Scheiße i haven't done this in a while
i don't know why i'm bothering to start this robb/jon. i ended up adding only two lines to the scrap i posted a while ago. i don't even know where to post it aside from my journal. smdh. w/e.
In the Summer Heaven 1/?
...where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
...beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths-and then I lost it.
-Robert Frost, "For Once, Then, Something"
Snow. The name given to those of the North of no name-who will never be allowed a name-to those who will never be allowed a place that isn’t of disrepute. As if they’ve come from the sky itself, fallen and adrift themselves, a constant and inevitable phenomenon. Natural born children, bastards are otherwise called. Products of the most basic-and what noble people considered the basest-expression of human nature. Natural, yet detestable.
But Robb Stark could no more detest Jon Snow than he could control the seasons.
Winter is coming. His lord father’s words. In the same way the cold, whether brisk or bracing or bitter, is a part of Winterfell, Jon is every bit a part Robb. The same bit they shared-the blood of Lord Eddard Stark, the snow of Winterfell and the North. This realization, of the feelings of what’s correct and what’s complete when he and Jon are together, is not the result of Winterfell’s, of Eddard Stark’s words, but of his lady mother’s stares and silences.
Lady Catelyn of House Tully. She herself would sometimes admit, humbly or humorously, that she felt an outsider to her northern lord husband’s cold, grey world. Should that not mean Jon Snow, born and bred of the North, bastard-born though he undoubtedly is, had just as much right to feel welcome in Winterfell as she who had warily married into it?
He and Jon are of an age, born mere months apart, and had been raised at the same time and place. Yet for as long as Robb can remember, Lady Catelyn had made sure that Winterfell was not the place for Jon Snow.
There’s no preventing winter, and there had been no preventing his and Jon’s closeness. Lady Catelyn’s obvious loathing of his half-brother named Snow had simply made for Robb early on an object of innocent curiosity. Jon, after all, looked every bit like Eddard Stark as Robb looked like Catelyn Tully. Dark hair instead of coppery auburn, steely eyes instead of crystalline blue. Water solid and cold instead of wild and rushing. It was only later in life that Robb came to understand that Jon’s likeness to their father served only to fuel his lady mother’s disgust with and distrust of the boy. Jon was an ever-present reminder that Lord Eddard Stark had dishonored her.
It was only later in life that Robb came to understand that Jon’s likeness to their father served only to fuel his own affection for the boy. Jon embodies everything Robb loves about Winterfell: despite guarded, withdrawn facades, a single touch reveals an almost sublime abundance of warmth and tenderness.
“Gods, your toes are freezing.”
Robb’s laughter puffs through Jon’s hair, tickling his nose anew. In answer, he curls his legs higher and tighter around Jon’s, placing his said cold feet against Jon’s shins. If the furs they’re sharing are warm, Jon’s skin is even warmer.
“Then you aren’t doing your job properly.”
Jon hums absently, a noise equally annoyed and amused, as he wriggles his shoulders deeper under the covers and his back closer to Robb’s chest. If he notices the stirring of Robb’s cock, he makes no acknowledgement but to hum once more, though this time all in amusement.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” Robb mumbles.
“Speak for yourself.”
The arrival of winter. The birth of bastards. The bond of brothers. The joining of Houses Tully and Stark.
Robb knows it was only natural.
In the Summer Heaven 1/?
...where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
...beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths-and then I lost it.
-Robert Frost, "For Once, Then, Something"
Snow. The name given to those of the North of no name-who will never be allowed a name-to those who will never be allowed a place that isn’t of disrepute. As if they’ve come from the sky itself, fallen and adrift themselves, a constant and inevitable phenomenon. Natural born children, bastards are otherwise called. Products of the most basic-and what noble people considered the basest-expression of human nature. Natural, yet detestable.
But Robb Stark could no more detest Jon Snow than he could control the seasons.
Winter is coming. His lord father’s words. In the same way the cold, whether brisk or bracing or bitter, is a part of Winterfell, Jon is every bit a part Robb. The same bit they shared-the blood of Lord Eddard Stark, the snow of Winterfell and the North. This realization, of the feelings of what’s correct and what’s complete when he and Jon are together, is not the result of Winterfell’s, of Eddard Stark’s words, but of his lady mother’s stares and silences.
Lady Catelyn of House Tully. She herself would sometimes admit, humbly or humorously, that she felt an outsider to her northern lord husband’s cold, grey world. Should that not mean Jon Snow, born and bred of the North, bastard-born though he undoubtedly is, had just as much right to feel welcome in Winterfell as she who had warily married into it?
He and Jon are of an age, born mere months apart, and had been raised at the same time and place. Yet for as long as Robb can remember, Lady Catelyn had made sure that Winterfell was not the place for Jon Snow.
There’s no preventing winter, and there had been no preventing his and Jon’s closeness. Lady Catelyn’s obvious loathing of his half-brother named Snow had simply made for Robb early on an object of innocent curiosity. Jon, after all, looked every bit like Eddard Stark as Robb looked like Catelyn Tully. Dark hair instead of coppery auburn, steely eyes instead of crystalline blue. Water solid and cold instead of wild and rushing. It was only later in life that Robb came to understand that Jon’s likeness to their father served only to fuel his lady mother’s disgust with and distrust of the boy. Jon was an ever-present reminder that Lord Eddard Stark had dishonored her.
It was only later in life that Robb came to understand that Jon’s likeness to their father served only to fuel his own affection for the boy. Jon embodies everything Robb loves about Winterfell: despite guarded, withdrawn facades, a single touch reveals an almost sublime abundance of warmth and tenderness.
“Gods, your toes are freezing.”
Robb’s laughter puffs through Jon’s hair, tickling his nose anew. In answer, he curls his legs higher and tighter around Jon’s, placing his said cold feet against Jon’s shins. If the furs they’re sharing are warm, Jon’s skin is even warmer.
“Then you aren’t doing your job properly.”
Jon hums absently, a noise equally annoyed and amused, as he wriggles his shoulders deeper under the covers and his back closer to Robb’s chest. If he notices the stirring of Robb’s cock, he makes no acknowledgement but to hum once more, though this time all in amusement.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” Robb mumbles.
“Speak for yourself.”
The arrival of winter. The birth of bastards. The bond of brothers. The joining of Houses Tully and Stark.
Robb knows it was only natural.