"fate always loses hope" - robb/jon
fate always loses hope
robb/jon, pg13. 1033 words.
And now they look to the stars, hoping that what's written in them is that someday they'll meet again, that their fates will intertwine like their fingers once did.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS. i like the idea of robb and jon being sort of...opposites of each other, mirroring each other, so i took that idea and ran with and then this was made.
the green hills of the battlefield
It will be said later that he looked in the eyes of his enemies and killed them without fear or mercy.
And yet, it is not death that he is afraid of, but rather the finality of it all. He'll either live, or he'll die, and the thought makes his hands shake and his fingers grasp tighter around the hilt of his sword. He could die an honourable man, or live long enough to see his honour become the death of him.
So he kills.
He kills for honour, for Winterfell. He kills for his brothers, for his sisters; he looks a man in the eye, and with a trembling lip, he kills for Eddard and Catelyn Stark.
And when the world crashes around him, when the colours of the blue sky and the green hills merge together with the sound of swords clashing, his muscles tighten and he kills for Jon Snow.
He keeps his eyes open, he doesn't blink. He's quiet, he's restless; and he repeats the words King in the North until he believes them to be true.
The Wall is a kingdom that he will never conquer, and he accepts that.
He wraps his wool and fur around him to keep the cold away, and the smell of death and the flashing, quickly fading memories of the cries of men as blood sprays out of their bodies still lingers on him. He walks silently through the camp, with Catelyn on his heels, and when he reaches the wood, he sits down on a fallen tree.
The shadows fall on his face in such a way that Catelyn, for a moment, thinks to herself that her son has never looked more handsome. His eyes shine; and she takes him into her arms, as if he were a little boy still, and she whispers in his hair, "You've been very brave."
He sinks into her arms, and believes it, just for a moment.
(When they were children, they used to ask Maester Luwin what was written in the stars for them, if there were any great adventures for them; Maester Luwin never replied)
the labyrinths of winterfell
Instead of closing the door to their bedchambers and pushing a table and a chair against it, they take to the forgotten halls and corridors of Winterfell.
Jon doesn't voice what he wants or what he needs, no, and Robb wouldn't listen anyway - instead Robb pushes Jon against the stone wall (and maybe if they listened carefully and controlled their heavy breathing, they could hear the hot water rushing by the like blood in their veins), and there's a thud and Jon gasps.
Robb's mouth lingers over Jon's, but they never kiss and sometimes it's frustrating; sometimes, Robb breath is hot on Jon's neck, and Jon's fingers bite into the muscle of Robb's arms, making sure that there will be a bruise.
Jon bites his lip until it bleeds, his hands find the skin under Robb's shirt, and he drags up, and up over pale skin that he cannot see but he can imagine it, until Robb pulls away and Jon sighs and thrusts his body forward. It's a game that they play, a vicious pattern that they've carved out for themselves, and each meeting leaves them more frustrated and wanting, but they do not talk of it.
Jon complains of frequent headaches, and it's not long before the dull yellows of Robb's old bruises give way to new ones.
"Lord Snow," Robb whispers against Jon's temple, and Jon tries to push Robb away.
Their hips are pressed together, and Robb relishes the sight of how subtly Jon's jaw flinches and gives him away. Robb opens his mouth; Jon holds his gaze and his breath catches with the anticipation of wanting to say something.
He does not say anything.
One day, Robb raises Jon's chin with his finger; and Jon inhales, sharp, and his eyes are wide and his heartbeat quickens, just a little, and -
Who kisses who gets lost.
Robb tastes like arrogance, Jon like pride, and together it's all too futile and hostile, like fighting a war that they know is lost, but Robb holds Jon's face in his hands and that's what makes Jon deepen the kiss so much more. They breathe just a little heavier when they pull back.
It's Robb who kisses Jon then, and when Jon opens his mouth, and there's skin against skin, one heartbeat the echo of the other one, they forget that it is exactly this that they've been fighting against the whole time.
(And now they look to the stars, hoping that what's written in them is that someday they'll meet again, that their fates will intertwine like their fingers once did)
the ice of the wall
He looks out to the forest beyond the Wall and something stirs within him.
"Are you afraid?" Of what's out there?" Sam asks, like he has done so many times and the answer has always been a shrug that has never been a definite yes or no.
"No," he says, and maybe that's a lie because fear is for the winter, and the snow catches in his hair and on his face.
His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword; later he will remember that his hands shook.
He narrows his eyes, he blinks; he listens to the sound of the fire crackling and Ghost breathing next to him, and he repeats the words Lord Snow until it slips into the back of his mind as a vague memory of something that once, just once, he had liked to be called.
He sits down at the table, the smell of hot wine and tasteless dinner already clinging onto him, and wrapping his fur tighter around, he feels the faint beginnings of a headache coming.
Sam looks at his face. He's paler, he's thinner, and Sam pushes a plate of food across the table saying, "You don't look well."
"I'm fine."
If only he could believe it.
There is fate and there is hope - and for a moment, there is nothing, only the clash of swords and honour.
robb/jon, pg13. 1033 words.
And now they look to the stars, hoping that what's written in them is that someday they'll meet again, that their fates will intertwine like their fingers once did.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS. i like the idea of robb and jon being sort of...opposites of each other, mirroring each other, so i took that idea and ran with and then this was made.
the green hills of the battlefield
It will be said later that he looked in the eyes of his enemies and killed them without fear or mercy.
And yet, it is not death that he is afraid of, but rather the finality of it all. He'll either live, or he'll die, and the thought makes his hands shake and his fingers grasp tighter around the hilt of his sword. He could die an honourable man, or live long enough to see his honour become the death of him.
So he kills.
He kills for honour, for Winterfell. He kills for his brothers, for his sisters; he looks a man in the eye, and with a trembling lip, he kills for Eddard and Catelyn Stark.
And when the world crashes around him, when the colours of the blue sky and the green hills merge together with the sound of swords clashing, his muscles tighten and he kills for Jon Snow.
He keeps his eyes open, he doesn't blink. He's quiet, he's restless; and he repeats the words King in the North until he believes them to be true.
The Wall is a kingdom that he will never conquer, and he accepts that.
He wraps his wool and fur around him to keep the cold away, and the smell of death and the flashing, quickly fading memories of the cries of men as blood sprays out of their bodies still lingers on him. He walks silently through the camp, with Catelyn on his heels, and when he reaches the wood, he sits down on a fallen tree.
The shadows fall on his face in such a way that Catelyn, for a moment, thinks to herself that her son has never looked more handsome. His eyes shine; and she takes him into her arms, as if he were a little boy still, and she whispers in his hair, "You've been very brave."
He sinks into her arms, and believes it, just for a moment.
(When they were children, they used to ask Maester Luwin what was written in the stars for them, if there were any great adventures for them; Maester Luwin never replied)
the labyrinths of winterfell
Instead of closing the door to their bedchambers and pushing a table and a chair against it, they take to the forgotten halls and corridors of Winterfell.
Jon doesn't voice what he wants or what he needs, no, and Robb wouldn't listen anyway - instead Robb pushes Jon against the stone wall (and maybe if they listened carefully and controlled their heavy breathing, they could hear the hot water rushing by the like blood in their veins), and there's a thud and Jon gasps.
Robb's mouth lingers over Jon's, but they never kiss and sometimes it's frustrating; sometimes, Robb breath is hot on Jon's neck, and Jon's fingers bite into the muscle of Robb's arms, making sure that there will be a bruise.
Jon bites his lip until it bleeds, his hands find the skin under Robb's shirt, and he drags up, and up over pale skin that he cannot see but he can imagine it, until Robb pulls away and Jon sighs and thrusts his body forward. It's a game that they play, a vicious pattern that they've carved out for themselves, and each meeting leaves them more frustrated and wanting, but they do not talk of it.
Jon complains of frequent headaches, and it's not long before the dull yellows of Robb's old bruises give way to new ones.
"Lord Snow," Robb whispers against Jon's temple, and Jon tries to push Robb away.
Their hips are pressed together, and Robb relishes the sight of how subtly Jon's jaw flinches and gives him away. Robb opens his mouth; Jon holds his gaze and his breath catches with the anticipation of wanting to say something.
He does not say anything.
One day, Robb raises Jon's chin with his finger; and Jon inhales, sharp, and his eyes are wide and his heartbeat quickens, just a little, and -
Who kisses who gets lost.
Robb tastes like arrogance, Jon like pride, and together it's all too futile and hostile, like fighting a war that they know is lost, but Robb holds Jon's face in his hands and that's what makes Jon deepen the kiss so much more. They breathe just a little heavier when they pull back.
It's Robb who kisses Jon then, and when Jon opens his mouth, and there's skin against skin, one heartbeat the echo of the other one, they forget that it is exactly this that they've been fighting against the whole time.
(And now they look to the stars, hoping that what's written in them is that someday they'll meet again, that their fates will intertwine like their fingers once did)
the ice of the wall
He looks out to the forest beyond the Wall and something stirs within him.
"Are you afraid?" Of what's out there?" Sam asks, like he has done so many times and the answer has always been a shrug that has never been a definite yes or no.
"No," he says, and maybe that's a lie because fear is for the winter, and the snow catches in his hair and on his face.
His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword; later he will remember that his hands shook.
He narrows his eyes, he blinks; he listens to the sound of the fire crackling and Ghost breathing next to him, and he repeats the words Lord Snow until it slips into the back of his mind as a vague memory of something that once, just once, he had liked to be called.
He sits down at the table, the smell of hot wine and tasteless dinner already clinging onto him, and wrapping his fur tighter around, he feels the faint beginnings of a headache coming.
Sam looks at his face. He's paler, he's thinner, and Sam pushes a plate of food across the table saying, "You don't look well."
"I'm fine."
If only he could believe it.
There is fate and there is hope - and for a moment, there is nothing, only the clash of swords and honour.