look at arya's face

We talk a lot about Gendry being the “looks tough but is actually a sweetheart” to Arya’s “looks cute but will stab you in the face,” and there’s an element of truth to that (he stands up to bullies! He protects orphan children!), but don’t forget that Gendry is a certified badass in his own right. He’s an outlaw knight at the age of 15, he’s fought in battles and killed people, he sassed Ned Stark, Hand of the King, as a poor 14-year-old orphan apprentice boy.

Give me more love for Arya and Gendry as Westeros’s #1 murdery power couple please and thank you


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.


“Do they frighten you, child?” asked the kindly man. “It is not too late for you to leave us. Is this truly what you want?”
Arya bit her lip. She did not know what she wanted. If I leave, where will I go?

A Gem in a Wolf’s Heart: Pt 1

Originally posted by stormborn

Robb Stark and Lady Stark survive the Red Wedding. Talisa/Jeyne died and Robb gets his sisters back, there is a new and better King in Kings landing. The North is independent and the Starks killed everyone that betrayed them. Now you are the gem of the North, your father a great general that promised Catelyn Stark to marry you to Robb Stark so he is to remain King in the North. 

(Y/N) = Your Name

(Y/L/N) = Your Last Name 

Warning: Mean Robb (>3<)

The snow falling always made your heart warm, the way the fallen snow melted against your skin made you smile. You are now of age, a lady in waiting. You are in the snow garden at Castle Elderfrost, a large gray castle with tall skinny trees and frost on all of the blue winter roses. 

Keep reading

Hit The Bullseye!

Originally posted by s0mewhereweaknessis0urstrength

Request: Hi can I have a Robb Stark imagine? The reader is arya’s handmaiden and one day when arya was practicing her archery she let the reader shoot and her skills impressed robb. You can kinda make up the rest or change it up, thanks.

Requested by: @tammigrier

Warning: none. Fluff.

Thank you for the request! Sorry it’s so short.

You had been the handmaiden for Arya for the last five years. The Stark family had almost immediately accepted you in their family and though you were only a handmaiden, you loved Arya as if she was your own little sister. She was witty and very well… unladylike which made you laugh at her antics that never seemed to make her sister, Sansa, or her mother, Lady Stark upset. 

But like you, her father seemed to find immense pride in her going against the norms.

You didn’t speak much with her siblings, other than the few times Arya had been forced to be with her sisters for knitting or lessons with her brother, Bran. Other than that it was normally just the little girl and you. You were the prime age of seventeen, a year older than the Starks oldest son.

Robb Stark. You rarely ever saw him but you could deny the fact that he was cute and you may have the smallest crush on him. He only ever spoke a few words to you and those words were only ever to thank you for all the work and care you had dedicated to Arya.

You smiled whenever he was around but not without the small flush that blossomed on your cheeks when he walked by.

You were knocked out of your thoughts when you heard a little shrill scream of joy and turning your head, you saw Arya jump up and down. You smiled, following her gaze the target board to see an arrow hit directly, or even a little off the middle target. You walked up to her, Arya turning to you with an excited smile.

“Look, Y/N! I hit the bullseye.” She cheered and you smiled, giving her a bright smile of encouragement. You, though, instantly fell silent when Robb walked up, the biggest grin on his face as he patted Arya’s hair. She squinted up at her brother and went to explain how awesome she had done.

“Robb, look!”

You smiled, turning to walk back to the sidelines, to continue and watch Arya. Only you were stopped when Arya called your name, making you turn towards her. “Yes, Lady Stark?” Though she was young, she liked to be called Lady Stark and the meaning behind the title. 

“You try.” She held the bow and arrow out to you, a smug little grin on her face. You immediately shook your head, not liking the idea of doing in front of Robb. You had delved in the art of the shooting arrows before but only a little bit and by the look of Robb’s face it seemed as if he was going to stay.

“No, no, i possibly couldn’t” You shook your head, waving your heads before you in an apology.

“Please?” Arya begged, tilting her head to the side cutely, using the puppy dog look that always made you give into her antics.

You walked back to Arya, grabbing the bow to which she gave an excited smile before you shook your head. “No, Lady Stark. We should be getting back to your head courters, it’s always dinner.” You nodded to yourself, feeling proud that you had found a reasonable accept excuse to not have to embarrass yourself.

Arya pouted, her eyes closing in anger. You grabbed her wrist, setting down the bow.

“Actually, I would like to see this.” Robb’s deep voice stopped you two, Arya ripped her wrist from your grasp you letting go easily, before turning to Robb. He smiled at you and you felt your cheeks redden as he grabbed the bow, pointing it to you. 

You didn’t want to embarrass yourself, you really didn’t want to do this, but it seemed as if these two weren’t going to let you go. And you were still just a handmaiden, if ordered you had to follow, especially orders from Robb.

Sighing you grabbed the bow, accepting the arrow Arya had run and gotten you. Standing in front of the target board, you raised the bow, positioning the arrow. You could feel their eyes on your back as you closed you left eye, aiming the arrow up. With a deep breath you let go and watched as the arrow soared through the air. Holding your breath when it closed in on the board, then releasing it in relief when it hit directly in the middle of the intended target.

You could hear Arya gasp in indignant as you turned to face them. You were slightly shocked by the grin on Robb’s face and the look in his eyes as he nodded at you. “Woah, didn’t know you were that good.”

You shook your head, looking at the ground in anxiousness. “Thanks.” You mumbled.

He smiled, chuckling before turning away and waving. You immediately turned to Arya, pulling her away. Missing the look of pride in Robb’s face as he took one last glance at you.

Hope you enjoyed!

Creation of the Smut Tag. Created April 13, 2017. Number of Recs: 5

Retail Therapy by Kinetix | R: E | W: 10k+ | 2/?

Going to work after catching your boyfriend cheating is one thing, but having a sexy coworker to help cope…now that’s something.

Phone Call by Abbymaie | R: M | W: 1k+ | 1/1

He pressed kisses down her face as he pulled back from her. Gendry took a long look at Arya and noted how flushed and breathless he’d made her. Her face was red, tears streaked her face, and her mouth was fighting a smile. Yes, she was quite beautiful whenever she laughed.

The Dressing Room by Abbymaie | R: E | W: 1k+ | 1/1

There was something about seeing her up on stage in a tutu that took his breath away. Never had he seen her look so dainty and delicate. Not even when he took her to prom or Beric’s wedding. She moved with such graceful and fluid movements that he found it hard to believe that this was the same girl who wore his t-shirts and cursed like a trucker.

Edge of Desire by Abbymaie | R: E | W: 2k+ | 1/1

Her eyes were hard and as cold as a winter storm. There was redness present but the coldness was stronger. Gendry thought a lot about Arya and how she defined herself. She was strong, proud, fierce, loyal, headstrong, and brash at times. But she was also loving, caring, protective, and charismatic as well. Never had he thought her weak or any of those things her sister had accused her of.

Sharing Is Caring by Crossingwinter | R: E | W: 15k+ | 1/1

Because sometimes you learn something new about your best friend…

JonArya (books) fav moments  compilation.

(spoilers ahead)

[A Game of Thrones]

He was watching the action, so absorbed that he seemed unaware of her approach until his white wolf moved to meet them. Nymeria stalked closer on wary feet. Ghost, already larger than his litter mates, smelled her, gave her ear a careful nip, and settled back down.

Jon gave her a curious look. “Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?”

Arya made a face at him. “I wanted to see them fight.”

He smiled. “Come here, then.”


“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.


“Nothing is fair,” Jon said. He messed up her hair again and walked away from her, Ghost moving silently beside him. Nymeria started to follow too, then stopped and came back when she saw that Arya was not coming.

Reluctantly she turned in the other direction.


Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath.

“I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”

“I can be fast,” Arya said.

“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.


“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.

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.

“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:


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


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.


She would not betray Jon, not even to their father.


All she could think of was the lesson Jon had given her. “Stick them with the pointy end,”


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…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.


She wanted Jon to muss up her hair and call her “little sister” and finish her sentences with her.

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.

[A Clash of Kings]

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.

Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike.
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.

[A Storm of Swords]

Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard’s motherless bastard.

“NO!” Arya and Gendry both said, at the exact same instant. 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.


“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. It was a long way, though, and she didn’t think she could get there by herself. She hadn’t even been able to reach Riverrun. “We could go to the Wall.”

[A Feast for Crows]

Her swordbelt went into the canal. Her cloak, tunic, breeches, smallclothes, all of it. All but Needle.

In her hand, Needle seemed to whisper to her. Stick them with the pointy end, it said, and, don’t tell Sansa! It’s just a sword. 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.


“You’ll be safe here,” she told Needle. “No one will know where you are but me.”

[A Dance with Dragons]


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.

Even Jon would never know Blind Beth, I bet. That made her sad.

“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.


Jon felt as stiff as a man of sixty years. Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya.

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.

All to save my sister. But the men of the Night’s Watch have no sisters.
“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?

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

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


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 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 was curled up near the fire, wrapped in a black woolen cloak three times her size and fast asleep.

She looked enough like Arya to give him pause, but only for a moment.

But she was too old, far too old.

She does look a bit like Arya, Jon thought. Starved and skinny, but her hair’s the same color, and her eyes.

She rubbed away a tear angrily, the way Arya might have done it.

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


“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?


He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister?


“Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end.


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.

Resurrection (robb stark x reader)

fa/n: it’s time for some Robb Stark and this one came to my own head, it contains a fueled theory I and the lovely @tygerstrypes have about how the gorgeous Robb can’t possibly be gone for good

warnings: season three spoilers maybe? so like read at your own risk, death, violence

The chaos swarmed around so loud and buzzing it almost felt like some sort of paradoxical nightmare, the type of one where you ran but found you got nowhere. Legs swaying and heart hammering you attempted to shift through the shuffling chaotic fighting in Lord Frey’s dining room, the stiff pain of the arrow in your back making it almost unbearable. 

It had all happened so fast, the sequence of events blurring past you with one cry from your mother by law. One minute the music had been jolly, all tensions of the past seemingly drifting to the wind, but then the next minute, Lady Catelyn was on her feet, her impatient pleas for you and Robb to run almost sounding warped in your ear. 

Both you and your husband had been shot by the black headed arrows from the bows of the cowardly Frey men on the balconies, the haunting notes of the Rains of Castamere playing from their lutes. The shooting pain in your back was almost enough to bring you to your knees, but you stumbled on, hot tears flooding your face as you eyed Robb, he too stumbling as he stood. 

A strangled cry left your lips when you felt yourself being reefed back by your dress, your body colliding with anothers and a hard whimper escaped you too when the searing pain of your wound was torn wider by the force. Coolness met your throat then as someone held you roughly, their heady stench knocking your senses.

Lady Catelyn’s words, the raspy voice of Lord Frey, the almost mute whips of arrows through the air seemed to combine in one big blur of commotion and it seemed to be deafened by the dull thudding of your heart as you looked at Robb getting to his feet, arrows in his breast.  

You couldn’t save him, you couldn’t save any of them, not here when you were outnumbered, not when you were close to bleeding out on the Frey’s stoned floor. 

You looked at his face then, eyes meeting his for what you realised was the last time. You would die here tonight, all three of you would. You, your beloved Robb and his mother, the dear Lady Catelyn who you felt had lost all too much in this world. 

But if you were to die by the hand who held the blade to your throat, you knew the very last thing you wanted to see was the crystal blue of those Tully inherited eyes, the ones who belonged to the man you had wed not so long ago. The man who had broken oaths for you. 

Tears swarmed down the plains of your cheeks, hot and heavy, blurring your vision and you blinked them back in a state of panic, thinking that you were slipping away already, that your throat had been cut open all too quickly and painlessly. 

The shape of Roose Bolton emerged as the sea of hustling soldiers parted, all Stark bannermen dead and bleeding out on the floor. His face was cunning, his stature embodying that of a snake as he approached Robb, a leer in his eyes and a hard set to his mouth as he gave you a fleeting look as he passed. 

You watched on, the cry of Robb’s name leaving your lips over and over again as he fell, slowly sinking into the darkness you were sure you’d be swallowed in shortly but even your own voice seemed warped, so did Cat’s shrieks, cut off at a weird end. 

But the words that rang in your ears, loud and clear as if they had been said to you, were the ones said before the cold end of the dagger had been pierced in your Robbs heart. 

The Lannisters send their regards. 

You bolted upright, a heavy and stuttering gasp trembling past your lips as your eyes fluttered open the minute your dream ended, the nightmarish thoughts still clinging to you even now. 

“You’re alright Lady Y/N” you heard a soft voice, your eyes flickering to the rounded and young face of Arya Stark, her eyes hollow looking in the dark. 

You nodded shortly, palms digging into the dirt of the forest floor for stability, your fingers combing through the leaves and twigs that lay on it, making your own mind believe you were here and not there, not in the place that haunted your sleeping thoughts. 

The fire that Arya had lit earlier was still flickering dimly, almost burnt out but the orange fiery sparks were enough to give light to shadow the sleeping figure of The Hound, the scars of his face seeming even more ghastly as they were illuminated by the very thing that put them there. 

The uneasy heart in your chest thudded to a steady rhythm after a minute of breathing in and out deeply, just like the young Stark girl had shown you after the nightmares had begun. You looked back at her now, her dirt covered face and greasy hair lining it, a pair of mud covered hands resting on your knees. 

“It was the dreams again, wasn’t it?” she asked you, meeting the gaze of your eyes, her voice soft like it always was. She was hard and rough, but there was always something immortally lovely about her voice, probably the only thing that made her a lady. 

“The same one?” Arya asked when you didn’t answer, and you looked at her, trembling hands coming to brush your hair behind your ears. 

“It’s always the same one” you told her grimly, voice weak and leaning towards something of a whisper, your body having no strength to talk above an octave higher than that. 

“You should lie back and sleep” she tried to soothe you, but months of hardship and pain hadn’t gifted her with a soothing nature and there was an uncertain flicker in her eyes, like she didn’t know how to make anyone comfortable at all. 

“I can’t sleep, Arya I can’t” you shook your head “every time I close my eyes I’m back there, and I see it, I see his face and I can’t help him”

“Robb” you winced at the mention of his name “wouldn’t want you to think of him that way, so don’t Y/N. Remember him the way he was before that, do you remember when we were little and he used to tease you all the time?” stiffly you nodded, remembering little of the days you’d spent in Winterfell as a girl, always entranced by the eldest Stark. 

“Remember that, when you close your eyes think of that and nothing else, Robb would want that” there it was again, the mention of his name, the sound of it passing through the air, vowels, syllables, and consonants floating past her lips but it stabbed your heart a million times over, burning and then freezing it like the cool sting of death. 

Death, you thought, would have been easier than bringing yourself to say his name, because his name made him real, it made him proof that he had once lived, and pretending like he never had was easier than remembering you had lost him so cruelly. 

Robb Stark’s name had not passed from your mouth in over three months. 

“I should be dead Arya” you whispered, each syllable reverberating and scratching off your dry throat “I want to die” 

You’d known Arya all her life, had been a tiny child yourself when she had been born in the chambers of her Northern home, had played with her and your closest friend Sansa, just another person you ached the embrace of, had both rolled your eyes during Septas sewing lessons and had braided and played with her hair when it had been long and tended to. 

She’d always been little Arya Stark, Robb’s youngest sister and perhaps the wildest of all the Stark children, the little Arya probably the most like a wolf than any who had lived in Winterfell before her. She’d been cute and petite, even a little stubborn but she had never scared you. 

She did now. 

A dark and dangerous cloud seemed to swirl in her eyes, her hands tightening their grip on your knees, her face leaning in closer to you. 

“Don’t ever say that again” her voice was low, almost threatening and a small twinge of regret took you. This girl had lost so much already and you were thrusting the idea of death upon yourself, but the twinge was only small. She had indeed lost it all, so what was one more person to lose? 

“You don’t understand -” 

“Don’t understand?” she quipped, her voice louder than the previous whispers of the night and your eyes flickered to where Sandor was sleeping, a grunt passing him as he turned over “of course I understand, I’ve lost people I love, all of them in fact, but I keep fighting because I’m a Stark and that’s what we do” 

“I’m not a Stark” you said through trembling lips, your eyes shifting to your hands that wrung themselves into knots on your lap “I don’t want to keep fighting” 

“Yes you are” her tone was maddened and short, but there was hurt buried under it too, something that she had learned to bottle up “you married my brother, you’re as much a Stark as I am, and you will fight, for Robb if no one else” 

“I don’t want to live in a world where he doesn’t exist” you told her, your head resting against the tree behind you, bleary eyes peering through the canopy of leaves to gaze at the twinkling stars. 

“How can you avenge him if your dead?” she told you and you swore in that moment she was exactly like her mother, stone voiced and placid, with a fiery light of revenge flickering in her eyes. 

Maybe you should be more like Lady Catelyn, you thought, maybe even more like Arya. You had always been soft and gentle hearted, a blush almost always covering your cheeks with an everlasting modesty, maybe that’s why you and Sansa had been so close as children, both your temperaments the same, both believing in fairy tales and songs. 

But life wasn’t a song, it wasn’t a fairy tale either and when the haunting reality set in, the women like you were ravished by despair while all that was left was people like Arya, hard shelled and willful with vengeance. 

“Every night before I sleep I say a list of names” she said to you, but you already knew that. While she thought you were asleep during the early hours of the morning you would lie awake, listening to her soft mutters from where she lay, the names she recited so familiar to you now that you could probably begin to list them off in a heart beat “and it makes me feel better, because one day I’m going to kill everyone on that list for killing my family” 

“I want revenge” you told her darkly, a sparking flame lighting inside you and the quirk of her full lips turned up at the sides, smug and dangerous she was in that moment. 

“We’ll get it, I know we will” she said to you, something in her voice so sure it almost seemed like she could taste the edges of revenge on her tongue “but first you need to sleep” 

Agreeing with a nod, you lay yourself back down on the dirt covered ground of the forest floor, head full of thoughts of revenge as you tried to get comfortable atop the scratchy cloak that served as a blanket. 

You closed your eyes but did not sleep, listening to Arya’s mumbles and The Hound’s deep snores as he found the softness of slumber. It was an odd company to keep, that of a wild and now somehow dangerous little girl, once noble and childish and a great hulk of a man who slept in his armor, on guard all the time. 

They had become the only family you had in this bleak world these past few months, and in your heart there was an undeniable debt owed to them for saving you at the right time while trapped in the Frey’s holds. Despite the thoughts of death you had now, at the time you were grateful to see the scarred face of The Hound busting through the doors to help with a filthy faced, almost unrecognisable girl at his side with a sword like a needle. 

Both had been your saviours and as you lay on the forest floor, the smell of decaying leaves and earth filling your nose, you decided that Arya was right, you had to keep fighting, for yourself, for her, for all the people you lost especially…

You squeezed your eyes tightly, even the haunting echo of his name in your mind was enough to make your heart turn to stone in your chest, so you pushed his name back to the dusty parts of your conscious, stacking it away with all the other bad memories.

The faint noises of the forest distracted your mind and Arya’s soft voice from across the fire trickled to your ears, voice so faint it was almost incomprehensible for a moment but you knew what she was saying, and you didn’t know if she was awake or if she had become so accustomed to muttering the same thing that she now done it in her sleep. 

Cersei, Joffrey, Illyn Payne…” they were just a few on her list, the haunting hit list of a child filled with murderous revenge and sometimes the names on that list would bring chills to you with the thought that she wished these people dead, wished upon them the same fate that had met her own family and it almost scared you.

Now however as she whispered names that you knew, you felt an ache in your heart, one name sticking out in particular, the person you wished to kill most of all. 

Walder Frey. 

It was worth it to remember the red wedding, just to think of his face, to remember exactly what it looked like and you were certain, that one day, courage would be resurrected inside you and your face would be the last thing he saw before he died. 

Snow was an accustomed sight, almost a glorious one as you approached the heavy black gates on an almost staggering horse, your steed as tired and as cold as you were, but there was something about the harsh chill and the freckling of snow on your skin that was welcomed with warmth by you. 

It was almost like the sight of home, like Winterfell had been in the years past. But even though it wasn’t Winterfell, the place you had lived more years than your own home, there was still a different sort of home that rested behind those gates. 

Castle Black had been the desired destination of your small company for weeks now, at one stage it only being a place, a word that didn’t mean anything since your pessimistic mind was convinced that you’d never reach it. 

But here it was, the great lump of a dreary building right before you, looming up almost like the welcome arms of a family member and an overwhelming pull in your heart made you tremble with the finality of it. This was really it, you were safe. 

Your eyes drifted to Arya from where she sat on her smaller horse, a flicker of impatience in her eyes but she didn’t look at you, not realising anything else around her except for the gate that was now opening. You could see it all over her face, the conflict of emotions that were skimming her features, the light of her eyes, the tremble of her lips, her whole heart set on seeing her brother again. 

Inside the confines of the walls was just as bleary and dark as the outside, the falling snow creating a misty, almost ominous color to the place but even though it wasn’t beautiful, it was a glorious sight to your eyes that looked all around from atop your horse. 

It seemed that as the three of you rode inside, eyes followed you everywhere, men in wild looking furs and matted hair and men with the blackness of the Night’s Watch upon their shoulders stared at the unexpected arrival of two girls and a scarred man. 

You looked at each of their faces as you passed, and then, there he was. Like a shock of night against the brightness of the snow, dark hair pulled up and dark eyes unbelievably watchful as he stood on a balcony. 

Your heart leaped in your chest as you looked at him and suddenly Arya was off her horse, running towards him like the wind was carrying her. You watched as Jon scooped her up, holding her like she was a part of him, hugging his little sister tight and showing no sign of ever wanting to let her go. 

He looked at you when he eventually did put her down and as you slid off your horse slowly he made his way towards you, steps almost agonisingly slow and then, like your own body had moved before you wanted it to, you were crashing against him, arms around his neck, holding the only brother you had left, because under it all, no matter what, Jon had always been that to you, a brother. 

You felt the safety secure you as your brother by law held you in his arms, all love for you pouring from the warmth of his embrace and the feeling of finally being safe almost suffocated you, taking a hold of you like no other. 

Security and happiness rippled through you like a sea of overwhelming emotions, ones you hadn’t felt in such a long time, crawling their way up from the blackest pits of despair you’d been in for so long, resurrected like the dead. 

The warmth of the dinner hall was greatly appreciated, the fire you sat beside casting it’s glow onto your freshly washed skin, the wet ends of your hair tickling your collarbones.

Jon, Sandor and the ginger wildling warrior sat on one of the long benches, drinking horns of ale that you had politely refused, while another band of men sat close beside a woman of red. 

Your eyes now slid to her as she sat close by a man with dirty blonde hair, a sword on his hip and his hand over it like he expected an attack at any moment. There was something about the two of them that had caught your attention right away, especially the woman with her strange accented voice and her wide, seeing eyes. 

She had seemed unexpectedly cold and upfront despite the warmness of her coloring and it put you at unease, even Arya who had retired to bed a while ago had voiced her opinion on the red woman, not trusting her completely either. 

“Alright, I think it’s about time we talked about why we’re all here” the deep, Northern accent still seemed like it wasn’t real to your ears but as you looked at Jon Snow, your eyes became accustomed to his figure, proving to your fragile mind that he really was here. 

All went silent then, even Tormund who had been filling Sandor’s ears with wild and glorious tales of beyond the wall, your sworn protector looking like he couldn’t care for wildling banter. Each pair of eyes went to him, including yours out of pure impatience and curiosity since you’d been called here on his polite orders. 

“Y/N” Jon began, dark eyes lifting to yours and something inside his heart twisted. Jon didn’t want to tell you this, as much joy as it would bring you, because it would mean that the last few months you had been living in, all that pain, had been for nothing, all that suffering for no cause at all. 

“Yes?” your voice shook as you spoke, heart hammering in your chest. 

“Three days past a rider came to camp, bearing news of happenings fifty leagues from here” Jon began, standing closer to you, the flames on his face flickering against his paleness “news about the North, and it’s King” 

“It’s King?” you asked, a shaky breath leaving your mouth then “and who’s claiming to be King in the North now? Another loyal banner man of House Stark or a traitor? I can’t seem to tell the difference these days” 

“Robb Stark, my lady” it wasn’t Jon who spoke, but the man who had sat beside Melisandre, his tall frame standing, grey eyes perching themselves on yours. 

The room fell silent, so much so that you could almost count the breaths that fell from Jon’s direwolf across the hall. You stiffened in your wooden chair, hands gripping the edge of it as if to stop it from spinning off the edge of the earth from the mention of his name. Sandor shuffled in his seat, his eyes laying heavily on you while the wildling man beside him looked on with a spark of interest in his eyes. 

“I admire your fealty, but there is no King in the North, and he’s certainly not a Stark, you’re a fool to believe otherwise” you said, standing up from your chair on wobbly legs, feeling colder as you moved away from the fire’s glow. 

“I beg your pardon my Lady but -” 

“And I beg yours” you interrupted him, eyes almost as blazing as the flames as you looked at him “but there is no King, I watched him….I watched him die before my own eyes. Whoever claims to be King now has no right” 

“Y/N, you need to listen” Jon said after you had turned around, not at all interested in listening to men reminisce about things of the past, things that were still too painful “Robb is King, he still is King. Y/N, Robb is alive” 

If you thought your heart had broken before, you were wrong. It was like your ears almost picked up on its loud shattering, the already broken pieces now truly turning to dust in your chest and as you sucked in a large breath, ready to answer him, it was like the jagged pieces stabbed you. 

“How dare you Jon, you stand there and mock my pain?” you asked him, bottom lip trembling but he only looked at you, so did the stranger who seemed so odd “I seen your brother die, I was there at the red wedding! I seen it!” 

“I’m not mocking you, I would never” Jon said, shaking his head as he stood closer to you “Robb was my brother, I would never say something like this if I didn’t believe it to be true” 

“How could you believe something like this?” your voice was small, tears bleary in your eyes as you looked around the stiff company of the dark room “the dead are dead, they don’t come back for us” 

“I came back” Jon’s words were soft but there was a strained tightness under them, like he was speaking of something that was freshly painful, like he bore a wound that still bled. 

“What?” you shakily asked him, your heart beating loudly in impatience for his answer. 

“From the dead” he told you “Lady Melisandre brought me back, and I swear to you by all the damned gods that if it hadn’t of happened to me I would never have believed it, but it did happen and I do believe it” 

“It is true, my lady” the solemn voice of the red haired woman spoke as she arose from her seat, footsteps silent and ominous as she made her way towards you, haunting eyes locked with yours “I did bring Jon Snow back from the cruelty of death” 

“And I suppose you brought my husband back too? Is that what I’m supposed to believe?” you asked, mind still distraught that these people would mock you so cruelly, even Jon. 

“Actually I did” the odd man spoke, stepping closer to you in the light, his face now more prominent to you. His grey eyes looked at you hard, but not unkindly, a freckling of thin scars across the plains of his features, his nose looking like it had been broken several times before and his greasy hair twisted atop his head in some sort of knot.

“I brought him back myself” he told you “let me introduce myself, I’m Thoras, my lady, a member of the Brotherhood Without Banners”

“My husband, Jon’s brother, died along with his mother, I watched it happen before me, nothing you say now will comfort me enough to believe that it didn’t” you stood firm, not believing that these people would be so naive. 

What was it they wanted? Gold? You had none. Maybe they just wanted to witness the pain of a young widow, see the light of hope in her eyes before they told her their words were false and laughed in her face. 

“Aye, it’s the truth” the Hound spoke, his armor clinging as he stood to his giant height, voice gruff and slow after the affects of ale “I had to step over the boys body to get her out” 

“We were scouting some Lannister men along the Riverlands” Thoras began, turning around as he poured himself some ale, his words soft as if he was recounting a tale to himself rather than to a room of people, completely ignoring the protesting words of some “we weren’t able to catch up with them but we kept going, thought maybe they’d stop somewhere and we could raid them there. We got to the twins soon enough, but the fighting had already begun. We could hear the shouts from outside, but when we got in, it was already too late”

“You didn’t save my husband, I seen what happened to him afterwards” you said, your voice hard and almost cold “they beheaded him and paraded him around like he was nothing to them” 

“A cruel finality yes, but not your husbands finality I’m afraid” Thoras spoke, lips resting at the rim of his glass before he took a generous swig of ale “we took a Frey bannermen’s head, dressed him in Robb’s clothing and took the King with us. People always have said that the Frey’s were a stupid lot, and we seemed to fool them easily enough” 

“You expect me to believe this?” you said to them, looking between Jon, to the red woman and to Thoras who was an outlaw, a member of a brotherhood that swore no loyalty to any House “you don’t serve the Starks, so why save one?”

“We may have no banners, my lady, but we hate the Lannisters just as much as the Starks might” he said “and we need as many Starks to fight them” 

“It seems the Lord of Light has greater plans for those with Stark blood” Melisandre said, her eyes searching your face for any sign that you were softening to their claim “he allowed me to bring Jon back, and willed Thoras to bring back the King in the North”

“You do not have to believe us, but ride with us to where he is, he’s set up camp with loyal men not fifty leagues from here” Jon said, his dark eyes locking with yours in a pleading hold. 

“I want to believe you, I do. But there is no such thing as bringing back what’s lost” 

“Come with us and see, let us see if it’s true” Jon told you, stepping close and looking at you dead in the eyes, pausing before he spoke again “will you come with us or will you stay?”


I should not be dreaming wolf dreams, the girl told herself. I am a cat now, not a wolf. I am Cat of the Canals. The wolf dreams belonged to Arya of House Stark. Try as she might, though, she could not rid herself of Arya. It made no difference whether she slept beneath the temple or in the little room beneath the eaves with Brusco’s daughters, the wolf dreams still haunted her by night.

The hall was crowded. As Arya looked at all the faces she saw suspicion, anger, distrust, and all directed at Jon. Her brother was in the midst of them, his face very still, unreadable.

“I’m not what you think I am,” was all he said.

Arya didn’t know what it was about. She’d only just returned. She had thought him dead but he wasn’t and now the way people looked at him… he was her brother. She stepped through the crowd to stand with him, to shield him.

“You leave Jon alone,” she told them fiercely.

Whatever they thought they were wrong and Arya would tell them so. It was only fair. After all, Jon would do the same for her.

ser-lorass  asked:

So we know your thoughts on R+L=J but what about R+L = J+M? They are the same age, she could be the third head (Though not what R planned). Her book description is similar to Arya, who we know looks the closest to Jon.

Hi ser-lorass! I’m responding to you, and to aplyflwynd, baasovlov, and staybadassmissjackson, who all sent in asks on this subject. I’m also addressing this answer to huffingtonpost/huffposttv, whose wonderful little article is the reason why I’ve received 4 asks on this subject in less than 36 hours.

The theory: R+L=J+M – that Jon Snow is not the son of Ned Stark and some unknown woman, but actually the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark… but Lyanna didn’t just have one child, she had twins! Jon and Meera Reed are twins, just like Luke and Leia!!! Oh my god, this changes everything!!!!!

The evidence: Looks.

HuffPo posted some pictures of Kit Harington and Ellie Kendrick, the actors who play Jon and Meera (respectively) on Game of Thrones, and says they look alike. Um, sure. Maybe they might, a little. (If you ignore bone structure, facial shape, eye shape, jaw shape, nose shape, lip shape, everything except for the fact they both have dark curly hair.) But the show is the show, and we can note that Arya and Jon are supposed to look extremely alike, as well as Ned and Jon, and yet… they don’t. Not to mention the fact that Bran and Rickon are supposed to all be auburn-haired and have the same face shape as Robb and Sansa and their mother Catelyn… and yet, on the show, they don’t. The show’s casting doesn’t prove anything, sorry.

But “Meera looks like Arya in the books”, you say! No, not really. Bran’s narrative says she reminds him of Arya. (So does one of the Children of the Forest, note.) And this is the reason why:

Jojen was so solemn that Old Nan called him “little grandfather,” but Meera reminded Bran of his sister Arya. She wasn’t scared to get dirty, and she could run and fight and throw as good as a boy.

A Clash of Kings, Bran IV

However, this is what Meera actually looks like:

As the newcomers walked the length of the hall, Bran saw that one was indeed a girl, though he would never have known it by her dress. She wore lambskin breeches soft with long use, and a sleeveless jerkin armored in bronze scales. Though near Robb’s age, she was slim as a boy, with long brown hair knotted behind her head and only the barest suggestion of breasts. A woven net hung from one slim hip, a long bronze knife from the other; under her arm she carried an old iron greathelm spotted with rust; a frog spear and round leathern shield were strapped to her back.
Her brother was several years younger and bore no weapons. All his garb was green, even to the leather of his boots, and when he came closer Bran saw that his eyes were the color of moss, though his teeth looked as white as anyone else’s. Both Reeds were slight of build, slender as swords and scarcely taller than Bran himself.

A Clash of Kings, Bran III

Meera Reed was sixteen, a woman grown, but she stood no higher than her brother. All the crannogmen were small, she told Bran once when he asked why she wasn’t taller. Brown-haired, green-eyed, and flat as a boy, she walked with a supple grace that Bran could only watch and envy.

A Storm of Swords, Bran I

Please note that not only is Meera very short for her age (barely taller than an 8-year-old boy), because she’s a crannogwoman, but she also looks much like her brother Jojen, with the same height, the same brown hair and green eyes. Funny, you’d think that if Meera were Rhaegar and Lyanna’s child, she should look like at least one of her parents. (They don’t have contacts in Westeros.)

Jon Snow, however:

Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black… –A Game of Thrones, Bran I

[Ned] had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day… A Game of Thrones, Bran I

Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks. –A Dance with Dragons, Reek (Theon) II

[Arya] even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. A Game of Thrones, Sansa I

And her betrothed [Brandon] looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her. –A Clash of Kings, Catelyn VII

The evidence: Age

Shocker! Meera and Jon are the same age! (Both 16-17 years old as of ADWD, both born in 283 AC.) Well gosh oh golly oh wow, you got me there. But you have to pity poor Lyanna, because guess who else was born in 283:

No wonder Lyanna died in childbirth, having undecuplets is really hard on a woman. :(

The evidence: Themes. Oh, this one isn’t even worth talking about, but you remember Romulus and Remus, right? The founders of Rome? They were twins, nursed by a she-wolf! Surely that means Lyanna the Stark she-wolf had twins! And because Jon Snow and Meera Reed are just like Romulus and Remus! I greatly look forward to the scene where Jon and Meera build a city together and then he kills her. Truly, that will be some of GRRM’s finest writing.

But enough about this “evidence”. Let’s talk real proof.

One of the best run-downs of the evidence for Jon Snow’s parentage is here. It’s my favorite link for proof of R+L=J, because it lists all the quotes in the narrative that lead to this conclusion. (Although since it’s a pre-ADWD list, it doesn’t have some of the most recent evidence, but it’s still great.) If you follow the link, you’ll see some of the most significant quotes are from Ned Stark’s narrative. Notably, when Ned is speaking with Cersei, he does not list Jon as one of his children:

“You love your children, do you not?”
Robert had asked him the very same question, the morning of the melee. He gave her the same answer. “With all my heart.”
“No less do I love mine.”
Ned thought, If it came to that, the life of some child I did not know, against Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, what would I do? Even more so, what would Catelyn do, if it were Jon’s life, against the children of her body? He did not know. He prayed he never would.

A Game of Thrones, Eddard XII

And when he’s in the dungeons, with his regrets:

The thought of Jon filled Ned with a sense of shame, and a sorrow too deep for words. If only he could see the boy again, sit and talk with him…

A Game of Thrones, Eddard XV

People who believe in the R+L=J theory feel that in this scene Ned is deeply regretting that he has never told Jon Snow the truth about his mother. How interesting, then, that it doesn’t include the line “And if only he could see Meera Reed, sit and talk with her…”

In fact, Ned never once thinks of Meera Reed at all. Take a look for yourself. He does think of Howland Reed a few times, but never about Howland’s children. You would think, if there were any truth to the idea that Lyanna had twins, and made Ned promise to keep her son safe and raise him as his bastard and never tell him about his parentage, but give her daughter away to be raised by someone else (because that makes sense), there’d be some part of Ned’s narrative that would lead to this conclusion. Something about Howland protecting the gift Ned had given him, perhaps. Anything. Any textual evidence of any kind.

Well, there isn’t any. Because this theory is crap, and entirely baseless, with nothing but the coincidence of age and two actors with brown curly hair. Oh, and an idea stolen from movie series that, y’know, is popular and had a heck of a twist that was not that much of a reveal because Leia is the only female character of any substance in the original trilogy… ahem… hey, that is something, isn’t it? If ASOIAF was really leading to some huge reveal about Meera being Jon’s sister, you’d think that Meera would be at least as important a character as Jon? But though I do love her, she really really isn’t; Meera’s a supporting character in Bran’s story, and that’s all. Meera is Howland Reed and his wife Jyana’s daughter, and Jojen’s sister, and that’s all.

(Oh, and Meera’s mother isn’t Ashara Dayne. And Jyana isn’t Lyanna. And Howland isn’t Arthur Dayne. And Howland isn’t the High Sparrow. And Wylla Manderly isn’t Jon’s real twin sister. And Dany isn’t Jon’s twin sister/Lyanna’s real secret child either. You know, this fandom has way too much time on its hands.)