synopsis: jon, robb, and arya on a rainy day in winterfell.
author's note: this is what i consider the first actual chapter, with part one acting more as a prologue. also, i try not to bash catelyn but she does seem pretty cold through jon's eyes. i hope you like it!
wordcount + tags: 2254. sibling dynamics, shameless fluff, pre-agot.
part one || part two || part three
It was a wet day out in the yard. Ser Rodrik had set Jon and Robb at drill for an hour before relenting, succumbing to the boys’ complaints about the mud and cold rain and sending them inside to warm up. They had settled in the great hall after washing up, and had spent the hours since listening to freeriders and smiths at the end of the long tables.
“It’ll be a long summer,” Morten, Mikken’s son, was saying, “The horse chestnuts turned green late, long after the snows thawed. That always means a long summer.”
“And how would you know, lad? You’ve barely seen four summers yourself!” Morten turned red and looked down as the boys around him laughed. Jon rather thought he was right; it seemed every tree, bush, and fern was taking it’s time to turn, so by logic, nature must know it had time to do so. He was about to speak up in Morten’s defense, when a voice cut through the middle of the table. “You shouldn’t laugh at him!” At the end of the table, Arya had climbed up onto the bench and was staring down the lot of them with narrowed eyes. Her hands were defiantly placed on her hips. She’d have made a terrifying sight, had she not been four years old.
The freeriders chuckled quietly, before taking on an air of amused apology. The oldest of them, a messenger named Wyllis who had been riding to and from Winterfell since before Jon’s father had even been born, turned to face her. “A thousand pardons, my lady,” he told her gently, “we meant no offense to the lad.” “You’d best not have,” Arya scolded him hotly, “That’s my father’s man you’ve mocked.” It was too much; the men burst into laughter. Jon could tell that they were not laughing in mockery this time, but affection. It touched them that Arya was so defensive of her father’s men. Arya could not tell this, though, that was plain to see, as her face looked close to crumbling in embarrassment at their laughter.
Jon slid out from the bench, and scooped her up deftly in his arms. He had reached his ninth nameday some months ago, and was taller than Robb by half-a-head. Arya was still tiny in comparison to him. She grasped onto his collar as he held her, tucking her head into his neck as hot tears spilled out onto his shirt. He sat back down next to Robb, who consolingly rubbed a hand across her back, before sneaking a cheese pastry from the center of the table and placing it in front of her. “Come on now, Underfoot,” Jon whispered to her. Her face was still pressed up against his chest, more like than not to keep the men from seeing her cry. Arya hated people seeing her cry, so Jon kept his arms tight around her to keep her from view. “They’re not laughing at you, sweetling. They’re laughing because you’re so very little to have said that. It’s nothing to do with what you said itself.”
At that, Arya lifted her head and blinked up at him. “You promise?” “On my honour, and with all my heart. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” She sniffed, then wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Wyllis had seen her dismay, and was quick to turn the rest of the lads onto finer discussions of harvest and road conditions while Jon tended to her. Jon gave him a nod of gratitude, and he gave Jon a discrete nod in turn.
Jon had always liked this end of the hall better than the head table. Here, freeriders told stories of faraway castles, smiths told legends of giants and direwolves, and travellers exchanged information about troubles up and down the Kingsroad. Dogs roamed about for scraps, and a few brave cats laid lazily on the high windowsills, flicking their tails back and forth. The great hall of Winterfell always had a slight haze during mealtimes, filled with smoke and steam from the kitchens underneath it and the many candles and hearths needed to illuminate it. Up at the head table, there were grates that siphoned the smoke up and out through the walls, but at this end it hung heavy in the air like a maiden’s perfume. Jon liked how it left him smelling of rosemary, from the rosemary chicken that was always set about as the main course here. His father’s table would have racks of aurochs, succulent pig, or fat capon as their meal, but down here the chicken needed something to flavour it and Gage liked rosemary best.
He was just thinking about perhaps whisking Arya down to the kitchens after luncheon to see if Gage might have a sweet or two to cheer her up, when Arya squared her shoulders and turned to face the table. She had marshalled her courage, it seemed, but not yet enough to leave Jon’s lap. Morten quietly poured her a goblet of barley tea, and smiled at her in quiet thanks. Arya gave him a small smile back, before noticing the cheese pastry in front of her as well, and setting to it. Jon could see out of the corner of his eye as Robb made to snatch her another one. “She’s not had her proper meal yet,” Jon reminded him. “I know, but what harm is there in letting her spoil one meal?” “None, so long as your mother knows it was you and not I.” Robb had the decency to look abashed at that. The Lady Catelyn would surely blame Jon if Arya did not eat at the midday meal, and Robb knew it. He withdrew his hand, leaving the pastry on the table. Arya was too busy munching on the one in her hand to notice.
Jon stood up, taking Arya in hand, and began taking her back to his father’s table. The food was starting to be brought out at the head table, which meant his father would be coming soon, along with the Lady Catelyn and Sansa. He and Robb would claim their seats to either side of their father, and he would have them tell him everything that had happened in the morning. More oft as not, Robb would chatter away happily for most of the soup and meat, and then father would turn Catelyn’s attention to him as the ale was being poured after the meal so that he could speak with Jon. Father would turn to face him, and give Jon his full attention. Jon would tell him about things he’d heard from the freeriders, or things that Luwin had been teaching him, and his father would gently question him or tell him some story or memory of his. With a full belly, and his father’s attention, Jon felt very satisfied at the end of every midday meal.
Just as Jon had set Arya down in her place, father and Lady Catelyn came striding in, with Sansa in hand. The new baby, Bran, was in the arms of his nursemaid, who came walking in behind them. Bran was not yet old enough to eat properly at table, so they oft had him fed in the nursery, but Catelyn was determined to instill good manners in him from the very start by having him practice sitting through the meal after he had been fed. Jon idly wondered where those manners had gone with Robb, who set at his food so lustily, and when he came back to his head he found Lady Catelyn looking at him and Arya with a spark behind her eyes. “Why was she with you? She was meant to be with the Septa.” Ah, the Septa. Jon sighed internally. Little wonder Arya had been in the hall unattended. She had gotten in the habit of running out from between the Septa’s skirts, and hiding from her until the woman had to enlist the guards to help find her. Jon did not blame her; he liked this Septa Mordane very little himself. She thought far too highly of her southron ways, and herself as a southroner. There was not much that escaped Jon’s eye, and that included the way she turned up her nose while passing the entrance to the godswood.
“She came up to Robb and I at the end tables, my Lady. Forgive me, I had not known she was meant to be elsewhere.” Jon said courteously, keeping his eyes on her shoes. Just then, his father stepped between them. “I should wonder,” he said, “at the fact that mine own daughter of four can escape the Septa’s notice so easily.” The words were said offhandedly, but his intent was clear; it was the Septa that was to be blamed, not Jon. “Aye, and that she can spend so long with us speaking to Morten and Wyllis without so much as sight of her Septa in the hall,” Robb chimed in. Jon loved him for that. Lady Catelyn surely couldn’t blame him when both her Lord and son came to his defense, at least not publicly. Lady Catelyn leveled him with an icy stare around his father’s arm, before turning to attend to Sansa.
After the midday meal, Jon and Robb had lessons with Maester Luwin. He spent the lesson drilling them on the minor houses of the North, their strengths, their positions, and very pointedly mentioning which of their daughters were of an age to marry Robb when they were older. Jon had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the expression on Robb’s face; torn between a stoic acceptance of his duty and utter mortification. After the lesson, they were sent to their father’s solar.
“Ah,” Father said as he looked up from the parchment in his hand, “I had thought we might spend the rest of the afternoon together. There’s a few letters I’d like you both to read and tell me what you gather from them.” Jon looked at Robb sidelong and met his eye. A test. Father wanted to see if they understood the meaning behind what was said in these letters, which could only mean there was some hidden intent in them. They both went to stand on either side of him, as Father laid the letters out on his desk.
“On the orders of Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm…” Robb read from the top. Jon’s eyes quickly scanned the words as Robb read them aloud in his best imitation of their father’s Lord voice. “…ten thousand men to be sent to the Riverlands, to stand at Seagard under order of the crown. So the King is sending soldiers to the Riverlands?” Robb looked puzzled. “We have no need of them. Unless…Does he think Lord Mallister a traitor, somehow?” He always says ‘we’ when he speaks of the Riverlands, Jon mused. Must be inherited from his mother, she says the same. Father interrupted his thoughts. “There’s more,” he said gently, and pulled forward the other letter, this one addressed from Balon Greyjoy. It stated he would not be present for Prince Joffrey’s nameday celebrations, and that the Iron Islands would not be sending any competitors for the lists. Jon frowned; not attending could be excused, but not sending any representative would be seen as an open slight. The next letter was from Jason Mallister, reporting that the lands south of Seagard had reported multiple raids on ships turning to port by pirates… flying supposedly “stolen” Greyjoy banners. The problem was suddenly very clear to Jon. He hesitated, though. Father was staring at Robb, who clearly had yet to see what Jon did. “Maester Luwin said that Lord Balon was trying to turn the Iron Islands back to their old way,” Jon started quietly. Father turned to look at him, and Jon felt some of his courage drain out. It felt very obvious that Father had wanted Robb to get it first, but Robb was looking at him with a raised brow. “Go on, Jon,” Father said, and Jon felt the words rush out. “It’s just, it seems like he wants them to go fully back to the old way, if they’re raiding ships and refusing to give obeisance to the king. And if the King is sending soldiers to Seagard, it’s more like to protect them, since Seagard would be the obvious first place for a land raid.” His father nodded, and an understanding was dawning on Robb’s face. “We’ll be at war.” Robb said gravely. He looked like he was going to be sick, and Jon imagined he looked much the same. Father put his arms around both of them, and pulled them into his chest.
“I may have to go and do my duty to the realm. I don’t mean to frighten either of you, but if I am called away, it will be your duty to look after your sisters and your mother.” His words were directed at Robb, before he turned his head to Jon. “And I’ll need you to help him. Support him, be his sworn confidant and friend, as his brother and my son. Winter is coming, and when it does, you’ll need each other.” Robb grabbed Jon’s hand and squeezed it, and Jon squeezed back. And despite the fear that shivered through him at the thought of Father leaving, he knew that things would be alright.
synopsis: baby arya cries constantly. winterfell wants to sleep. jon just wants to finally meet his new little sister.
author's note: i started writing this fic as a teenager, posted it on ao3 just to dip my toes in the water, and then promptly fucked off for a few years. but, since i've decided to start actually writing online after years of hemming and hawing, i figured i should start by posting and adding to it! this first chapter is pretty short, and again was written years ago, so i promise they get better as they go on.
wordcount + tags: 926. sibling dynamics, shameless fluff, crying baby, pre-agot.
part one || part two || part three
Arya was screaming again.
In the two months since his youngest sibling had been born, Jon (and most of Winterfell) had known very little sleep. The babe had such a set of lungs on her, his father joked they may even hear her at the Wall. Day in and day out, she cried and screamed and fussed, to the point where the maester had inspected her daily, trying to see what the problem was. He had finally decided it must be some extreme form of colic. Jon didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded terrible, and it made him fear for his little sister. Her mother, too, fretted over her constantly, worrying over the severity of her cries. Yet it seemed no matter what Lady Catelyn did to calm her, little Arya would not rest.
Jon waited in his bed for a moment, listening for the sounds of the maids going down the halls to the girl, but he heard nothing. His brow furrowed as the crying continued, and still no footsteps signaled the arrival of her nursemaids. He hesitated only a moment longer before he sat up in his bed and swung his feet over the side, feet brushing the floor. Only a boy of five years though he was, Jon knew something was wrong if Arya was carrying on like this and no one was rushing to quiet her.
He walked silently down the hall, and wondered for a moment if he would get in trouble for being out of bed if the nursemaids ran into him, before realizing why they weren’t there; there had been a feast that night, something about Lord Cerwyn visiting, and they must’ve fallen heavily asleep afterwards. If they had even made it to their beds. Jon hadn’t been allowed to go, and Lady Catelyn had stared at him with such scorn when he asked his father that he wished he’d never brought it up. But then, his father had said Robb couldn’t go either, and that had lessened his disappointment a bit.
Nothing could lessen his disappointment about Arya, though. He had waited for weeks to be introduced to his new sibling, yet it seemed like Lady Catelyn never put her down. Robb and Sansa had gotten to meet her mere hours after her birth, but she refused to let Jon near the babe. She glared at him like he planned on stealing her away every time he peeked into the nursery. Robb agreed that it was unfair, and had told him what the baby looked like, but truth be told Robb wasn’t too interested in her. He enjoyed playing knights out in the godswood far more than minding his little sisters. Jon was always the one sitting on the floor of the playroom, smiling as Sansa babbled sternly at him, and obediently roaring every time she commanded him while they played monsters and maidens. He had been so excited when his father had come striding into the courtyard declaring they had another sister. He felt all his excitement had gotten swallowed by the pit in his stomach that formed every time Lady Catelyn looked at him.
Jon lightly pushed the nursery door, flooding the hall behind him with moonlight from its tall windows and cries from its tiny occupant. He walked up to Arya’s crib and climbed onto the step stool beside it. Leaning over the side of the wooden rocking crib, Jon’s breath escaped him. There she was. A little squirming bundle, with wisps of dark hair like his and his father’s, and a scrunched red face. It came to Jon suddenly that he had not planned what he would do when he got to her. He had thought to calm her down, but what could he do that the maester hadn’t tried? And what if Lady Catelyn walked in and forbade him from ever seeing her for his disobedience? Jon’s heart was thumping in his ears, but all he could think to do was reach down and trace his finger along her cheek.
Arya’s eyes opened. Gray, like his and father’s as well. She looked at him while he looked down at her, running his finger up and down along her cheek. After a beat, she quieted, and Jon was amazed. She hadn’t stopped crying unless someone fed her or sleep took her, not since she’d been born. Emboldened by his success, Jon reached down and gingerly lifted her out of the crib, cradling her in his arms. He sat down on the step stool carefully, trying not to jostle her too much, and rocked her gently.
“You’re alright, little sister.” he whispered to her, entranced by her little face and little hands poking out of her swaddling. “I’m Jon. I’m your brother, and I’ll protect you.” He leaned back, still looking at her. She was still quiet, and tiny, and perfect. He smiled.
She smiled back. Her mouth opened, and something resembling both a gurgle and a giggle came out as her lips curled up. Jon’s heart swelled at the sight. His little sister, who only cried for everyone else, had smiled for him! He began to croon softly to her, a lullaby of Old Nan’s that he usually sang for Sansa. He was only one line in when Arya began laughing in earnest, a baby laugh that seemed to come from her belly and sounded to Jon like Yuletide bells. He was smiling so hard his face hurt, and he was content to stay there, singing to his baby sister all night.
Baby Arya cries constantly. Winterfell wants to sleep. Jon just wants to finally meet his new little sister.
Or, Arya and Jon's relationship through the years.
I swear I'm going to actually post soon, I just need to finish my master's application (which I have been anxiously procrastinating on). I did my undergrad in England, and now I'm applying for a master's in England, only I suck at writing the application essays since they want the polar opposite of the American applications I was taught to write in high school.
I have sent in my application! Now I just need my advisor to send in my reference, and hopefully I'll hear back within a few weeks. I'll post an update when I get accepted/rejected.
I swear I'm going to actually post soon, I just need to finish my master's application (which I have been anxiously procrastinating on). I did my undergrad in England, and now I'm applying for a master's in England, only I suck at writing the application essays since they want the polar opposite of the American applications I was taught to write in high school.
