Jojen Reed/Stark reader.
Since early childhood, Jojen has seen visions of a pretty girl who is destined to be driven far from home. He sees moments of her caring for her siblings and hints of a future that make him gradually fall in love with her. His dreams of her fade for a while around the time Bran has his accident, with Bran being at the center of his new visions. After House Stark falls and Bran and his siblings are forced to flee Winterfell, Jojen begins seeing the girl again with Bran, giving him another reason to find Bran.
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The One I Dreamed
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- Summary: He loved you long before you met him and will love you longer still.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Jojen Reed
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial
From the first moment the gods gifted him with sight, Jojen Reed had glimpsed you.
Not in whole, never in clear vision—only fleeting flashes, the echo of you tangled in moss and mist. A girl with a face like sunlight on fresh snow, eyes darker than the Wolfswood at night, hands tender and strong, always cradling something: a pup, a younger brother, a dying bird. She wore a wolf’s cloak clasped with silver, and a storm followed wherever she went. Jojen had seen you since he was barely past his sixth name day, a whisper on the wind between dreams. You never spoke in them, never looked at him. But he saw you often enough to know the sound of your laugh, though it came muffled through the dreamscape, like bells ringing underwater. She will be driven far from home, the greenseers murmured, and he would wake with those words pulsing behind his eyes like fire.
He had asked his father once, eyes wide and earnest, “Can someone fall in love with a dream?”
Howland Reed had smiled, half-sorrowful, half-knowing. “If the dream is real enough, my son, it can shape your waking world.”
And so Jojen watched. He watched as the girl in his visions grew—your face sharpening with age, your hair darkening, your eyes hardening. He saw you among snowflakes with your younger brothers, with Sansa beneath a flowering heart tree, with Robb on horseback, racing across the godswood. Always you were surrounded by your kin, a loyal shadow, a silent shield. It stirred something in him he did not have words for then. He called it devotion. Later, he would call it love.
But as all visions do, yours faded.
When the raven came and told him to go to Winterfell, when the dreams turned to Bran—the boy with the broken body and the burning destiny—you vanished like morning mist. Jojen still searched for you in sleep, reaching out into the dark, but you were gone. In your place was Bran, crying out from the mouth of a three-eyed crow. Bran, standing at the edge of a cliff of bones. Bran, with blood on his hands and stars in his eyes.
And still, always, the whisper: You must find him. Protect him.
He obeyed.
Jojen crossed the marshes with Meera, their packs light but their steps heavy with purpose. When the world cracked open beneath Winterfell, when wolves scattered like seeds in the wind, Jojen’s dreams changed again. This time, it was the both of you.
You returned in the flickering firelight of his greendreams. Tired now. Pale. Your face was leaner than before, smudged with ash and fear. You clutched a dagger like it was your last lifeline, shoulders stiff from the weight of younger brothers pressed against you as you crept through strange woods. But you were still beautiful, in the quiet, weathered way of wildflowers surviving the frost. Bran was beside you, wide-eyed and silent, and Jojen felt something like hope stir deep in his chest again.
One night, as they camped beneath the stars on a dry patch above the Neck, Meera stirred beside the fire while Jojen gasped awake, hand clutching his heart. She was used to his jolts and murmurs by now.
“Was it Bran?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Jojen shook his head, staring into the flames. “Her. I saw her again.”
“Bran’s twin?”
He nodded slowly. “She’s changed. They both have.”
“Are they together?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet. “She’s protecting him. And he’s leading her, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
Meera tilted her head. “Is that why we’re still going? Not just for Bran?”
Jojen didn’t answer at first. He watched the fire lick the black logs, and thought of you with your hands in Bran’s hair, braiding it like in one of his earliest dreams. “I think the gods want them both,” he murmured. “And maybe…I want her.”
Meera raised a brow, but said nothing. She only reached over to gently squeeze his hand. “Then let’s find her too.”
That night, Jojen dreamed of you again.
This time, he was close enough to hear your voice. You were in some cold forest cave, your arms around Bran as he trembled from a vision of his own. You whispered to him like a mother might, like a sister should, and your voice was a song of Winterfell long lost: gentle, steady, full of ghosts.
“We’ll find our way,” you were saying. “We’re Starks. We always do.”
Bran stirred in your arms. “What if there’s no home left?”
You cupped his face in your hands. “Then we make a new one. For Rickon. For Robb. For everyone we lost.”
Your voice trembled, but your spine did not. Jojen could feel the love in your words, the strength, the sorrow. And there, for a single heartbeat, you looked up—directly at him. Dream or not, he swore your eyes met his through the grey haze.
He woke with tears on his cheeks and a fire in his chest.
That morning, as he and Meera picked their way north through the barrows and frozen creeks, he said softly, “She’s real. And I’ll find her.”
Meera gave him a sideways glance, a faint smile curling her mouth. “I hope she’s worth all this mud and cold.”
Jojen Reed smiled back, faint but firm. “She is.”
He could feel you getting closer. The pull of your fate wrapped around his heart like roots. And though he had never heard you speak his name, he knew—deep in the marrow of every dream—that one day, you would.
The forest was old here, dense with shadow and the sighing breath of winter wind threading through bough and branch. Meera moved like water through it, quiet and smooth, her spear at the ready. Jojen followed behind, slower, each step deliberate as if the earth beneath his feet might speak if only he listened closely enough. The gods had shown him this place. A half-ruined holdfast buried in snow and ivy, its stones split and swallowed by tree roots. He’d seen the cracked stairwell that led to a chamber in the dark, and the three children who slept within—two Starks with the blood of kings in their veins, and the youngest like a ghost of Winterfell’s last joy, clutching a direwolf like a knight with his sword. But it wasn’t the crumbled walls or the flickering hearth that lived in his dreams. It was her.
You.
It was always you.
When the reeds pushed through the thickets and came upon the broken watchtower, the direwolves stirred first—two hulking shadows standing sentinel at the mouth of the ruin, their breath misting in the cold air. Meera tensed beside him, but Jojen didn’t flinch. He looked into the eyes of the grey beast, and the world slowed. The wolf growled low in its throat, but only once, like a warning that wasn’t meant for him.
“Summer,” a voice called from within.
And there you were.
You stepped from the shadows like something pulled from the pages of an old story—wrapped in furs, dirt on your cheeks, your hair braided back but coming undone from wind and worry. A dagger rested in your belt, another in your hand, but your posture softened when you saw the newcomers. Or rather, when you saw him.
Jojen stopped breathing.
It wasn’t like the dreams. Dreams were blurry things, flickering and warped by time. But you—you were clear and bright, fierce and weathered, standing like a flame that refused to die. You met his eyes across the snow, and something deep inside him—something green and ancient—settled with a thrum.
Bran appeared next, clinging to the shoulder of the wildling woman. Osha, Jojen recalled from his visions, the woman with sharp teeth and sharper instincts. Hodor loomed behind them, cradling a sleepy Rickon in his arms. But Jojen could barely see them. The world had narrowed to you.
Bran squinted. “Who are you?”
Meera stepped forward, spear lowered. “We’ve come to find you, Bran Stark. I’m Meera Reed. This is my brother, Jojen.”
You placed yourself between them and Bran without hesitation, one hand held low in a silent signal to the direwolves. “From the Neck?”
Jojen swallowed, nodding. “From Greywater Watch. My father is Howland Reed.”
Bran’s eyes lit up, recognition dawning. “He fought with my father at the Tower of Joy.”
“Yes,” Jojen said softly. “He did.”
You studied him then, your brow furrowing just slightly. “Why now?” you asked, suspicion still curled in your tone. “Why come all this way to find us?”
Jojen stepped forward. Each movement felt like he was walking deeper into his own fate. “Because the gods told me to. In dreams. I saw Bran first, but I saw you long before him.”
You blinked, a subtle flicker of uncertainty crossing your face. “Me?”
He nodded once. “Since I was a boy. Before I knew your name. Before I even knew I’d leave home. I saw you with your brothers, your sister, walking the halls of Winterfell, brushing snow from Rickon’s lashes, holding Bran when he cried in the dark. I saw you become something unbreakable.” His voice was steady, almost reverent. “You were always the one constant in all my dreams. Even when they faded. Even when I forgot what warmth felt like.”
Your eyes met his again, deeper this time. Searching. And he let you look, didn’t flinch from it. It wasn’t just awe he wore on his face—it was something older, something like devotion. Like he had been waiting a lifetime for you to exist in front of him without fading.
“Greendreams,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
“Yes.”
Rickon stirred then, waking with a soft whimper, and you immediately turned to soothe him. It was such a small thing, the way your hand moved to cup the back of his head, the way your voice dropped to a whisper—but Jojen’s chest ached to see it, because it was exactly as he’d dreamed. You were fierce and bright and soft where it mattered, and he could barely breathe from how real you were.
“I believe you,” Bran said suddenly, his voice firmer than it had been in moons.
You looked back at your twin, surprise flickering across your face.
Bran gave a small smile. “I’ve seen him too. In my dreams. And he’s right. We have to go north.”
“No,” Osha barked, stepping forward, shaking her head. “That way’s madness. There’s death in that direction, cold and worse. I’ve kept them alive this long. We go south.”
Jojen turned to you. “It’s not safe in the south. You know that, don’t you?” he asked gently. “There’s fire there, and traps. And death that wears smiling faces.”
Your hand flexed on your dagger, and you said nothing. But your silence was telling.
“We have to go north,” Bran repeated, looking at you now. “To the Three-Eyed Crow. To where the magic still lives. You know it too. Don’t you feel it?”
You looked at Jojen again. And this time, something in you cracked, just slightly. He saw it. The fear, the exhaustion, the quiet hope you tried to bury. You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came. Instead, you stepped toward him, just a breath away now, and looked up into his face.
“Are you real?” you whispered.
And Jojen—who had dreamt of you for years, who had seen you cradling the bones of your childhood and still standing tall—reached out and took your hand with both of his, his voice a whisper of wind through leaves.
“I’ve never been more real than I am standing in front of you.”
And for a moment, the forest fell away. There was no war, no ruin, no death waiting on the road ahead. Just the press of your fingers curling into his, and the greendreamer finding the heart of his dream at last.
