Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I missed you,” the words are spoken in hushed tones lest they be heard by anyone around them, all deep in prayer. “I thought of you every day.”

Jon does not answer at first, his breath catching in his throat. Eyes fix on the statues at the end of the sept, seven stone carvings for each of the seven gods.

He hadn’t expected a sept in Winterfell. Hadn’t thought much past worshipping trees and praying at the roots. Playing had been what they’d done most often, giggling around the Hand as he prayed.

For prosperity. For mercy. For spring. 

“A shame you did not write.”

Robb goes silent then. From the corner of his eye, Jon sees the man shift on the pew. The words of worship continue around them, the septon leading their song.

“I did not think it appropriate. I left when we were fourteen. To continue conversing, especially as often as you’d sent letters in the beginning,” Robb clears his throat, eyes flicking to Jon before back to the septon. “It would have seemed too… forward.”

Jon scoffs. Forward. Right. 

“We’re cousins.”

“As are our grandparents,” a pause. “And your other ones. Sort of.”

Jon stands, quickly making his way through the pews and out of the little sept. Chill air greets him once free of the building’s walls, Robb’s youngest sister running past him on agile footing.

The snow is not something he’s confident with, despite the last two days spent in Winterfell. He wonders how long Robb took to accommodate himself to the surroundings. 

Lord Eddard had made frequent trips North to see his wife, enough to father four more children on her, and for some odd reason decided to swap which he chose to stay with him in the Red Keep. 

Robb needed to learn Northern ways. Childhood friendships could no longer be the excuse to keep him away for long. Unlike Robb’s three or four month visits, Sansa stayed the entire time. Preparing for Southern life, searching for a husband with her father.

Aegon has his eyes on the girl. Soft violet watching her every move once she’d flowered. Jon often wonders if his brother plans to make the girl his queen of if it’s simply a passing fancy.

Even now he walks with her through the yard, arms looped together as he listens to her talk of useless gossip. 

Jeyne says this, Theon did that, Jory lost something. Jon doesn’t know these people. Doesn’t much care, really. Who are they to him but faces in a white sea? 

The snow crunches as Robb follows after him, catching up swiftly and holding Jon by the arm. Jon almost remarks about propriety, about his reputation, but Robb stops him with a kiss.

It’s brief, too brief, and nothing more than lips on his own. Not like the kisses Aegon had taught him, with soft flicks of his tongue and nips at his lips. It’s nice, though. Sweet despite the sounds of disgust from Arya.

Robb wears a soft look when he pulls away, eyes fixed on Jon for any response. A slap across his cheek is not what the man expected. Bringing his own hand to stinging flesh, Robb’s face hears a mask of confusion.

“Dont you ever — ever — touch me again.”

But the damage is done. His own father sits in Lord Eddard’s study, the Lord of Winterfell standing beside him with a solemn expression. Their children do not speak, the weight of the King’s glare silencing both.

Jon thinks of the last time they’d been in a situation like this. It hadn’t been long before Robb had to leave for the last time. 

They’d been on a spree of causing trouble throughout the keep, attempting to catch all the stray cats and place pink ribbons around their paws for Rhaenys’ nameday.

Somehow, in the chaos, Jon had found himself climbing atop a balcony in the chase for one of the last few. Nestled just beneath them in its usual napping spot, it was both too far and so close.

He’d fallen before being able to snatch the creature, grabbing onto a banner with his father’s house emblazoned on it and barely making it safely to the ground as the fabric ripped. 

An ankle was broken in the fall but his life was spared. Robb visited his bedside every day as Jon healed, leg propped up on cushions and set in bandages by the maester. 

He’d gotten good at handicrafts during that four months despite his hatred for it. Robb would read to him as he sewed, knit, or embroidered. Most were ugly projects that were abandoned before finished, but a few managed to be salvaged.

A blanket for his sister’s babe. The sweetest little boy Jon had ever laid eyes on. She wasn’t supposed to marry as early as she did, but Father had no choice to wed her to the lord of Riverrun after he’d found his way into her bed.

His visit had been to partake in Aegon’s nameday tourney the year before. Somehow, in his stupid stumbling manner, he’d charmed the princess. Jon had found it unfair. Had wanted to strike the man down. Take his father’s sword and plunge it into the man’s belly.

Instead, when he’d found them abed together, he’d dropped the book he’d been holding — Rhaenys had promised to read the histories with him — and ran to their father’s chambers. 

They’d wed a fortnight later, the princess beaming at her blushing husband. Gods, he’d always blush so much when she looked at him even a year into their marriage. 

Jon had still hated the man even then — is sure he does now as well — but put a fish on the blanket nevertheless. At least the child was heir to something, of which he wouldn’t be if Viserys had been his sister’s bridegroom. 

The other gift had been a shirt. Too big for Jon. Too big even for Robb, though the boy wore it with pride. He had been scolded for the gift being “too intimate” by his septas, especially with the fabric so heavy with his own scent.

Jon hadn’t cared. Had foolishly ignored them, not believing the women able to do much more than scold him. They’d gone to his father instead and for a long time Jon had believed it to be the catalyst for Robb being sent away. 

Lord Eddard had assured him it was for Robb’s own good. He was getting too used to southern life, the man had said. Needs to learn the North. Needs to have ice in his veins. 

Now, standing beside the heir to Winterfell, Jon does not doubt all heat has left the boy — man. Robb is a man grown, something he’s found himself remembering often over the course of his visit.

“Why,” the King begins, tone measured and even, “did you think it necessary to do such a thing surrounded by countless others?”

Robb does not flinch. Does not fumble. He stares into lilac eyes and does not retreat as so many have before. Is this how Lord Edmure greeted the man after stealing his daughter’s maidenhead? 

Jon doubts it. He could hardly speak a whole sentence without stuttering when he’d met Rhaenys. The king is much more imposing. No, Robb is not like his uncle. He does not rely on cheap tactics to find a bride —

“I have had him in my bed already. I doubt a kiss is too much.”