A Song of Ice and Fire fic: When Blood Runs Thick
Title: When Blood Runs Thick
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,686
Summary: She’s almost as tall as he is now, but he still catches her when she jumps.
Warnings/Spoilers: Response to this prompt. Vague spoilers for A Feast for Crows.
When Blood Runs Thick
“I do not want you on the battlefield,” he says. “You are my best sister, and I will not have your life at their mercy.”
“I’m of your Kingsguard!” she seethes. Not yells, because she so rarely shows much emotion anymore, even though it’s been months since she’s called herself No One. Habits are hard to break. “It’s my job to protect you.”
Jon chuckles loudly. “Around King’s Landing, mayhaps, where my biggest threat is some derision from Baratheon faithful or Targaryen purists,” he says. “But in battle? Do not even think of it. I would rather have you angry than dead.”
That was the end of it. She’d forgotten that refractory set of his jaw that meant there would not even be any entertaining of objection. He had allowed her to come with them to the Battle of the Stormlands, but only insofar as she was confined to the camp with the maesters and armorers. He’d made Ser Turris Derryn, his largest and most agile Kingsguard, stay to make sure she didn’t run out to the field anyway. The Kingsguard is for protecting the king and the royal family, he’d reminded Ser Derryn; and Arya, though not his sister by name, was as good as. Ser Derryn hadn’t been happy about it either.
Ser Derryn looks at her, not for the first time, and she stares back. In her ever-mounting frustration, she’s glad that at least Turris shares her feelings. He was not pleased either to learn that while five of his brethren were out fighting to defend the king’s life, he would be stuck as a glorified septa. She’d tried to engage him in dull conversation once, but he’d muttered just one-word responses, so she gave up. Her legs wouldn’t let her rest, so she’s taken to pacing; to her misery, even when she thinks she’s danced out of Ser Derryn’s sight, he materializes as if by magic. It’s infuriating.
She’s considering running him through with her sword, but feels that may be a disapproved course of action. Ser Derryn is only acting on express orders, after all; it’s not his fault she’s enslaved to the camp like a fragile maiden. She unsheathes Needle anyway, but instead of leaving one of Jon’s favorite knights to bleed out, she pretends she’s out killing Stormlanders. They shouldn’t even be rebelling, she scowls. Jon hadn’t done anything to them. They’d been content with Joffrey, and then Tommen, as king because so far as they knew they were Robert Baratheon’s children, and Storm’s End was loyal to that drunken bastard. So when Jon came to power, someone they’d always had a good laugh at just as Robert had, finding amusement in him being the one aberration of Ned Stark’s infamous honor, they didn’t take it well.
The revolt was small at inception, just whispers and a few ravens with alerting words from outlying, crown-faithful villages, but it quickly got out of hand. Intent is a formidable thing, but stick a sword in a man’s hand and in no time at all the intent will no longer matter so long as there is a face to an enemy. Ser Barristan, among many others, had urged Jon to stay in King’s Landing safe from harm, but he’d heard none of it. A king, he’d said, doesn’t let others fight his battles. This is my land, and I will defend it. The words had sounded like they were read from a stock script, but nearly everyone had believed them. Arya’s fairly certain only she and Ser Barristan knew what he truly meant: I need to prove myself. And I need to avenge my father.
Allying himself with the wildlings and then becoming Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had made him frustratingly brave.
He’d never known Rhaegar Targaryen, not even for an instant, but he had taken quite personally to the memory of him, seeking out anyone who had known the crown prince-lord, lady, and commoner alike. Though there were some that still opposed the Targaryens and so spit on Rhaegar's name out of principle, the majority cited him as a fair and just prince, that it was a shame his fate ended as it did. Arya doesn’t know if any of it is true, and she thinks it’s rather silly for Jon to risk his life for a man with whom he shares little more than stubbornness, the shape of his eyes, and an aptness for swordsmanship.
“You barely even identify with his House,” Arya mutters to herself, aiming a vicious slash at an archery setup, bringing the target to the ground. It’s not untrue: though Jon bears the Targaryen sigil, he’d commissioned artisans to remake his banners with the grey and white of the House of Winterfell.
“Stark.”
Arya snaps out of her wallowing to see Turris come up to her. Technically, she bears the title of Ser, given that Jon had knighted her upon her promised inception into the Kingsguard-an action that was met with almost universal disdain until certain “rumors” of Arya’s activities in the Free Cities were perpetuated. Jon would be a king that was bolstered by the love his people would come to bestow upon him; Arya, contrarily, has no problem with her respect being borne from fear. Despite that fact, the rest of the Kingsguard couldn’t quite break from custom, and so although they and the rest of the royal court no longer mockingly called her Lady Arya, they also couldn’t bring themselves to call her Ser. Thusly, Stark she became.
She starts to jape at him for beginning a conversation, when she looks over his shoulder and sees why he signaled her: fifty score figures coming over the hill, adorned with armor and swords of all kinds, nearly every inch of each soldier covered in blood. Arya whips her head to look at Turris, trying to hide the fear that springs up in her chest. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks back; bannermen appear next-banners of the three-headed dragon. Arya’s never been happier to see the sigil in her life. At least, until countless men’s faces pass her vision and not one of them is Jon. Ser Derryn tightens his grip.
The first waves of soldiers reach the camp, throwing off their armor wearily. She calls out to them demanding the king’s whereabouts, but they either ignore her or are too tired to acknowledge her question. She looks back at the group of men-a significantly smaller amount than that which had left to fight, she notices-and a flash of white catches her eye. The pommel of a sword. Its owner still wears a nondescript helmet that covers his face, but she would know the wolf’s head anywhere, even from four hundred yards away.
Wresting Turris’s hand from her, she breaks into a sprint. She shoves soldiers aside, ignoring their protests. The helmet comes off but a few seconds before Arya reaches him, and Jon barely has time to register the flying shape before she launches herself into his arms. He staggers from fatigue and the unexpectedness, but his grip is firm. He smells of coppery blood and smoke and dirt and sweat, and she doesn’t know if he’s injured or not, how much of the blood is his, if they’d even won the battle, but right now she doesn’t care. Forgetting the fact that she is a Kingsguard and bound by propriety, she buries her head in his neck and lets out a single sob. It comes as a surprise to both of them, but neither comment. Jon’s hands clench in the back of her tunic, and she realizes he’d been wondering the same thing-whether he’d see her again, or whether their argument would be their last interaction.
She doesn’t know how long they stand there, or if their embrace is being judged, just that Jon’s here and she’s here, and that’s all that matters.
It’s only when he stumbles a bit that Arya withdraws her head, staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. She doesn’t weigh much, but if he’d showed weakness, she knows there must be something amiss. She quickly disentangles herself from him and frowns. “Are you wounded?” she asks.
He’s never been able to lie to her, and evidently becoming king hasn’t changed that. “A few bruises,” he answers. She glares at him; lie he may not be able to do, but downplay, absolutely. He sighs, knowing she’d find out sooner or later. “An arrow caught me in the side, I wasn’t paying attention. And one of the Storm Lords had a war hammer, I think he must have been trying to repeat history.” Jon laughs caustically. For a moment, Arya thinks she sees his eyes flash purple. “But all it did was glance off my shoulder. I must needs have it reset, but it is negligible.”
Arya can tell he’s not indulging her the extent of his pain, and would wager he’s got more injuries than just the two, but she’s willing to let it go for now. “Did you win?” she asks.
Jon waits a beat, and then gives her a tired smile. “Do you think they’d have let me go alive if we had lost?” he replies. “Their uprising was hollow. It was spearheaded by but a few resentful lords and their bannermen. Once they started falling, most of the rest surrendered.”
“What will happen now?”
Jon shrugs, and immediately regrets it, letting out an involuntary yelp of pain. Through gritted teeth, he answers, “I will meet with the remaining Storm Lords on the morrow to broker peace. I do not think either of our kingdoms wishes to have this foolhardy rebellion escalate.”
Arya smiles, and for the first time in a very long time, it reaches her eyes. “Good,” she says simply.
He regards her affectionately, and pulls her to him again with his good arm. She’s nearly as tall as him now, and both of them have gone through unimaginable horrors, but if there’s one thing she knows, it’s that he will always be there to catch her when she jumps.
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,686
Summary: She’s almost as tall as he is now, but he still catches her when she jumps.
Warnings/Spoilers: Response to this prompt. Vague spoilers for A Feast for Crows.
When Blood Runs Thick
“I do not want you on the battlefield,” he says. “You are my best sister, and I will not have your life at their mercy.”
“I’m of your Kingsguard!” she seethes. Not yells, because she so rarely shows much emotion anymore, even though it’s been months since she’s called herself No One. Habits are hard to break. “It’s my job to protect you.”
Jon chuckles loudly. “Around King’s Landing, mayhaps, where my biggest threat is some derision from Baratheon faithful or Targaryen purists,” he says. “But in battle? Do not even think of it. I would rather have you angry than dead.”
That was the end of it. She’d forgotten that refractory set of his jaw that meant there would not even be any entertaining of objection. He had allowed her to come with them to the Battle of the Stormlands, but only insofar as she was confined to the camp with the maesters and armorers. He’d made Ser Turris Derryn, his largest and most agile Kingsguard, stay to make sure she didn’t run out to the field anyway. The Kingsguard is for protecting the king and the royal family, he’d reminded Ser Derryn; and Arya, though not his sister by name, was as good as. Ser Derryn hadn’t been happy about it either.
Ser Derryn looks at her, not for the first time, and she stares back. In her ever-mounting frustration, she’s glad that at least Turris shares her feelings. He was not pleased either to learn that while five of his brethren were out fighting to defend the king’s life, he would be stuck as a glorified septa. She’d tried to engage him in dull conversation once, but he’d muttered just one-word responses, so she gave up. Her legs wouldn’t let her rest, so she’s taken to pacing; to her misery, even when she thinks she’s danced out of Ser Derryn’s sight, he materializes as if by magic. It’s infuriating.
She’s considering running him through with her sword, but feels that may be a disapproved course of action. Ser Derryn is only acting on express orders, after all; it’s not his fault she’s enslaved to the camp like a fragile maiden. She unsheathes Needle anyway, but instead of leaving one of Jon’s favorite knights to bleed out, she pretends she’s out killing Stormlanders. They shouldn’t even be rebelling, she scowls. Jon hadn’t done anything to them. They’d been content with Joffrey, and then Tommen, as king because so far as they knew they were Robert Baratheon’s children, and Storm’s End was loyal to that drunken bastard. So when Jon came to power, someone they’d always had a good laugh at just as Robert had, finding amusement in him being the one aberration of Ned Stark’s infamous honor, they didn’t take it well.
The revolt was small at inception, just whispers and a few ravens with alerting words from outlying, crown-faithful villages, but it quickly got out of hand. Intent is a formidable thing, but stick a sword in a man’s hand and in no time at all the intent will no longer matter so long as there is a face to an enemy. Ser Barristan, among many others, had urged Jon to stay in King’s Landing safe from harm, but he’d heard none of it. A king, he’d said, doesn’t let others fight his battles. This is my land, and I will defend it. The words had sounded like they were read from a stock script, but nearly everyone had believed them. Arya’s fairly certain only she and Ser Barristan knew what he truly meant: I need to prove myself. And I need to avenge my father.
Allying himself with the wildlings and then becoming Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had made him frustratingly brave.
He’d never known Rhaegar Targaryen, not even for an instant, but he had taken quite personally to the memory of him, seeking out anyone who had known the crown prince-lord, lady, and commoner alike. Though there were some that still opposed the Targaryens and so spit on Rhaegar's name out of principle, the majority cited him as a fair and just prince, that it was a shame his fate ended as it did. Arya doesn’t know if any of it is true, and she thinks it’s rather silly for Jon to risk his life for a man with whom he shares little more than stubbornness, the shape of his eyes, and an aptness for swordsmanship.
“You barely even identify with his House,” Arya mutters to herself, aiming a vicious slash at an archery setup, bringing the target to the ground. It’s not untrue: though Jon bears the Targaryen sigil, he’d commissioned artisans to remake his banners with the grey and white of the House of Winterfell.
“Stark.”
Arya snaps out of her wallowing to see Turris come up to her. Technically, she bears the title of Ser, given that Jon had knighted her upon her promised inception into the Kingsguard-an action that was met with almost universal disdain until certain “rumors” of Arya’s activities in the Free Cities were perpetuated. Jon would be a king that was bolstered by the love his people would come to bestow upon him; Arya, contrarily, has no problem with her respect being borne from fear. Despite that fact, the rest of the Kingsguard couldn’t quite break from custom, and so although they and the rest of the royal court no longer mockingly called her Lady Arya, they also couldn’t bring themselves to call her Ser. Thusly, Stark she became.
She starts to jape at him for beginning a conversation, when she looks over his shoulder and sees why he signaled her: fifty score figures coming over the hill, adorned with armor and swords of all kinds, nearly every inch of each soldier covered in blood. Arya whips her head to look at Turris, trying to hide the fear that springs up in her chest. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks back; bannermen appear next-banners of the three-headed dragon. Arya’s never been happier to see the sigil in her life. At least, until countless men’s faces pass her vision and not one of them is Jon. Ser Derryn tightens his grip.
The first waves of soldiers reach the camp, throwing off their armor wearily. She calls out to them demanding the king’s whereabouts, but they either ignore her or are too tired to acknowledge her question. She looks back at the group of men-a significantly smaller amount than that which had left to fight, she notices-and a flash of white catches her eye. The pommel of a sword. Its owner still wears a nondescript helmet that covers his face, but she would know the wolf’s head anywhere, even from four hundred yards away.
Wresting Turris’s hand from her, she breaks into a sprint. She shoves soldiers aside, ignoring their protests. The helmet comes off but a few seconds before Arya reaches him, and Jon barely has time to register the flying shape before she launches herself into his arms. He staggers from fatigue and the unexpectedness, but his grip is firm. He smells of coppery blood and smoke and dirt and sweat, and she doesn’t know if he’s injured or not, how much of the blood is his, if they’d even won the battle, but right now she doesn’t care. Forgetting the fact that she is a Kingsguard and bound by propriety, she buries her head in his neck and lets out a single sob. It comes as a surprise to both of them, but neither comment. Jon’s hands clench in the back of her tunic, and she realizes he’d been wondering the same thing-whether he’d see her again, or whether their argument would be their last interaction.
She doesn’t know how long they stand there, or if their embrace is being judged, just that Jon’s here and she’s here, and that’s all that matters.
It’s only when he stumbles a bit that Arya withdraws her head, staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. She doesn’t weigh much, but if he’d showed weakness, she knows there must be something amiss. She quickly disentangles herself from him and frowns. “Are you wounded?” she asks.
He’s never been able to lie to her, and evidently becoming king hasn’t changed that. “A few bruises,” he answers. She glares at him; lie he may not be able to do, but downplay, absolutely. He sighs, knowing she’d find out sooner or later. “An arrow caught me in the side, I wasn’t paying attention. And one of the Storm Lords had a war hammer, I think he must have been trying to repeat history.” Jon laughs caustically. For a moment, Arya thinks she sees his eyes flash purple. “But all it did was glance off my shoulder. I must needs have it reset, but it is negligible.”
Arya can tell he’s not indulging her the extent of his pain, and would wager he’s got more injuries than just the two, but she’s willing to let it go for now. “Did you win?” she asks.
Jon waits a beat, and then gives her a tired smile. “Do you think they’d have let me go alive if we had lost?” he replies. “Their uprising was hollow. It was spearheaded by but a few resentful lords and their bannermen. Once they started falling, most of the rest surrendered.”
“What will happen now?”
Jon shrugs, and immediately regrets it, letting out an involuntary yelp of pain. Through gritted teeth, he answers, “I will meet with the remaining Storm Lords on the morrow to broker peace. I do not think either of our kingdoms wishes to have this foolhardy rebellion escalate.”
Arya smiles, and for the first time in a very long time, it reaches her eyes. “Good,” she says simply.
He regards her affectionately, and pulls her to him again with his good arm. She’s nearly as tall as him now, and both of them have gone through unimaginable horrors, but if there’s one thing she knows, it’s that he will always be there to catch her when she jumps.