fic: make this moment last (Game of Thrones, Stark Family)
make this moment last
Game of Thrones / Stark Family / 347 words
For dulcedeusex, Happy Holidays!
The air is crisp and holds a familiar taste to it.
Ned can feel the coming snow, a heavy presence when he breathes in through his a nose, an icy bite in the back of his throat when he swallows. Summer is on its way out, taking with it the short autumn. Winter comes soon, early, this year.
He stands on the balustrade and watches his children below. Five plus one to make six. Six from Robb’s tall age of nearly a man all the way to Rickon’s toddling form, two stubby legs that try to support a body that does not want to stay still, that follows after his siblings. Sansa shrieks as Arya tackles her to the ground. Her voice is not tinged with real hurt, only play. Bran pulls Rickon to follow him up onto the walls, mindful of his brother’s tiny body. Jon comes to Arya’s rescue when Sansa’s hands strike out, and Robb is there to grab at her and pull her away, laughing.
A gloved hand burrows between his elbow and chest, and Cat leans her body against his. They watch their children below.
“A raven came today,” she finally speaks. Her head is close to his shoulder, but their furs keep some distance between their bodies. “From the South.”
Ned turns his head then, looks down at her face. He can see the heavy lines that have transformed her visage, and there is worry there. Apprehension too.
He takes the parchment from her, unrolls it, and reads the black ink. Winterfell is to have visitors soon, of the royal kind.
He breathes in again and tastes the air. Snow is soon to fall; winter is on her way. He inhales and holds the sounds of his children below and his wife beside him.
Game of Thrones / Stark Family / 347 words
For dulcedeusex, Happy Holidays!
The air is crisp and holds a familiar taste to it.
Ned can feel the coming snow, a heavy presence when he breathes in through his a nose, an icy bite in the back of his throat when he swallows. Summer is on its way out, taking with it the short autumn. Winter comes soon, early, this year.
He stands on the balustrade and watches his children below. Five plus one to make six. Six from Robb’s tall age of nearly a man all the way to Rickon’s toddling form, two stubby legs that try to support a body that does not want to stay still, that follows after his siblings. Sansa shrieks as Arya tackles her to the ground. Her voice is not tinged with real hurt, only play. Bran pulls Rickon to follow him up onto the walls, mindful of his brother’s tiny body. Jon comes to Arya’s rescue when Sansa’s hands strike out, and Robb is there to grab at her and pull her away, laughing.
A gloved hand burrows between his elbow and chest, and Cat leans her body against his. They watch their children below.
“A raven came today,” she finally speaks. Her head is close to his shoulder, but their furs keep some distance between their bodies. “From the South.”
Ned turns his head then, looks down at her face. He can see the heavy lines that have transformed her visage, and there is worry there. Apprehension too.
He takes the parchment from her, unrolls it, and reads the black ink. Winterfell is to have visitors soon, of the royal kind.
He breathes in again and tastes the air. Snow is soon to fall; winter is on her way. He inhales and holds the sounds of his children below and his wife beside him.