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It seemed she had underestimated Jon's obstinacy, as he spent the next month avoiding her mere presence. Except for their training sessions, in which he would give her harsh instructions, the occasional compliment, but nothing more. Not even words of friendships, or the smallest smile.

"Good." He said, gruffly, "Again."

They continued to circle each other, parrying and blocking, until finally Jon had her backed against the wall with the wooden sword at her throat. Dropping both shield and sword to the ground she admitted defeat, only to look upon his face and see a drop of blood smeared against the corner of his lips.

"My apologies," she said, lifting up her hand to wipe it away, resting her palm against his cheek, "Though, if we were fighting to first blood, then it would be my victory."

"Yes, my lady." He nodded, averting his eyes, stepping away, leaving her hand clutching only air

But he would not continue to ignore her so.

"Will you ever forgive me?" She asked, latching on to his arm, "I do not know how much longer I can bear your silence."

"I have already forgiven you." He revealed,

"Then I ask that we renew our friendship."

"You ask too much," he replied, "You always ask for too much."

"And what exactly is it I ask that is too much?" She inquired, indignantly, "All I have asked of you is to be an uncle to your nephew. To protect us."

"No." Jon replied, "You ask me to be a father to your son. A husband to you. I swore never to be either."

And what if that is what I ask, she thought, is it so wrong of me to want to be loved and cared for? Is it so wrong that I want to share this burden with another? The future of the Starks rested solely on her shoulders. For so long, she had been alone in her ventures. No other had understood, but she had hoped that Jon might.

"You are all I have, Jon."

"You have your step-sons, and Harlon," he pointed out, "Stannis, and your friends from the East."

"But they are not mine." She retorted, "My son and I are not their first priorities."

We had been Robb's, but he is gone. Her gallant and noble husband had promised to protect their child, and with his death that left only her to shield Eddard from harm. The Gods were cruel to give her love and hope, only to snatch it away. Bolton would steal my son from my breast, she thought, just as Elia Martell's son had been.

But she had no powerful family to avenge her. Her and her son could die and none would blink an eye.

If Robb were here, he would take me in his arms, and tell me that everything would be alright. A lie, but a sweet one.

"You can never be my first priority." He said, gently, his eyes soft

It was a truth, but a harsh one.

"Why can't you just lie to me?" She asked, shaking her head, "Why must you always make things hard for me?"

"You think this is easy for me?" He demanded, "When has anything been easy for me?"

"No. Nothing's ever been easy for you, or me, or anyone else because the Gods love to play their wicked games." She said, "And find joy in our suffering."

Silence followed as her words settled in, for they both knew she spoke the truth. Too much had been taken from them. He lost a lover too, she thought, he knows grief as intimately as I. But if he does not break, then nor will I. She had to be strong, not only for her son, but for herself. It was only by spite that she had lived this long, and her pride would not let her fall apart now.

I will not be my mother, she told herself, I will not let lose myself. I will not abandon my child. Not for the longings for a man now gone.

"Now that you know what love is," she said with surprising cheer, "Did you ever love me?"

"I don't think so." He answered, "Not like I loved Ygritte. Not like you loved Robb."

"When Robb and I wed, I was not as deeply in love as you seem to believe." She replied, much to his surprise, "If we had longer, then I'm sure I would have fallen more in love. He was such a good man."

Too good for you, she told herself, he loved you with all his heart, and you killed him all the same.

"Aye." Jon agreed, "He was."

"What was she like, Ygritte?" Layla asked, "You never told me about her. Not really."

"She was red-headed, the Free Folk call it kissed by fire," he answered, his lips pulling into a small smile, "She was a spear wife, and more skilled with a bow than most men."

"She sounds fearsome." Layla replied, "I wish I could have met her."

"So do I."

Was love worth the grief that came when it was lost? Did those few sweet moments make up for so many nights alone? Mother told me to never love a man because they never stay, she remembered, whatever the reason, the end would always come.

"Let me share some wisdom with you, Jon, great love affairs are overrated." She advised, "My great-grandparents thought they had a love worth the songs."

My mother had thought the same, and so had I once.

"Why?" He asked, clearly surprising she spoke so willingly about her family

He knows nothing about my family, she realized, he knows nothing of where I come from.

"My great-grandfather was a prince of the Summer Isles, my great-grandmother was a Lyseni bed slave." She explained, "He was visiting Lys, they fell in love so he freed her, married her, and brought her home with him."

And though his family had not approved of his commoner wife, her profession had not brought her their scorn. Not as it would have done had he been Westerosi.

"What happened then?"

"He brought her to a place she knew nothing of, and tried to make a whore a noblewoman." She answered, "They loved each other, yes, but she returned to Essos after his death, to live in Myr with her daughter who married a Myrish noble."

The Summer Isles held no place for Nessa as a widow, just as Layla herself still felt a foreigner in the North. Something strange and out of place. At least when her great-grandmother had returned, she did so as a royal widow, and not a former slave.

"She once told me that a slave has no home, and even when she was a noble she was still a slave." Layla continued, "We cannot escape what we are."

"What happened to her?" He asked. He wants to learn as much as he can whilst he can. He knows I may never speak like this again.

"She married a Myrish nobleman, then a Braavosi merchant," she replied, "And now she is a very wealthy woman."

And a thrice widow, she thought, perhaps that will be my own fate. History does so like to repeat itself. After all, she thought, the women in my family are a great mix of whores and noble wives.


I've posted a story that consists of one-shots of Layla's first visit at Winterfell, you can find it on my profile titled 'Times at Winterfell'