ASOIAF: Alone At Last
Title: Alone At Last
Author: the author formerly known as...
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting, and some quotes taken directly from ASOIAF by George Martin
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied incest
Pairing: Robb/Jon
Theme: Everybody's Free - Quindon Tarver
Summary: You are never alone in the pack.
Author's Notes: This was previously posted under my other account which I deleted in a fit of angst. Here it is again.
Alone At Last
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
The world was far enough below to make a small boy dizzy, but Bran held fast. He gripped the stone and climbed, higher, higher, higher. Up here, clinging like a vine to the rugged battlements of Winterfell, Bran was as utterly alone as he could ever be. The outer walls of his home were stark and barren, and only Bran could find the tiny crevices in the rock, slits where rain had sluiced away niches just large enough for handholds.
Of course, it was all Stark inside the walls as well, but never lifeless.
Bran saw inside windows built so high only birds had looked through them for centuries. He saw Arya screaming as she slammed her door shut.
“Leave me alone, Septa!”
In fury she knocked over her desk, and Bran stayed with her through her anger. Bran didn't mind that Arya never saw him-- he didn't need thanks from her, but he would never leave his sister by herself in her time of need. He didn't think she would thank him, if she knew he was there. Bran knew Arya's anger.
Bran knew many kinds of anger-- he knew anger so deep it caused heartache, and he peered into his parents' window to see his mother begging for Jon Snow's departure too many times to count. Their father would shake when she left, telling himself again and again, “I promised, I promised, it's hard but I promised.” Bran knew that honour was not as easy for Ned Stark as it seemed on the outside. He took comfort in the fact that at least his father didn't bear his burden alone. The Starks were never alone, because Bran would always look out for his family.
Sansa hummed to herself and brushed her dolls' hair, though she claimed she was far too old for them now. Rickon talked to Shaggy Dog. Bran never got close enough to hear the words, didn't think he wanted to hear them, but he didn't want his little brother to walk such a dark path in solitude either, so he dug his toes into the ledge of the wall and listened to the wind whistle past.
Bran saw Jon Snow rubbing his armour down with oil after a day in the training yard. Jon's hands were calloused and bleeding, but deft in his treatment of the beaten metal plates and leather chest piece.. The door opened and shut behind him and Jon paid no notice, hunched over his task with avid concentration. It wasn't every day they practiced with full armour, but afterwards Jon would always meticulously rub his down. Bran slunk back another inch, not wanting to be seen.
Robb stretched his arms over his head, a lazy grin on his face. Bran suspected that Robb didn't take care of his armour nearly as well as Jon did, or he at least chose to do it later at night rather than immediately after training when his muscles were still stiff.
“I hate the drill yard,” he said, and Jon didn't seem surprised that it was Robb who'd entered without knocking. Bran saw Robb in Jon's room often enough that he thought he must be used to it.
“And why's that?” Jon asked, in that voice that passed for interested with Jon
“Because I hate having people watch and mutter about whether we'll ever make real soldiers. I'm not a damn sideshow... I prefer it when there are no eyes on us.”
Jon froze, squeezing his eyes shut, hands stilling against the dark metal of his pauldrons. Robb stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist in a hug.
Bran barely heard the heated whisper from Robb's lips. “Alone at last.”
“It's the middle of the day,” Jon said with even less emotion than usual. “Someone could come in.”
“They'd knock first, I hope.” Robb's words were muffled as he smiled against Jon's neck, but Bran heard him.
“Not if you're the model they go by.” Jon twisted his head to look at Robb, and for a long moment they gazed at each other, Robb's hands on Jon's stomach and his chin resting on his shoulder. It was an intimate embrace, but Robb and Jon always had been close. They'd been cradled together since infancy, and Bran knew somehow that their bond ran deeper than the blood they shared. Their stare was intense and made him feel almost like an intruder.
Robb stepped back, his arms falling to his side.
“Alright?”
Jon hung his head and absently rubbed at his armour.
“Alright,” he said at last. “Only I'm... tired.”
Robb's brow furrowed as he stared at his brother's back.
“Jon?”
Jon turned to face his brother with all the hesitance of the man Bran had seen facing their father's sword. Willingly, but slow, as if praying that the gods might intervene if only given enough time, even while knowing they won't.
“Tired?” Robb asked, sounding more hurt than anything else. “Am I supposed to believe that?”
“It's true, Robb, only it's not meant like that.” Jon's voice sounded weary, the same way their father's did when he fought with Mother. Bran wished that he could see Jon's face, but he only saw the armour discarded on Jon's table and Jon's back.
“Tired of what?” Robb studied his brother's face and looked frightened. “Of us?”
It seemed to Bran that it was difficult to be tired of your relationship with your own brother, but Robb seemed to think it a real enough danger.
“No!” Jon insisted with the sort of fervor Bran had only heard him use in anger, and then more gently: “No. Not that, never that.”
He pressed his knuckles into Robb's cheek just below the eye, and Robb tilted his head into the touch, eyes closed. The gesture seemed tender, but when Jon pulled away Bran saw that he'd pushed hard enough to leave Robb's skin white beneath his fingers. Jon moved to rest his palms against Robb's shoulders, thumbs brushing together at the base of his throat. He slid his hands up until his wrists were crossed behind Robb's neck. Robb reached around Jon's back just below his arms and they stood like that without speaking. Bran felt as if he'd just missed an entire conversation between them, and he thought it might be for the best. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that whatever they were trying to communicate through clutching each other so tightly, it wasn't meant for him to know.
Robb rested his forehead against Jon's neck, stooping low. This time Bran didn't understand his muffled words, but his tone belied a question.
“Pretending, Robb. I'm tired of lying-- not because I want this to be different but only because it is lying. I don't want--” Jon sighed and lowered his head against Robb's, his ear in his brother's hair. “It isn't right to lie to our family.”
“Aye,” Robb said, lifting his head and resting his chin once more on Jon's shoulder. Bran pulled back from the window quickly, to avoid being seen, and scrabbled desperately against the stone as he lost his balance. He clung to the walls of Winterfell and pressed his cheek against the cold rock, heart hammering in his chest. Inside he heard Robb say again, “Aye. That's so, and we do have many lies between us and them. But we've got each other as well. That's all I need, Jon.”
“I love you,” Jon told Robb, and Bran was almost grateful he couldn't see them as Robb promised the same thing.
Bran climbed, higher and ever higher, knowing that this particular part of his pack didn't need him to watch over them. His fingers found niches in the rock walls that they already knew, leaving Jon's window far below him and leaving his brothers, together, alone at last.
Author: the author formerly known as...
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or setting, and some quotes taken directly from ASOIAF by George Martin
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied incest
Pairing: Robb/Jon
Theme: Everybody's Free - Quindon Tarver
Summary: You are never alone in the pack.
Author's Notes: This was previously posted under my other account which I deleted in a fit of angst. Here it is again.
Alone At Last
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
The world was far enough below to make a small boy dizzy, but Bran held fast. He gripped the stone and climbed, higher, higher, higher. Up here, clinging like a vine to the rugged battlements of Winterfell, Bran was as utterly alone as he could ever be. The outer walls of his home were stark and barren, and only Bran could find the tiny crevices in the rock, slits where rain had sluiced away niches just large enough for handholds.
Of course, it was all Stark inside the walls as well, but never lifeless.
Bran saw inside windows built so high only birds had looked through them for centuries. He saw Arya screaming as she slammed her door shut.
“Leave me alone, Septa!”
In fury she knocked over her desk, and Bran stayed with her through her anger. Bran didn't mind that Arya never saw him-- he didn't need thanks from her, but he would never leave his sister by herself in her time of need. He didn't think she would thank him, if she knew he was there. Bran knew Arya's anger.
Bran knew many kinds of anger-- he knew anger so deep it caused heartache, and he peered into his parents' window to see his mother begging for Jon Snow's departure too many times to count. Their father would shake when she left, telling himself again and again, “I promised, I promised, it's hard but I promised.” Bran knew that honour was not as easy for Ned Stark as it seemed on the outside. He took comfort in the fact that at least his father didn't bear his burden alone. The Starks were never alone, because Bran would always look out for his family.
Sansa hummed to herself and brushed her dolls' hair, though she claimed she was far too old for them now. Rickon talked to Shaggy Dog. Bran never got close enough to hear the words, didn't think he wanted to hear them, but he didn't want his little brother to walk such a dark path in solitude either, so he dug his toes into the ledge of the wall and listened to the wind whistle past.
Bran saw Jon Snow rubbing his armour down with oil after a day in the training yard. Jon's hands were calloused and bleeding, but deft in his treatment of the beaten metal plates and leather chest piece.. The door opened and shut behind him and Jon paid no notice, hunched over his task with avid concentration. It wasn't every day they practiced with full armour, but afterwards Jon would always meticulously rub his down. Bran slunk back another inch, not wanting to be seen.
Robb stretched his arms over his head, a lazy grin on his face. Bran suspected that Robb didn't take care of his armour nearly as well as Jon did, or he at least chose to do it later at night rather than immediately after training when his muscles were still stiff.
“I hate the drill yard,” he said, and Jon didn't seem surprised that it was Robb who'd entered without knocking. Bran saw Robb in Jon's room often enough that he thought he must be used to it.
“And why's that?” Jon asked, in that voice that passed for interested with Jon
“Because I hate having people watch and mutter about whether we'll ever make real soldiers. I'm not a damn sideshow... I prefer it when there are no eyes on us.”
Jon froze, squeezing his eyes shut, hands stilling against the dark metal of his pauldrons. Robb stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist in a hug.
Bran barely heard the heated whisper from Robb's lips. “Alone at last.”
“It's the middle of the day,” Jon said with even less emotion than usual. “Someone could come in.”
“They'd knock first, I hope.” Robb's words were muffled as he smiled against Jon's neck, but Bran heard him.
“Not if you're the model they go by.” Jon twisted his head to look at Robb, and for a long moment they gazed at each other, Robb's hands on Jon's stomach and his chin resting on his shoulder. It was an intimate embrace, but Robb and Jon always had been close. They'd been cradled together since infancy, and Bran knew somehow that their bond ran deeper than the blood they shared. Their stare was intense and made him feel almost like an intruder.
Robb stepped back, his arms falling to his side.
“Alright?”
Jon hung his head and absently rubbed at his armour.
“Alright,” he said at last. “Only I'm... tired.”
Robb's brow furrowed as he stared at his brother's back.
“Jon?”
Jon turned to face his brother with all the hesitance of the man Bran had seen facing their father's sword. Willingly, but slow, as if praying that the gods might intervene if only given enough time, even while knowing they won't.
“Tired?” Robb asked, sounding more hurt than anything else. “Am I supposed to believe that?”
“It's true, Robb, only it's not meant like that.” Jon's voice sounded weary, the same way their father's did when he fought with Mother. Bran wished that he could see Jon's face, but he only saw the armour discarded on Jon's table and Jon's back.
“Tired of what?” Robb studied his brother's face and looked frightened. “Of us?”
It seemed to Bran that it was difficult to be tired of your relationship with your own brother, but Robb seemed to think it a real enough danger.
“No!” Jon insisted with the sort of fervor Bran had only heard him use in anger, and then more gently: “No. Not that, never that.”
He pressed his knuckles into Robb's cheek just below the eye, and Robb tilted his head into the touch, eyes closed. The gesture seemed tender, but when Jon pulled away Bran saw that he'd pushed hard enough to leave Robb's skin white beneath his fingers. Jon moved to rest his palms against Robb's shoulders, thumbs brushing together at the base of his throat. He slid his hands up until his wrists were crossed behind Robb's neck. Robb reached around Jon's back just below his arms and they stood like that without speaking. Bran felt as if he'd just missed an entire conversation between them, and he thought it might be for the best. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that whatever they were trying to communicate through clutching each other so tightly, it wasn't meant for him to know.
Robb rested his forehead against Jon's neck, stooping low. This time Bran didn't understand his muffled words, but his tone belied a question.
“Pretending, Robb. I'm tired of lying-- not because I want this to be different but only because it is lying. I don't want--” Jon sighed and lowered his head against Robb's, his ear in his brother's hair. “It isn't right to lie to our family.”
“Aye,” Robb said, lifting his head and resting his chin once more on Jon's shoulder. Bran pulled back from the window quickly, to avoid being seen, and scrabbled desperately against the stone as he lost his balance. He clung to the walls of Winterfell and pressed his cheek against the cold rock, heart hammering in his chest. Inside he heard Robb say again, “Aye. That's so, and we do have many lies between us and them. But we've got each other as well. That's all I need, Jon.”
“I love you,” Jon told Robb, and Bran was almost grateful he couldn't see them as Robb promised the same thing.
Bran climbed, higher and ever higher, knowing that this particular part of his pack didn't need him to watch over them. His fingers found niches in the rock walls that they already knew, leaving Jon's window far below him and leaving his brothers, together, alone at last.