[This is a gen Jaime + Arya story, with implied Jaime/Sansa undertones.]
Jaime enters the Great Hall of Winterfell in the earliest morning hours, still shuddering from the bracing cold of the training fields. He drops down onto a bench and shunts his longsword to the side as he tucks his shoulders in and winces- it’s just as bloody cold inside as it is out...maybe even colder.
It’s barely after sunrise, and he quite appreciates the time alone- or, at least, he thinks he is alone. A glint of steel in his peripheral vision jerks him to attention, and he utters a startled cry before leaping up from his seat and turning around. When his green eyes lock on a large, calm, unimpressed pair of grey ones, he relaxes his posture just a little.
“Lady Arya,” he begins, inclining his head in a courteous nod. “We were not anticipating a visit from you.”
She just shrugs and rolls her eyes- she always arrives unannounced, unexpectedly, as surreptitious in this as she is with everything else. The denizens of Winterfell whisper about their lady’s sister as reverently as they would a figure of legend- Shadow of the Queen, silent as death. Jaime feels nearly sorry for her sometimes- he knows all too well the dangers of excessive notoriety, especially for one so young.
And she is; so very, very young. He knows her to be Sansa’s junior by a couple of years- that would make her sixteen now. But when he looks at her, small and slight and still, she seems quite ageless. She could be a child of ten or a woman of thirty- if he didn’t know better, he’d believe it either way.
She glances up just for a moment, barely deigning to acknowledge him with a nod. “Kingslayer,” she says by way of greeting, and she waits for a reaction. When he fails to produce one, she looks back down at the tiny sword she’s been polishing.
(The old adage is rarely spoken these days- is, in fact, forbidden. To his surprise, the ban had come from Daenerys Stormborn herself; the queen misinterpreted Ser Jaime’s “title” as one of respect and honor, and she made it clear to all at court that she never wished to hear it again. Arya Stark is the only person to use it with any regularity- she’ll do as she likes. Even the Dragon Queen understands that much.)
Jaime hazards a smile. “Best not let your sister hear any of that.” He hopes for a moment that she might scoff, might return his sardonic grin- but she only huffs a breath through her nose and shakes her head.
Arya’s lack of interest in conversation is apparent, but that’s certainly never stopped Jaime before. He slides to the edge of his bench and watches her work on the sword- hardly more than a dagger, really. No proper weapon at all.
She pretends not to notice his eyes on her, but he catches a slight movement in her jaw- there is tension building there, without a doubt.
“Haven’t you anything better to do, Lord Commander?” she hisses at last, still refusing to turn her head and look at him.
“It’s too early even for the kitchen servants. My opportunities for diversion are sadly small.”
Arya purses her lips together and tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword. “It’s hardly gentlemanly, to let Sansa wake up alone.”
And he laughs at that, an incredulous burst at her audacity. Arya lifts her eyebrows and fixes him with a stare, as though daring him to deny it- but why bother? It’s hardly a secret, anyway...
“I think she prefers it, to be honest. She likes her space, her little routines...she doesn’t take very kindly to distractions...”
He’s pushing too far now, and while a part of him would dearly love to yank on the little wolf’s tail to see if she’ll bite, he changes the subject instead.
FILL: Jaime, Arya; "The Shadow"; PG-13 (Part One)
Jaime enters the Great Hall of Winterfell in the earliest morning hours, still shuddering from the bracing cold of the training fields. He drops down onto a bench and shunts his longsword to the side as he tucks his shoulders in and winces- it’s just as bloody cold inside as it is out...maybe even colder.
It’s barely after sunrise, and he quite appreciates the time alone- or, at least, he thinks he is alone. A glint of steel in his peripheral vision jerks him to attention, and he utters a startled cry before leaping up from his seat and turning around. When his green eyes lock on a large, calm, unimpressed pair of grey ones, he relaxes his posture just a little.
“Lady Arya,” he begins, inclining his head in a courteous nod. “We were not anticipating a visit from you.”
She just shrugs and rolls her eyes- she always arrives unannounced, unexpectedly, as surreptitious in this as she is with everything else. The denizens of Winterfell whisper about their lady’s sister as reverently as they would a figure of legend- Shadow of the Queen, silent as death. Jaime feels nearly sorry for her sometimes- he knows all too well the dangers of excessive notoriety, especially for one so young.
And she is; so very, very young. He knows her to be Sansa’s junior by a couple of years- that would make her sixteen now. But when he looks at her, small and slight and still, she seems quite ageless. She could be a child of ten or a woman of thirty- if he didn’t know better, he’d believe it either way.
She glances up just for a moment, barely deigning to acknowledge him with a nod. “Kingslayer,” she says by way of greeting, and she waits for a reaction. When he fails to produce one, she looks back down at the tiny sword she’s been polishing.
(The old adage is rarely spoken these days- is, in fact, forbidden. To his surprise, the ban had come from Daenerys Stormborn herself; the queen misinterpreted Ser Jaime’s “title” as one of respect and honor, and she made it clear to all at court that she never wished to hear it again. Arya Stark is the only person to use it with any regularity- she’ll do as she likes. Even the Dragon Queen understands that much.)
Jaime hazards a smile. “Best not let your sister hear any of that.” He hopes for a moment that she might scoff, might return his sardonic grin- but she only huffs a breath through her nose and shakes her head.
Arya’s lack of interest in conversation is apparent, but that’s certainly never stopped Jaime before. He slides to the edge of his bench and watches her work on the sword- hardly more than a dagger, really. No proper weapon at all.
She pretends not to notice his eyes on her, but he catches a slight movement in her jaw- there is tension building there, without a doubt.
“Haven’t you anything better to do, Lord Commander?” she hisses at last, still refusing to turn her head and look at him.
“It’s too early even for the kitchen servants. My opportunities for diversion are sadly small.”
Arya purses her lips together and tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword. “It’s hardly gentlemanly, to let Sansa wake up alone.”
And he laughs at that, an incredulous burst at her audacity. Arya lifts her eyebrows and fixes him with a stare, as though daring him to deny it- but why bother? It’s hardly a secret, anyway...
“I think she prefers it, to be honest. She likes her space, her little routines...she doesn’t take very kindly to distractions...”
He’s pushing too far now, and while a part of him would dearly love to yank on the little wolf’s tail to see if she’ll bite, he changes the subject instead.