than the pain of Steve leaving him. Abandoning him. All Bucky’s ever wanted was Steve, and it’s Steve who has hurt him the most. And Bucky still wants Steve.

Steve should have stayed.

There’s a bell, and it’s close, Bucky knows, but it feels far away. A second later, a strong, warm hand is clapping itself on his shoulder. He looks up, finding Sam’s bright, warm eyes.

“You ready, partner?” He asked. Bucky shrugs. Then he chugs the rest of his bitter coffee, wishing it had been something better. Just like a lot of other things. But he doesn’t say it out loud loud. He’s had a lot of practice not saying it out loud.

“As I’ll ever be,” Bucky replies, and there’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s not completely sure that it’s from the coffee.

They walk out of the diner together.

Bucky wishes it was Steve.

#endgame #steve rogers #captain america #sam wilson #bucky barnes #winter soldier #falcon #avengers #stucky

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labexperimenttma-blog · 5 years

Note

Serum didn’t change those beautiful big blue eyes tho. Talk about PRETTY BOY, before and after!

an excuse to use this icon!

before the serum, steve was all knobby knees and pointy elbows, crooked smile and hair falling in his eyes, pink blushes, prominent collarbones and lips too full to belong to a man. he smells like paint and old newspapers, easy with a smile and quick with a witty retort.

after the serum, steve is broad shoulders and narrow waist. strong arms and thick thighs. knuckles scarred from fighting and calloused fingers, five o’clock shadow and slicked back hair. smells like gunpowder and the scent of earth after it rains. stoic and thoughtful, always offering an ear to listen or shoulder to cry on.

steve rogers has and always will be the prettiest of boy, also i’ve had zero sleep so sorry if this doesn’t make any sense.

#look!!!! at!!!! those!!! eyes!!!#Anonymous

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winelover1989 · 7 years

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Jon receiving a letter about Ramsey marrying Fake Arya (Jeyne Poole) literally tore my heart.

“Moat Cailin is taken. The flayed corpses of the ironmen have been nailed to posts along the kingsroad. Roose Bolton summons all leal lords to Barrowton, to affirm their loyalty to the Iron Throne and celebrate his son’s wedding to …” His heart seemed to stop for a moment. No, that is not possible. She died in King’s Landing, with Father. “Lord Snow?” Clydas peered at him closely with his dim pink eyes. “Are you … unwell? You seem …” “He’s to marry Arya Stark. My little sister.” Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton’s bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she’ll fight him. “Your sister,” Iron Emmett said, “how old is …” By now she’d be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. “I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you.” Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton’s throat as easily.

Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life.

#Vin reads asoiaf #asoiaf #adwd #Arya Stark #Jon Snow #This is my fave BrOTP #Ugh I cried so hard

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loki-of-war · 8 years

Text

Angels Carried Us Away

Chapter 2: i’ll love you for a thousand more (i)

General Summary: "Legends across Eos tell the story of an old tribe known to have been gifted by the Gods with the ability of seeing into the future. This ability manifested itself into one chosen member of the tribe, The Seer, who would serve as a vessel for the visions. They called themselves the Farseers."Or the one where Prompto armed with just his blood, tears, sweat, his willpower and the blessing of a random goddess defies fate, destiny and expectations as he forges the future he believes is right. This is his story.A.K.A. Seer!Prompto AU

Chapter summary: The boy always took more time than what was considered normal to answer to his given name.

AO3

Fanfiction.net

---------------------------

“Alge?”

Lindhard watched the boy perched on the windowsill, his knees were pulled up to his chin and a small finger drew senseless things on the fog covering the glass. Her eyes lingered on his knobby knees and pointy elbows, signs that he wasn’t eating enough.

Again.

That worried her, especially since he used to be chubby when he was younger. She could still remember the feel of his swollen cheeks between her fingers, the frown he would give her when she did so.

“Alge?” She repeated a little louder. He didn’t hear her. She said it three times more.

The boy always took more time than what was considered normal to answer to his given name.

He stopped finally; an unfinished silhouette of what she thought was a rabbit beneath the pad of his finger. Her son turned his head her way and she felt a pang deep inside her.

Maybe it was the blonde hair, pointing in several different directions, or maybe the doe blue eyes shining with both a spark of joy and a dozen shadows that hinted at ghosts no child his age should ever know. Maybe it was the map of freckles on his pearl white body, running down his legs, his arms, appeared numerous on his thighs, on his face, on the bridge of his nose. All of them, features he had not inherited from either his mother or father.

And Lindhard knew why.

The face she saw in the mirror was so different from his. Brunette, almond shaped green eyes, naturally tanned skin. Her husband had it worse with his coffee skinned complexion, dark eyes and rough angles where their son was soft…

Every time she saw him, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of pain.

He smiled, lowered one leg so it was left hanging. “Yes, mom?”

“Ah…” She had called out to him instinctually, without really thinking about it. Seeing him being quiet, opposed to how overexcited he would normally act, made her feel a nervous anxiety. She should have been used to it; after all she had been feeling it for years now. “I… I just wanted to know what you were doing. Did I interrupt you, sweetie?”

“Nope” He said, making emphasis on the “p”.

There was a juice stain near the hem of his shorts, the cuffs of his new shirt dusted with crayon powder, his shoelaces poorly tied just like whenever he was on a hurry. She hadn’t noticed him making a mess of himself. He looked as antsy as she felt.

“I was… killing time”

“I see”

She wanted to say more, something along the lines of how he’s never just killing time but then she remembered. Today was the day, of course Alge was acting out of character, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. But truth be told she had forgotten (or had tried to), nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, her son was his happy bubbly self, and in the blink of an eye a week had passed.

It was time.

Lindhard’s hand reached out to ruffle the sunny mop of hair, massaging his scalp while doing so. Alge huffed, secretly delighted and annoyed. “Mom, stop that! I’ll be thirteen soon, you can’t keep doing that anymore!”

That’s it, she thought. He’s only twelve. Yesterday he was being born and now he’s twelve and it hasn’t stopped feeling like I’m keeping him on borrowed time. Time we don’t have. Time he does not have.

Yes, son, I won’t be able to do this forever.

She didn’t voice any of this, she kept these thoughts inside because just thinking about how many people had said the exact same words to him (another woman, in another life, the ones before her), reminding him of the inevitable, was heartbreaking. Why ruin the few moments of happiness he had left talking about what was to come?

“I’ll do it for as long as I want to. I’m your mother after all” She tried to smile but it felt wrong. Not wanting him to notice her shift in mood, she turned away quickly and went to sit on the living room, throwing over her right shoulder “Okay, I’ll leave you to your ‘killing time’. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do”

Once on the couch, she turned the TV though instead of watching it, she buried her face on her hands.

Twelve years that felt like a lifetime. Twelve years that fell too short.

She had thought her entire life, until Alge was born, that this kind of things only happened to other people. To those in fairytales, those chosen ones, those predetermined by the Gods, those blessed by whoever. Not to her. Never her. She was a simple woman, born into a simple life outside of Insomnia, living in a simple farm house with simple siblings and parents.

She had thought her entire life it would be someone else, not her, who would pick up her son’s drawings and see not a family picture but the faces of strangers, famous but still strangers, staring back at her from the paper. A sturdy man, tattoos all over his arms, a scar on his chest and across his face. Another one, while he was tall not as big as the other, glasses on his face and a no-nonsense expression. Letters addressed to a “Lady Lunafreya”. A girl with a pixie cut and a happy smile. What seemed to be a mechanic. A gray haired mercenary. More pictures kept appearing on every surface in the house, intimate, full of warmth. Gladiolus and Iris Amicitia, Ignis Scientia, The Oracle Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Aranea Highwind, Cindy Aurum …… They were important figures in Eos history, each and every one of them had played an important role in saving the world from becoming the realm of daemons. They also were all long dead. And Alge drew them, read about them, cried out for them in his sleep (and she would close her eyes and pretend she couldn’t hear anything to keep herself from breaking), talked about them with so much fondness…

She’d jokingly tell her husband, to hide her own uneasiness, that it was Alge taking photos with the tip of his fingers, with ink, colors, markers, pencils, whatever he put his hands on. She pretended it was normal.

She had thought she would never have to quit her job, worried as she got the more Alge grew up and in the end, the increasing fear of losing her first and only son overcame reason. Clark, her husband, immersed himself into working in the city and she tried to ignore that, slowly but surely, he was drifting away bit by bit (it was because he couldn’t handle being too close, too long near Alge for he was terrified of getting attached to what wasn’t meant to last).

It had never crossed her mind that out of all the millions of people in the world, she would have to be the one to see her five year old son freeze in the middle of play time, his eyes widening like plates and in the place where two sky blue irises used to be, a golden symbol take residence. His little body shaking with tremors, her hand over her mouth in horror despite expecting something like that happening, his eyes clearing, his small voice telling her I’m fine mama, why are you crying?

She wondered if this was how every woman that had ever given birth to The Seer had felt like. She wondered if all of them had felt as hopeless as she did right then. Knowing that the son she loved with her soul (that they had all loved) wouldn’t last a day over fifteen. Four years, she had prayed in the dead of night for Alge to be one of those rare cases where The Seer actually managed to reach twenty given the late appearance of the visions, like the Original Seer who saved them from the Fall. Her prayers were not answered however. That didn’t turn out to be the case as she understood that day when Alge turned five and had his first-

Knock. Knock.

Startled from her train of thought, she jumped from the couch, her heart on her throat.

Time of self reflection and self pity was over: he had arrived. How had she missed it, the noise of the many engines of cars, of the wheels crushing grass and earth and stone?

Somewhere on the house, Alge made a gleeful noise, a mix of exclamation, gasp and sigh he probably didn’t know he made in these kinds of situations and this time around now that she was paying attention to her surroundings, she heard the sound of his footfalls running to the door. To their guest.

She fixed her clothes before heading to the front door.

The sight that greeted her emerald eyes was a thing of wonder, something she never knew how to comprehend no matter how many times she had witnessed it over and over throughout the years. The door wide open, bright sunlight filtering in. Alge, skinny arms and legs wrapped around the young arrival like a monkey, his face resting on the crook of his shoulder. The man stood unsteady, his hands holding onto the door’s frame as if to keep from falling over; Alge most likely jumped him the moment he opened the door. After regaining back his balance, his arms flew to immediately return the fierce embrace he was being subjected to, crushing the boy to his chest as if it hadn’t been a week but years without seeing each other. While Lindhard could not see her son’s face, she could perfectly see the man’s and even now she was still taken off guard by the unguarded, vulnerable expression full of raw emotion he wore. Although his eyes were closed, it was so easy to read the relief, the joy, the pain, the… love… he felt…

An ache similar to the one she had felt earlier stung her and she had to look away, a conundrum of opposing emotions fighting inside her. She didn’t know which one she was supposed to listen. To distract herself from the conflict within, she focused on their guest.

Jet black expensive clothes, from his shoes to his head, with his silky black hair, aristocratic features, smooth skin. Handsome and distant, he was of average height but he made up for it with his imposing presence, there was no mistaking him for someone of no consequence. Especially for Lindhard. How could she ever not recognize the young man his son drew the most, who was always on the back of all his notebooks, whose name was written literally and metaphorically on everything Alge owned, who had appeared on the very rainy night the boy was born to change her universe drastically?

He was known by many names. The Chosen King, King of Kings, Immortal King, Savior, Favored by The Grand Six, Favorite of the Gods, King of Lucis. Guardian of The Seer, Noctis Lucis Caelum.

“Noctis, you’re back!” Squealed the blond boy in his arms.

“Of course I’m back, stupid. We do this every week” The King of Lucis snorted, his intimidating blue orbs open now, trying to go for an annoyed tone but his arms tightened around Alge nonetheless when it seemed like he was beginning to slip.

“Hey, what do you mean stupid? You are the one who’s always late, peas for brains” Muttered a salty Alge.

“Says the one with a chocobo butt for a hairdo”

“That joke is as outdated as you are old man”

“So you do admit it was funny?”

“I never said that. When did I say that?”

“You just did. You called it a “joke” “.

“Ugggh.. .That was so…Why are you like this?...Whatever” Huffed the blond. She didn’t need to see her son’s face to know he was pouting, or at least pretending to do so “You’re the worst”

“And still you missed me”

“I…”

Pause.

Silence.

The mood decreased from light hearted to heavy and glum in a second.

And in an unexpected burst of honesty, the twelve year old confessed softly “You know I always miss you, Noct”

The King froze. Tried to smile but failed, his face was a blank slate. It reminded her of her hand in her son’s hair and her failed attempt to smile as well.

“…I always miss you too, Prompto” He whispered, brokenly. Blue eyes darkened and red rimmed, he looked like one of those people who had shed enough tears to last a lifetime and therefore were unable to cry anymore.

That did it. The whole scene made her feel unwelcome, like she didn’t belong, watching from the sidelines as the two of them shunned the outside world. Even if it ended up lasting only three minutes, that brief exchange was enough for her to see how everything else faded away in the background, how everything was relegated to second place whenever they were together. And the name. That name. The name of The Seer that started it all, she had read about him as a child, had sung poems and odes in his name, had seen the documentaries, had been taught about him in school and being nonethewiser back then, she had admired him. Now that she had seen the real cruelty of fate, she tried to deny his existence, tried to unsee his traces that lived on inside Alge (tried to unsee that Alge was entirely, completely him).

Prompto Argentum. The First Seer in many years and in ways, also The Last. With his peculiar characteristics that Alge, and Godwin, and Draconius, and Pete, and every Seer child before him had been bestowed upon along with that cursed gift. Lindhard had done her research, knew that the similarities the all had in common were more pronounced than what she’d initially guessed.Forever reborn, forever tied to a never-ending loop, forever bound to The King in life and death.

Staring at Alge in those moments, sometimes she thought…

This is not my son. How many lives have you stolen? How many children have been sacrificed, how many families destroyed so you could be able to reunite with him, when no one else has the chance to…?

Sometimes she couldn’t help but be bitter, sometimes she forgot she had ever loved the child. Sometimes she wished for something different (for what should have been hers and only hers).

Almost as if sensing her dark thoughts, The King finally tore his attention away from the child and focused it on her. The previous atmosphere vanished into thin air. Chills descended down her spine, her hair stood on end in alert; it was an involuntary reaction to the sudden hum of ominous power that seemed to cling to the man. There was no way she would ever get used to being in presence of royalty, she still had no idea how to act in front of him because no matter how different he acted with her son, that not necessarily translated to how he acted with everybody else. Besides, he was The King, he was…

“I apologize for my rudeness, Mrs. Lya. I must admit I have been caught off guard” he said this while pinching Alge on the arm whom unexpectedly yelped and let go of the King’s neck. The King rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘drama queen’ and he gently put the blond back down.

“What the hell was that for?!”

“Language, Alge!” She scolded automatically.

He jumped and turned around so fast she almost feared he would break his neck. He grinned back at her sheepishly, his right hand rubbing his neck in nervousness, a blush spreading across his cheeks and nose, making his freckles stand out. “Sorry mom, totally forgot you were there, hehe”

Ah…

A cold dreadful feeling settled itself in her stomach.

“Should have named you Forgetful instead of Prompto”

She wanted to tell him to stop calling her son by that name.

What she said was “No harm done, Your Highness. I know better than most how excited he gets when you come visit this little monkey”

“Excited to kick his butt at my new game, you mean” Alge piped in. The blush expanded up to his ears.

To him, The king said “As if” and to her “Oh, right. As usual, I’ve ordered the Kingslaive to stay outside the house. I assure you, they won’t bother you at all Mrs. Lya.”

“That’s quite alright, thanks, Your Majesty”

After that, they all fell into awkward silence. She didn’t know what to say, how to act asides from making polite small talk that would prove meaningless in the end and a waste of time to the two of them.

Alge looked between the two before clapping his hands together “So, the game. Dad brought me a new Justice Monsters, wanna check it out?” It wasn’t really a question, he was already latching onto the King’s hands and pulling him in the direction of his room. Successfully distracted, Lindhard felt that she could breathe again now that she held no longer The King’s gaze.

“Really? Another one? I can still remember when it was just an arcade thing at The Crow’s Nest”

“I know right? Crazy how there are movies and cell phone games...”

Her eyes remained glued to their backs as they ventured further inside the house. Alge whose head barely reached his shoulder (in three years he’d be almost the same height), and The King all dressed in black. Hand in hand. Light and dark. The sun and the moon. The King’s naturally somber visage was softened to the point he could have been someone else, a side of him almost no soul had ever seen and her son’s face was so radiant it was painful to watch him.

Despite her own feelings in the matter, she couldn’t deny, at least not right then, that there was something so pure about it. About them. A sentiment so innocent and so warm it made her think that they had probably found what thousands of others had died searching for. What had made the world turn in and out of itself in search of that one thing that would make it better and whole and happy, they already had it.

In her younger days, when she had nothing to do with Seers and Kings, she would read about them, their story, and think it was the most romantic and beautiful tale there could ever be. Prompto Argentum offered his life to the Astrals for Noctis Lucis Caelum, his beloved. The Gods did not only save The King but gave him immortality as his newfound calling was to be the eternal Guardian of The Seer, who was to be reincarnated over and over. The moment the actual Seer died, immediately after a new Seer was born someplace else in Eos and somehow, The King always found him, as if he could sense Prompto’s location by instinct. She had thought it magical and had failed to see the true cruelty in the fact, too focused on the fairytale aspect to understand reality, because the truth was that by every inch the Gods gave in, there would be punishment. The Gods gave in to Prompto’s whim, their punishment was to condemn the King not to a life but to a lifetime, an eternity of being forced to watch Prompto’s short lifespan slowly fade with each vision, never having enough time with him… It was a loop, a continuum, a circle, there was no end to them. As long as there was a Guardian, there would be a Seer and as long as the Seer lived, The Guardian had to be there by his side.

Lindhard saw that now.

But back then, she had been young, naïve and most of all a dreamer. And she remembered dreaming about sharing the same fate without truly understanding the horror of their circumstances. She remembered being just like any other teenage girl watching the live stream of the royal wedding with her two older sisters, swooning and cooing and wishing for a wedding talked about as theirs. The Seer of the occasion, Wendari if she recalled correctly, was never referred to by his name of birth but as Prompto Argentum. He wore his official Seer clothes with a few changes to make it more appropriate to be wedding attire and The King wore a new version of his royal uniform. The ceremony although grand and luxurious was in no way less welcoming, if anything she could have sworn that during the time of the celebration the world felt a little brighter, a little warmer.

It was tradition for the Guardian King to wed the Seer on the day of his fifteenth birthday, since it was well known that more often than not the young man died a couple of months after turning fifteen and if he was very lucky, he would last to the day the original Prompto Argentum died at his twenty years of age. After the union was ascertained, the Seer would live in the palace for as long as the visions allowed him and he would reign alongside his King. Ironic really, how her younger self fawned over those trivial things but in present time, now that Lindhard was at the center of the storm and it was her son, not someone else’s, the one to die a teenager and get married and leave the house at only fifteen, well… her perspective on things had certainly changed a lot.

Three more years. That was all she had and then, he would be gone in smoke, like an overly long sad dream or nightmare (she could not decide) she hadn’t been able to wake up from. Maybe when it finally ended…

No.

Absolutely not.

Taking a deep breath, she composed herself. How surprising really, she had never known how self centered she could be. She wasn’t like this, today was a weird day, she wouldn’t normally act in this insensitive way, feeling resentful towards the King of Lucis, even towards her own son. She had been nonstop complaining, behaving more paranoid and wary than usual. What was wrong with her?

The answer was glaringly obvious: she was burned out. However, that did not excuse her. It could not justify thinking of Alge as a thief of lives. Or anything she had thought of.

Guilt began to surface like stomach acid, for each negative thought she had had Lindhard felt like hitting herself in the face. Guilt for blaming the King, for not making an effort to understand outside of her own problems because in the end, even if she was suffering it could never compare to how the King felt, now couldn’t it? After all, for Lindhard, it’d be just once. Painful but only once. On the other hand, how many times had Noctis Lucis Caelum already lost Prompto Argentum? In five hundred years, how many Prompto’s had he seen open their eyes to a new world only to see their light perish in what, for him, must feel like a minute? How did he still retain his sanity? How was he able to take care of his people and bear the burden of playing Guardian to a dead end? How could he still love Prompto, despite everything?

Amazing, unbelievable but true, The King had never looked at no other but his Seer, never married anyone else, never tried to produce an heir. His eyes were firmly centered on Prompto Argentum no matter how much time passed. And yet the pain he had to feel… she could not even begin to imagine…

Worse than that, to fathom the pain Prompto himself has to carry-That Alge has to carry-

She felt a drop fall on her hand. She looked down. It was a tear. Shaking, she raised trembling fingers to her face and felt the wet trails… When had she started crying? Better yet, how had she ended up sitting on the couch again? Losing time, that was not good. Had she been that immersed in her thoughts she had not noticed the world turning around her? This was worse than the episode earlier.

The woman stood up and reached for her phone lying on the table. She turned it on, unlocked it, checked the hour and found herself surprised at the numbers on the screen. Two hours had passed since The King arrived!

Hurriedly, she went to look for them certain that a something that had been eluding her the entire day would be revealed when she found them. Soon she realized they were not inside the house and it was only when she looked out the windows in the back of the house that she saw them. They were sitting on the grass, the King uninterested in the state of his dress pants with his legs folded, his arms at his side supporting his weight and Alge was sprawled out on the ground, pointing somewhere up above.

She stood there inside the house, her hands pressed against the window pane, seeing them in a new light. Again doing something she wouldn’t normally do. What she would normally do was leave them to their own devices until it was time to say goodbye but there she was. Today was a day for change, it seemed.

They talked. They laughed. They messed witch each other like they were both five year olds. Like they had known each other their entire lives. Like they were simply two best friends hanging out with each other after school despite the age gap. Like she used to hang out with Clark and her gang of friends in middle school, then high school. And there was actually nothing remarkable about them. They looked normal, comfortable, and natural together; every reaction and interaction was spontaneous and yet while being nothing out of this world it felt still…

It felt meant to be.

The more she watched them, the more she began to see a truth about herself. The reason why she had acted so stingy all day long. It wasn’t just only because she was burned out. She understood finally, as she observed them interact and witnessed the air of finality surrounding them, how the King looked at her son like he was everything and how Alge returned back the stare. Seeing them act so happy when they knew what was coming.

A fact. A truth. A dormant realization. Lindhard had given up on Alge since The King had knocked on her door the night he was born. She had already let go of his tiny hand, she had let go of his smiles and seeing him grow. She had given up from the start and that was what was eating her inside, corroding her soul.

But had the King of Kings given up on Alge, on Prompto? No. The universe kept beating him down, spitting on his face and yet he had not given up on him. He was still there, holding onto the impossible, holding on onto what was not meant to last. Her resentment steamed from nothing else but that, her own inability to cling to her child knowing he would die (she was no better than her husband).

The King was laughing loudly at something he did to Alge. Alge rubbed a muddy hand on his face and in return, The King took a handful of grass to decorate Alge’s hair. Alge… no, Prompto Argentum stuck out his tongue and then burst into giggles, swatting the King’s hands away from his hair.

Lindhard, dry throat and dry tears, wondered if The King would ever be able to let go.

If he would ever have to let go.

#promptis #seer!prompto au #otp #my fic #update #chapter 2 #ffxv #final fantasy xv #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #guardian of the seer!noctis #ignis scientia #ffxiii-2 #farseers #prompto x noctis #gladiolus amicitia #oc #my writing

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alinaastarkov · 4 years

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a sansa stan was given an ask about jonrya (and they had the audacity to tag jonx arya in their post despite spreading bullshit) and apparently Jon may have more thoughts about Arya in quantity but they're the same... in quality? also apparently the black bastard cat king in the castle being kissed isn't foreshadowing because he "yowled and spit". also the nods to jon's heart are OBVIOUSLY about sansa because Melisandre, Ygritte.... Sansa? I've lost brain cells since I've read that shit.

He missed the girls too, even Sansa, who never called him anything but "my half brother" since she was old enough to understand what bastard meant. And Arya … he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful. Arya never seemed to fit, no more than he had … yet she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now, to muss up her hair once more and watch her make a face, to hear her finish a sentence with him.

As he rode, Jon peeled off his glove to air his burned fingers. Ugly things. He remembered suddenly how he used to muss Arya's hair. His little stick of a sister. He wondered how she was faring. It made him a little sad to think that he might never muss her hair again. He began to flex his hand, opening and closing the fingers. If he let his sword hand stiffen and grow clumsy, it well might be the end of him, he knew. A man needed his sword beyond the Wall.

"That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her.

"By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa."

“The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you." "I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …"

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa."

A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage. On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. "Young ones, and pretty," Mance had said. The unburnt king supplied some names, and Dolorous Edd had done the rest, smuggling them from Mole's Town. It seemed like madness now. He might have done better to strike down Mance the moment he revealed himself. Jon had a certain grudging admiration for the late King-Beyond-the-Wall, but the man was an oathbreaker and a turncloak. He had even less trust in Melisandre. Yet somehow here he was, pinning his hopes on them. All to save my sister. But the men of the Night's Watch have no sisters.

He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself.

May those deaths be long in coming. Jon Snow sank to one knee in the snow. Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me.

"That's good." Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. He rose and donned his cloak.

He wanted to believe it would be Arya. He wanted to see her face again, to smile at her and muss her hair, to tell her she was safe. She won't be safe, though. Winterfell is burned and broken and there are no more safe places.

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl.

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold …

Yeah, I mean, I see absolutely no difference in the quality of these thoughts. At all... 😒

#asoiaf #anti jonsa #arya stark #jon snow #sansa stark #also notice he actually names arya as his heart in the paragraph so these people must be fully on crack to miss it #ffs #Anonymous #neve has mail

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