driftfleet | what if i lose it all?

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what if i lose it all?

Who: Jon "perpetual frowner except around siblings" Snow and Arya "give me my goddamn sword back" Stark
Broadcast: nope!
Action: planetside, giving tree.
When: backdated to about--yesterday?

Wait up, Arya.

[The better part of a day has come and gone, spent walking from the village to the forest where this tree is supposed to be. They're close now, he can see the twisted white trunks and the red leaves of the giving tree (a heart tree, all the way out here), but first:]

At least let me finish putting up a camp.

[He's not walking back to the inn after nightfall in a dark forest on an unfamiliar planet, are you kidding him?]

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[ The minute it's in her light of sight, she races towards it, sore feet be gods damned. She's off like rocket, stopping just short of it's roots. But somehow, disappointment washes over her, like maybe she expected it to be exactly like one of the ones back home, like she expected to see her father sitting there cleaning his sword.

She feels tears heating up her eyes, making her rub at them before, she hopes, Jon can see.]

[For a second, Jon almost expects to find their father, sitting by the heart tree, cleaning his sword, almost expects to see a carved face and blood-red eyes like Ghost's, almost expects to have to watch his step because if he doesn't he'll fall in the pool and Arya won't ever let him live it down--

--but there's no pool, and there's no father. Just him, Arya, and the tree.]

I suppose you're right, this is a good place to make camp. [But he steps closer, crouches down, nudges Arya's side. I'm here, it's all right, he doesn't say, but the intent--to offer his shoulder as something to cry on--is clear.]

[ She doesn't want to cry on his shoulder or anyone else's. Only babies cry. And she is a wolf. She has to be a wolf. There's a thing that claws and tears at her insides, even now.

They are alone and this place is nothing like the godswood beyond the solitary tree that stands before them. There's no pool, there's no direwolves, there's no snow, there's no Father. ]

I thought... [ She cannot mask the childish disappointment in her voice, too ashamed too look at Jon for a long moment, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.]

It was stupid.

No, it isn't. [He takes her hand, as if to reassure her of--he doesn't know what, exactly. That he's not going to leave? That she isn't alone in grieving for their father? Because for Jon, time has dulled the pain's edge, and it no longer feels quite like a knife twisting in his stomach.

And he'd know how that feels.] I miss him too.

[ It's still real for her. She can still hear the sickening sound of the sword falling, of Sansa's screams, of the crowd's jeering. It twists her stomach, it makes her turn and hug him close, Jon's arms wrapping tightly around his neck.]

I'm sorry. I could have stopped it. [ Maybe.]

[He holds her close--he's been doing that a lot lately, he thinks--and tries not to think about how hard it must've been for her, to hear the sword fall. Once he'd encouraged Bran not to look away from an execution, but he's not sure if he himself would've been able to stand the sight, let alone the sound, if it was their father's head on the block.]

Don't be--I don't blame you. [She couldn't have stopped it--not without having to go up against the Lannisters' men, and he has no illusions about how long that might've lasted.]

[ She buries herself into his shoulder for a moment longer, wishing he would blame her before she moves to pull away, wiping furiously at her eyes with her sleeve.

She looks towards the tree--] This is the tree. The one they spoke of.

[He lets her go with some reluctance, hands dropping to his sides as he looks back up at the tree.]

I still don't know if it's as reliable as they said it was. [But there's only one way to find out, he supposes.]

What do we do? [ She looks at him then back at the tree. She'd only been half listening to the stories, instead focusing on the end game, what you got once you completed the task. A gift. Something your heart desires.]

They said to hold hands in front of it for a time. [A shrug.] I don't know how long it should take, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try.

[ Arya has never had an issue with holding Jon's hand, so long as she wants to. There are times he's had to hold her hand to keep her from wandering off or getting into trouble but this is different and she reaches out for his hands without hesitation.]

Alright. What do you think you'll get?

[He doesn't have any issues taking Arya's hand either, even with the recent revelation that, yes, holding hands does in fact establish some kind of connection. It could be worse, anyway.]

Longclaw--my sword, I mean. [It's a joke, and something slips across: an image of a bastard sword with a wolfshead pommel and a Valyrian steel blade.]

[ She blinks at the image.] It's yours? [ It looks... impressive and she wonders where he got it.] Did Father give it to you?

Aye, it's mine, but it was Lord Commander Mormont who gave it to me. [There's a note of respect in his tone, for the Old Bear. Another image: a gruff, grizzly old man, saying, for you, I thought a white wolf more apt.] It used to be his son's, but the man left it behind when he fled.

[ When his memory is shared, one of hers comes at him in return: Jon giving her Needle, and the way he felt upon receiving Longclaw is how she felt getting Needle except there was more excitement on her part. Another memory collides soon after, of Father looking at the sword, asking who gave it to her and her not answering.

And soon after a third memory comes, one she didn't want Jon to see. Needle being plunged into the chest of a boy, fear racing through her as she does, fear of being caught and killed.]

[Don't tell Sansa, they'd said, once upon a time, and now Jon sees that Arya kept that promise--kept silent, in fact, even when their lord father had asked for it. Something warm blooms in Jon's chest.

Then the next one crashes in. Oh, Arya, he thinks, grieving quietly for what his sister had to do, to keep herself safe. (Another memory slips across, just then, unbidden: Qhorin Halfhand, the blood pouring from the slash in his neck, dripping from Longclaw's point. Sharp, he'd said, and Jon feels lost, numb and in shock, you must not balk--)]

--oh. [Soft, sad, not aware of what else might have been seen. He'll have to work on that, probably.] Oh, Arya, I'm sorry.

[ Her fingers grip his tighter as the memories of death, of murder pass between them. It washes away whatever warmth that came before it, to closes a vise grip around her heart. Jon had killed too. Of course he had. He was a man of the Night's Watch.

She lets out a soft sound as death hits her like a dead weight, making her eyes close for a moment. Then he says her name, brings her back to them, to this, to the moment.]

I didn't want to.

Neither did I. [He didn't think it would come to that--didn't think he would have to kill the Halfhand to earn the wildlings' trust. And, oh, Arya--he can't help the grief that wells within him, for his little sister and the things she had to do to survive.] But you needed to survive, and sometimes, to do that, we have to do things we don't want to.

[ She holds his hands tighter, her brow furrowing as she nods. Another flash comes at her now, of a storm raging outside and she can't be more than four or five, climbing into his bed with him, curling close and hiding from the fear of the sounds of the storm outside. He will protect you. He'll always protect you.]

[He held her close then, solid and steady and warm, as he holds her now. An image steals across before he can call it back: a rolled-up parchment sealed with hot pink wax, Roose Bolton summons all leal lords to Barrowton, to affirm their loyalty to the Iron Throne and celebrate his son's wedding to--

He lets go of her hands, abruptly breaking the connection. This is one secret he can't tell Arya, not now, not as she is. She's already been through enough.]

I--[I'm sorry, I couldn't keep you safe, I'm so sorry]--I think that's enough.

[ He lets go of her hands before she can see the end. And she doesn't know what it means, what it meant. At first, she thinks Sansa, that this is about Sansa. But it doesn't make sense. Sansa was to marry Joffrey. And Roose Bolton had no sons that Arya knew of... (Bran was better with knowing the houses and their lords) except she remembered hearing one of her father's men speak of Roose's crazy bastard. ]

What? [ was that? what did it mean? ]

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