Chapter 15: Farewell Brother

The third week of the Seventh month of the year 297 a.c

Winterfell

Kyria Stark

Kyria sighed and closed her eyes for one blissful moment.

This was far from a resolved issue, but maybe… maybe now things could go forward between them. Kyria's relationship with Sansa wasn't nearly as volatile as, well, anything involving Arya, so she was pretty sure Benjen wouldn't force them to talk out their feelings in front of him. But the tension between Sansa and Arya was far older than her accident and much more complicated.

She was so tired of their fights. And not just because she kept being stuck between them.

After a little longer, Arya detached herself from her sister and rubbed her face vigorously. Kyria brushed the skirt of her dress back into its previous state and looked at Sansa. She had her head down and her fingers couldn't seem to stop twisting the hems of her sleeves.

Benjen finally felt the need to intervene.

"I am very proud of you. You needed this," he said with a nod.

Hmph… Oddly enough, Kyria didn't feel particularly pleased by his praise. "Thank you, uncle."

"But you do understand there are still unresolved things to discuss here?"

Kyria nodded emphatically, resisting the urge to massage her temples. The poor man had no idea.

"Sansa, what do you have to say?" Benjen prompted. "Why are you angry?"

Sansa blushed and twisted on the daybed, uncomfortable with the attention suddenly back on her. She looked up at uncle Benjen, Arya, and finally Kyria.

"I- This- Arya is always-"

Oh, Mother above give her strength. If Sansa started blaming Arya again they were never getting out of this room.

"Don't blame Arya, Sansa," Benjen said sternly. "Explain your feelings."

This man was sent by the gods; there was no other explanation. Sansa would never listen to her insisting like that.

Sansa flushed even more and pressed her hands against the tops of her thighs.

"I…I think it is unfair that I- Why does she have the right to be different?" she asked quietly. "Why can Arya do as she pleases and never get punished for the mess she makes of things, while I have to be perfect all the time, a true lady?"

Was that… bitterness in her voice?

Kyria squinted and looked at Sansa. She'd never imagined that the perfect little lady Sansa could feel bitter about anything. Which… thinking about it now, was more than a little ridiculous. Sansa was human, just as they were. Of course, she was capable of bitterness and resentment.

Had she been unfair to her sister? Judging her for her naive thoughts and the way she seemed to desperately mimic what she felt were strong woman figures around her like Mother or Septa Mordane, when, honestly, it wasn't like she had anyone else to imitate?

"You never face any consequences, no matter how badly you behave," Sansa continued, the bitterness in her voice a little stronger, more obvious, now that she addressed Arya directly. "Everyone just forgives you, even when you're not the least penitent! Father finds your mistakes and your tantrums endearing, but I- I'm never allowed to make mistakes, or lose my temper. Even Kyria can be wrong sometimes and do- other things! Be something other than a lady."

Arya gaped at her.

Kyria didn't blame her. "You know you don't have to hold yourself to those perfect standards all the time," she said, taken aback. "We talked about this already."

"But everyone expects me to! Even you!" she snapped back. "You say I don't have to be the perfect lady, but if I were to act a… a stitch out of line everyone would be horrified. They'd say I wasn't acting myself, and look at me the way you're looking at me right now!" she waved a hand at Kyria, and then Arya's obvious shock.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Partly because Kyria didn't actually have a reply for that. Sansa was right.

"I don't want to be a lady," Arya said at last, breaking the silence. Somewhere between hesitant and sulky.

Gods, not that again!

"But you are a lady!" protested Sansa. "And you don't act like it and it's- It's unfair! Why should you get away with shirking your lessons and duties, when Kyria and I can't?"

"I don't want that! The flowery stuff, the knights, the husband and the kids! That's you, not me!"

"For the gods' sake Arya, it's a title! You were born a lady, and you will remain so until the day you die!" snapped Kyria, tired of the everlasting argument.

"But I'm not Sansa."

Good lords, did she have to repeat herself every single time this conversation came around? Were they even listening when she spoke? "Neither am I. It's a title, that's it! It goes with the status of the daughter of the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. And it comes with the education that is appropriate to our rank," she explained. Again. Patiently. Even though she wanted to scream at her youngest sister for being a… a stubborn, sulky lackwit!

"I don't care about that. I don't want to be a lady. I don't–"

For one horrible moment Kyria expected her to cry again.

Gods old and new be thanked, she didn't. Somehow, in a show of remarkable restraint considering who she was, Arya controlled herself and talked. "I don't want to be a lady. I can't be one. I'm not good at it," she started, looking in Sansa's eyes for the first time since Robb closed that blasted door behind him. "You and Septa and Jeyne and Beth are always saying how awful I am at being a lady. If all anyone does is harp and pinch, I don't want to try anymore. I want to be like Aunt Lyanna. Father said she was free and wild like a wolf."

"Aunt Lyanna's fate is not something I'd wish on anyone. Her freedom got her killed in the end," Kyria bluntly, not bothering with any kind of gloves at this point.

Arya frowned and crossed her arms on her chest. "It's unfair."

"Life is unfair, Arya." Seriously, talking to the wind sounded more productive at this point.

Sansa was strangely quiet. Thoughtful. Kyria observed her curiously, awaiting the moment she would voice what was happening inside that head.

"I- I criticize you because you never try to do good," she said at last. "You're always complaining and trying to run away from our lessons. You never try."

"I do try! I try all the time. I'm just always wrong. I never do anything right. I'm never good enough to be like perfect Sansa."

"Arya, doing it once and complaining when you don't get the result you want is not trying, it's being lazy and giving up because you decided you didn't want to do it."

"No it's not!"

"It is."

Even Benjen nodded, despite keeping silent in the conflict.

"I would try harder if you all stopped being so mean and annoying all the time!" Arya snapped, glaring at Sansa–a good thing, since Kyria would have been seriously pissed if that was directed at her.

When had she been mean to anyone like that? Never. Though the bit about Sansa and her friends wasn't wrong. They were very harsh towards Arya, even cruel. And… frankly, Kyria hadn't done much of anything about it. True, she had enough on her plate as it was; she shouldn't have to mother her own siblings on top of that, but still…

Sansa sniffed, tears pooling in the corner of those eyes.

Please not another crying session, or I will be the one to cry, Kyria begged silently.

"I- You always despised me. You ruin my dresses, you throw away the gifts I make for you, you yell at me all the time. I thought- how could you want to be like me?"

"Mother said I had to–"

Oh by the gods, Mother…

"–but I don't want to. You're always so perfect at everything, you make everyone else look bad! I tried to be good at that stuff, but I'm not, and Septa is always mean and angry at me and I- Fighting and playing outside is easier."

Again, if you only try once, it's hard to be good at anything…

"But… if it was so hard for you, why didn't you ask for my help?"

"Because you made fun of me!" Arya was glaring again. "Why would I ask for help, when all you do is… is pinch and peck at me, and… and twitter like an empty-headed bird?"

Sansa bit her lip, eyes shimmering wetly again, looking like she'd had her world ripped from under her.

Kyria could sympathize.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said at last, tone meek again. "I- I never realized that- I just want to fit. I wanted… I always feel like I don't belong, here in the North. No matter how perfect a lady I am, I just don't… fit." A shaky breath. "And you're everything a lady shouldn't be, but you fit just fine up here, Father's favorite, even if you don't put in a quarter of the work I do and–" Tears shimmered brighter, a single one spilling from each eye. "But I'm your older sister. Of course I have to be better. I'm… I'm supposed to show you how a lady should act, so you can see and try to improve, but–oh." Shock and horror widened her eyes, caused more tears to fall. "I'm your older sister. I'm not supposed to hurt your feelings, I'm supposed to be a good example. I'm- I would be devastated if Kyria said half of- I'm sorry!"

Kyria sighed, and dug her own handkerchief out of her skirt pocket, handing it to Sansa to prevent another crying fit. Not that she thought Sansa would dare have the kind of snot-storm Arya had, but, really, she was not about to deal with tears again. She loved them, really, she could admit it in her mind. But she'd be damned if they didn't drive her crazy.

"I don't know how to talk to you, you're so… different from me. I always feel like I don't belong with you lot. Like I shouldn't be there. I never know what to do. And you- you push me away and I know- I understand I do the same but I don't- I don't want to hate you. You're my sister."

Arya blinked, and fresh tears escaped her eyes, their path eased by the ones she'd shed only moments ago.

Sansa's own tears came down in answer, and with shy hesitation, she stood up and moved to stand in front of Arya, hands clasped in front of her stomach almost as if in fear of a blow. "I am sorry for how I behaved. I never should have hurt you. I was- I was upset and foolish, and I apologize."

Arya shrugged awkwardly and stood to face her. "I- I'm sorry, too," she got out, ducking her head between her shoulders uncomfortably, morphing back into her poor imitation of an overgrown turtle. She looked up at Sansa… and then immediately at Kyria, who was watching raptly. "I shouldn't have- said all this stupid stuff. I was mean and now I feel… I feel stupid. I'm sorry," she said, just a bit too loud and clear to be a mumble.

The brief silence that followed was heavy. Kyria blinked slowly, unsure of how to answer that. Should she just… forgive her? She already had, hadn't she? Shouldn't Arya be more focused on her apology to Sansa right now?

Kyria blinked and Arya was back watching Sansa, from under her lashes, looking…shy? Why- oh of course. Never let it be known that Arya Stark had been caught acting nicely toward Sansa for no other reason than to be nice to Sansa. Was Kyria just a diversion now in this conversation? Great. Better than nothing, she supposed, mentally rolling her eyes.

Arya blinked and looked back again at Kyria.

…

What, she wanted- But- Ugh! Seriously! Did she want forgiveness? She had done that! Moments ago!

I am talking to walls! Literal human walls!

Maybe you should show them the brave girl I know you are, whispered Father's voice in her mind.

… But why me?

"I know, Arya. It's… It will be alright. Eventually." She couldn't say more than that. It was all too fresh, too painful at this point.

Her words died in another awkward silence. Then…

"The thing with the bow was good," Arya mumbled, almost shyly.

A strangled laugh escaped Kyria, caught on by the ridicule of that statement, in a moment like that. "Yes. Yes, it was."

They shared a smile, briefly, and after a short hesitation Sansa spoke up too. "I- I've always tried to be good like Mother told me to. I tried so hard… I wanted to play with you or do something else and Mother was always- I thought I didn't have the right to do things like that. Because I was supposed to be a lady, and ladies never played like that in the songs and stories Mother had of the South. Everyone always loves the perfect ladies in the songs. They are adored and happy and… I wanted that. I thought that maybe if I was perfect, people would love me and I'd have a song of my very own. With a happy story, and a handsome Lord to take me away to his southern keep where everything would be perfect for me."

Behind this childish face, Kyria's keen eye caught something. A little bud of… something more. The potential for a transformation into… Into-

Porcelain, Ivory, Steel.

Kyria blinked, and it vanished. She shivered as the dreadful single drop of sweat ran down her spine. Cold as ice.

"But- you don't have to do anything to be loved," Sansa was continuing, no longer bitter, just… sad. Horribly, achingly sad. "You just have to run around and play and Father would smile and Mother would laugh and- It was never like that with me."

Arya shook her head, denial.

"It's so unfair…" Sansa sobbed at last, finally letting go of the grip she had on her emotions. "I have to stick to all the rules Septa and Mother tell me to, and you get to play and run around and no one ever punishes you as they did me. Why can you be free while I can't? Why are you different? It's not fair…"

Kyria grabbed her sister's hand, supporting her as she sobbed miserably. The fact that even in her sadness Sansa's tears ran down her cheek like pretty little diamonds did something to Kyria's self-esteem. She crushed that feeling as soon as it blossomed.

"You were all angry and bitter," said Benjen, startling all three of them into looking up at him. He'd been so silent, they'd all forgotten his presence. He just sighed and looked back at them frankly. "You are sisters. As different as you are, you will always be sisters. This will never change, no matter the path you'll take in your life. I don't have the pleasure to spend that much time with all of you. I'm not here often, but from what I know, I can tell you something very important."

They sat closer and listened attentively. "You have something many would wish for. You are different from each other. That is your strength. Your differences balance and complete each other. Kyria's interest in the things of the mind, Sansa's gift for the refinement asked of a lady, and Arya's strength and will to fight for what she wants. Those are precious qualities. Things you should nourish. Three pieces of a puzzle that could make the perfect woman. In my humble if slightly uninformed opinion at least."

Kyria supposed she should have blushed at the comment, but then again, uncle Benjen had been… well, mostly useless during their heart-to-heart, and forced her to do all of the work while he looked on. True, he hadn't been a part of the problem, but… he was still the adult in the room! And he had been the one to actually lock them up in that room! With him! And for what? To look at them and wait for the storm to pass? Why did he even-

No. Now was not the time to work herself into another fit.

"Embrace that," he continued, ignorant to his niece's flicking mood. "Your differences. Nurture each other and you will forge a bond that will serve you all your life." He paused and smiled, somehow painfully. "That is the meaning of being part of a family. Of a pack. Each member brings something to help the others in their growth."

The picture was beautiful and idealistic. It should have been silly, but… Kyria felt drawn to it. She looked at the pensive faces around her and wondered. Maybe they could become that perfect triad their uncle talked about. That perfect combination of their different strengths reunited under one single sisterhood.

It was certainly nice to think about, at least.

"I am very pleased with each of you," Benjen said, making warmth glow in their chests at the praise. "You need to talk more, and truly communicate with each other. Only then will you be able to grow past your differences."

"It would help if we got to eat, too," Arya grumbled, causing Kyria to snort and cover a smile.

"Yes, Uncle, I feel that you owe us," she said, trying for 'earnest' and probably landing on 'tart'. Which… she could use a tart, actually. Or at least a roll. "After all, we have been doing a whole lot of talking while you watched us in silence!"

He just laughed and shook his head, as if they were silly children–which she supposed they were a bit. And then, with a gentle hand on each of their shoulders, he left them to their thoughts. Kyria watched his back retract behind that bloody door, and killed the ugly little bubble of annoyance that dared pop somewhere in her chest. He had tried to help them, she should feel grateful for that. She really should.

After a long silence, Arya opened her mouth.

"...would you… train with me, Sansa? With a bow?"

Sansa's face broke into a delighted smile and Kyria knew, then, that everything would be alright between them. There was still a long road ahead, but the hardest part was behind them. Thank the gods.

Her smile bloomed fully when both of her sisters turned to her with hopeful eyes.

"Maybe we could train together?" she offered with a tentative smile

The beaming twist of lips on their tear-wrecked faces said it all. Maybe, just maybe, they could be alright someday.

Thank you Uncle Benjen.

Though I still would have liked a tart.

The following day, Kyria was oddly apprehensive when she reached the room Septa had designated for their lessons. She hadn't had the time to talk with either of her siblings after the incident and the reconciliation orchestrated by their uncle. She had been far too exhausted to do anything. Her sleep had been restless and full of questions. Even more so than usual. She couldn't calm down when she woke up, or when Maerys helped her prepare for the day, and even an intense cuddling session with Frost-still warm from being curled up near the fire-couldn't keep her mind quiet and focused. And Frost was the best cuddler.

The weight in her stomach seemed to grow even heavier as she took her usual seat, between her two sisters to prevent any incident as much as possible. Sansa was already there, her faithful Lady prettily rolled around her sit, her massive head on her equally massive paws. She spared her a shy smile Kyria dared to reciprocate.

Arya arrived right before Septa, all but carried by Nymeria's ever-growing size. Kyria's poor little sister looked even smaller than usual, all but dragged inside the room by her wolf's determined tugging. She was quick and silent as she sat, her head ducked between her shoulders. Nymeria walked around her once, twice, and snorted in Beth Cassel's direction. The girl shrieked and moved back stiffly as Kyria bit back a mocking smirk. Satisfied, the gigantic wolf mimicked her sister and lay at her mistress's feet, curling protectively around Arya's still ridiculously small - in comparison- figure. Before anyone could say anything, Septa demanded their attention and started her lecture.

Like every morning, her speech was long. And boring. She was attached to her southern beliefs and was determined to instill them deep within each person in the room. The three wolves in the room barely lasted five minutes before snores started to occupy the silence between the Septa's "attentive" students. Kyria was a little ashamed to admit she often let her mind wander to other places during Septa's lessons, as disrespectful as it was to do so. She could hardly call Arya to task for it when she did the same. After all, in her humble opinion, the few good things Septa had to say were often drowned in the nonsense the Faith of the Seven stubbornly fed them day after day.

Fortunately for most of the people involved, the lecture only lasted an hour each morning. Then came the time for other lessons.

Singing or dancing were generally practiced early in the day. For fear of... upsetting the daily routines of the keep with some of the less gifted students of the bunch. Mainly, Arya and Bess Cassel who had no gift whatsoever, and the voice of a dying cat. As for dancing… well. Experience had taught Septa to put the dancing lessons early in the day, lest the young lords escape into the Wolfwoods before they could be taught.

Which, quite honestly, was no surprise. For anyone.

Most of the time, it was only the girls who danced. A lady had to be perfect in the courtly art of moving around under the orders of the musicians. And the sadistic minds who had the audacity to think of those damned steps and call them a dance. It would be a shame if one of them dared crush her partner's poor toes. Unfortunately, the men had more leisure when it came to the crushing of one's toes. Yet another example of the uneven treatment between the fair sex and the barbarian. After all, a man who was clumsy at dancing was charmingly rustic. A woman who failed to show grace was, well… a disgrace.

This time, Sansa was to practice her music, while the rest of them had to suff- ehm, dance.

Even Frost looked like he was judging the activity pointless from his comfortable spot between his sisters. Kyria tried to refrain from looking their direction, torn between the growing desire to join what promised a fantastic puppy pile and the very disturbing feeling of being judged by her furry friend.

To distract herself -and because she wanted to break the ice growing between them let's be honest- Kyria chose to pair herself with her little sister. The girl's displeasure was written all over her face and part of her wondered how long it would take before she tried to escape her fate.

"I hate dancing."

There we go.

"I know. It's hard to miss."

Arya blinked up, seemingly unaware she had talked out loud. She blushed a moment, then pulled her head up, embracing her distaste and the confession she didn't plan to make. Kyria refused to let go this time.

"Maybe we should train together for this too," she offered kindly. "After all, it isn't as though dancing is my favorite lesson either."

Though she was better at it than Arya, that was mostly because she couldn't get away with huffing off to do whatever she pleased. And she was older. Despite her very inconvenient lack of memory, her body seemed to remember what to do during those annoying little lessons. Even if she didn't remember doing so, she had been practicing those dances for years… Arya however, as young as she was, had physical gifts–she could probably be a good dancer, if she tried.

Arya gaped, then blushed and looked down.

Kyria merely smiled and twirled in tune with Sansa's music, dragging her sister with her in an almost elegant move. Almost. She was proud.

"Very good Lady Kyria!" praised the Septa.

Frost whuffed and pushed his head up, reacting to his mistress's name. She spared him a look and a smile. He sneezed again the sound sharp and quick, put his head back down and closed his eyes, more interested in his nap than her. Lazy puppy.

"Why do we have to do this?" Arya asked, seeming… well, to be genuinely asking, rather than just whining.

"Because we are women. Women are supposed to be graceful and delicate."

Arya snorted. "That's rubbish."

Kyria smiled. She concentrated on the steps, minding the length of her dress as it twisted around her legs. It would do her no good to trip on it.

"Think about it this way, then," she proposed slowly, "If you are able to dance to those southern tunes and follow those ridiculous steps, there is nothing stopping you from having great footwork in any other situation. Including a fight."

Arya smiled at that and followed Kyria as she did another twirl, just as ostentatious and useless as the other. Gods but those southern dances were useless.

"Why is that?" Was she arguing for the sake of it? She looked convinced already.

"Because those southern dances are ridiculously hard to master for any normally formed human being."

Arya giggled, and Kyria smiled. It occurred to her then that this was the first time they had a conversation that didn't involve screaming in months. Maybe this could truly work out.

Her smile only grew when, later that very day, as Mother and Septa painstakingly taught them the importance of sewing flowers in a sleeve, Arya almost shyly turned to Sansa for help. A help Sansa gladly offered with a delighted smile on her face. Yes. This was going to work. The surprise on Septa's face was almost as sweet as the satisfaction on Arya's as she contemplated the result of her still hesitant stitches at the end of the day. Yes, it was a rather ugly flower. But it was recognizably a flower, which was already a vast improvement.

Her good mood only lasted until the following evening, when Benjen announced the end of his stay in Winterfell, and, as such, Jon's imminent departure.

She spent the entire next day glued to his side, pushing book after book in his hands in a desperate hope to prepare him for the journey that awaited him. She didn't even know why she was so adamant about educating him. She couldn't help herself. She needed him prepared. Something was pushing her in this direction.

Robb mocked her desire to control everything around her, especially when it concerned him and Jon and their education. If she was honest with herself, she felt the same urge with Sansa, Arya, and even Bran and Rickon, though for the last two she was mainly stopped by the lack of time she spent with them. And their young age too…

A sennight after Benjen's announcement, they were to gather within the yard to say their last goodbye to their brother. Lady Catelyn was shiningly absent. Not that it surprised Kyria much as the Lady never hid her disdain for her husband's bastard. Kyria supposed she had already said her goodbyes to her good brother, for it would be terribly impolite to let the man go without a proper farewell. She tried not to be disappointed, with little success she must admit.

Again, Kyria had not slept well the night before. She felt febrile, almost feverish. Filled with an urgency she couldn't name or explain. Her hand shook as she took position next to Robb for a final goodbye to their study companion. Their brother. Frost kept pushing against her leg, as if to support her, just in case. In case of what, she wasn't sure, but still… She felt Robb sparing her a concerned look, but her mind and eyes remained focused on the goodbyes. her shaking fingers pushing through Frost's thick coat.

Arya was firmly wrapped around Jon, her little face crushed against the heavy wool of his cloak. Rickon had stubbornly remained in Kyria's arms since he left the nursery, only leaving long enough to attach himself to Jon's leg and sob into the fabric of his pants. He'd had to be forcibly separated from their half-brother after more than half an hour of loud sobbing. She was still shushing him when Arya finally allowed Bran his own hug and goodbye with Jon.

In the chaos of all those emotions, Ghost kept passing behind his human, scratching the floor nervously and looking back up every other second, his red eyes begging for something. A part of Kyria's heart hurt for the poor puppy, separated from his family just as much as Jon was. Though it wasn't Ghost's choice…

She would have liked to pay more attention to him if her eyes would stop moving back to the sobbing siblings still attached to Jon. Somehow it was hard to look away.

Father remained behind them. She could see him from the corner of her eye as he looked silently at the display his children were making in the yard. What was he thinking about? Jon? Jon's mother mayhaps… he had to be. He was sending her son to the Wall after all. What would she have thought of this decision? Would she have approved? Oh, what Kyria would give to read his mind. To finally know who that mysterious woman was, who made him watch her brother with so much sadness in his eyes.

Promise me…

She rocked on her heels, dizzy. Rickon squeaked in her arms and Father's eyes found hers. Frost whined softly, head bumping her upper arm with concern.

"Are you alright, Kyria?" She nodded without a word.

Robb moved and she lost her balance for a second. Her hand gripped tighter in Frost's fur. Rickon's little arms tightened around her neck and he squeaked again, his sorrow forgotten in his worry for what was happening with her. Father took a step closer and his huge hands grabbed her little brother gently.

"Here child, come with me," he rumbled soflty, the low purrs of his voice appeasing little Rickon just enough to detach him from Kyria's arms.

His little legs wrapped firmly around his father's waist he snuggled closer and blinked slowly, fat tears pouring down his flushed face. Kyria watched it all with strange detachment, the pounding in her head growing stronger with every blink of her own eyes. There was something buzzing somewhere in her mind. It wasn't stopping. She tried to distract herself, to think of something else, but already her head was turning to watch the goodbyes once more.

Robb was taking Bran from Jon, pushing the little boy right into Sansa's arms. She had already said her goodbyes with an awkward little bow that had made the whole scene almost comical, in both sibling's obvious uneasiness around each other. Once free of any little sibling's sobs, her elder brother took Jon's hand in a firm manly grip that made her want to roll her eyes. Boys.

"Farewell, Snow."

"You too, Stark."

His grip became a hug, firm and vigorous like only men bothered to do, and Kyria's eyes actually rolled. Again, boys.

Then, finally, it was her turn. Robb silently took little sobbing Rickon from her arms and allowed her to say her goodbyes. Jon's smile was sad and tore part of Kyria's heart.

You have to promise me!

"I'm gonna miss you, sister."

"And I, you."

This was it. He was going.

Blood on the snow.

Kyria blinked away the tears that were growing in her eyes, her heart beating in her throat painfully. The buzzing was back. Louder, messier. Clearer maybe. More- Voices? No. This was too much! She was- It was all- Overwhelming. Torn apart in so- so many directions so different so-

Snow

Blood

Promise

Ice and Fire

Promise me!

She gasped. Looked up. Carved his face in her mind. Searching for- something. Something on his face. She wasn't sure what.

Promise me. Promise.

She felt numb. Dizzy. About to throw up the breakfast she didn't eat. Her heart moved from her throat to her head. Beating and beating. Buzzing. Whispering, screaming saying- It was like one of her dreams. At the- The edge of something, something coming something- Ready to fall off a cliff, her feet toeing the edge of a rock that would lead to nothing.

Her arms moved on their own and, as she closed her eyes, she was suddenly embracing him. Holding him as closely as she could. She couldn't hear or feel anything. Numb. Dizzy, feverish. Like her skin was shrinking around her. Her head felt too small, her mouth too closed. She had to- She had to-

Song

Sand

Blood

Blood

Snow-red Snow-blue Snow blood

Blood

Blood

Snow

Promise me. Promise promise promise promise PROMISE ME.

You have to protect him. Promise me.

"Kyria?"

Promise me.

He moved, hands against her arms as though to hold her back a step, so they could look each other in the eye. Something brushed her legs. White fur. Ghost. He nudged her arms and pushed with his nose. She tried to look down but the-

SNOW

Jon pulled his arms. She resisted, holding closer. There was something she had to do. Something she had to say. Had to, had to, had to. Something had to- It- It was too much. Too loud. She had to- It had- She had to let it out. Out. Out. OUT!

"Kyria?" someone said. Jon?

Jon. Jon. Jon. Jonjonjonjonjonjonjonjonjonjejonjajonjonjon

No. No, enough! Quiet!

Jon. Jon. Jon. JON. JON. JehJONJONJAJON.

JON

ENOUGH!

"Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

You have to protect him. Promise me.

Kyria.

Jon.

Sand.

Snow.

Song.

Fire. Fire.

Fire!

Her nails bit into his scalp as she pulled him down to say what she had to, despite his protests.

Say it. Say it.

"Listen to me Jon Snow." her voice said, as if from a distance, as well as from inside her. "There is more in you than you know. Than the Snow of your name, the Sand of your birth. More. So much more. More than a hundred bastards of the North could ever be. Your life is worth a hundred of them. Do you hear me? A hundred. Never forget it."

"Kyria, what are you-"

Promise me!

Protect him. Protect.

Blood. Blood. Fire. Sand. Snow. Blood. Promise me.

All those words inside her head. She had to let them out- had to get them out- had to-

"Listen to me, Jon Snow. We will see each other again. Someday. You must know it. No matter what. You must know. Listen. Listen to me. Build your story, forge your path. Listen to the Bastard in his father's eyes. Learn from him. From the last in the World. From the first in the Red Mountain. Listen. Learn. Grow. Look after the fire. And remember. You are more, much more than a crow. Listen, learn and talk. To learn to talk you have to learn to listen."

"Kyria what are you trying to-" Confusion, as he tried to pull away again, wincing.

"Listen," she snarled, nails biting deeper, drawing blood, and she couldn't even feel guilt for that, not with the words still pounding at her to let them out.

A trembling breath. Gods she needed it to stop! It hurt!

Promise me. Promise me. Protect him. Protect. Protect. Snow. Snow. Sand. Snow. Sand. Fire.

The kiss of Fire. Jon Snow.

PROMISE ME

"Look out. Look out for the kiss of Fire Jon Snow. They give luck. Take it. Take it, protect it. Keep her alive. Fire means luck. Don't be scared. She had to stay alive. For the Leaving. Look out of the fire and beware the boy. Beware the boy you'll see. You are more than that Jon Snow. I pray. I pray it'll be enough."

"I don't understand, Kyria wha-"

"You will."

She held him, harder, tighter. Make them stop! Stop talking! Stop yelling! So many voices, at the same time, banging inside her head again and again and-

Jon. JonjonjonjonjonjonjonjonjonjonJonJonJaJonJonJonJonJonJaJa-

Jon Snow

"I love you, Jon." she whispered, numb to the tears running down her cheeks to wet his.

She closed her fingers on his hair one last time and pulled away, stepping back. He looked winced and rubbed his head confused. She looked back, heart beating and nails painted red with his blood. Between her closed fingers, thin curled pieces of hair floated softly in the wind. Her hand shook.

Ghost pushed his master in the flank, big eyes looking worriedly up at him, as silent as ever. Jon rubbed the wolf's head, questions swimming behind those eyes. She didn't react. The snuffing of the wolves always present somewhere in the background lulled her into a strange sort of numbness, so peaceful and quiet after the cacophony of sounds inside her head.

Nothing else polluted her mind as Benjen guided Jon out of Winterfell and on the road to what awaited them. Robb's hands burned her shoulders through her cape as he caught her wobbling dangerously. The wind was cold. Her skin felt like ice. But the voices were quiet. There was nothing banging inside her head anymore. Frost's weight, suddenly against her legs again, seemed to be the only thing grounding her to the dirt of the yard.

She blinked and the horses were small on the King's road, getting smaller and smaller with every breath she took.

Farewell Brother.

TBC