Winterfell is in ashes, and she is all that is left of it.
Jon did not think to find her here – there is nothing left here, truly (why is she here, then?) – and he knows that he is certainly as unexpected as she is, here.
The castle is not as broken as he had expected, but still far more desolate than he had ever hoped to see it, the tower of the Great Keep remains, though hollowed, and a wall of the Great Hall, crumbled and groaning under the weight of moss and snow where before it would stand tall and proud. Other towers stand half-destroyed, some were brought to the ground, and Jon tries to think of the castle he remembers, his home, the true Winterfell, and not the wasteland this has become.
It is by the sept that he finds her; the newest addition to the castle was strong enough to withstand years of winter but fire brings it to the ground, stones and rubble to worship by. Septs do not belong in the North, he thinks dimly, but he is staring at her, shocked, certain that she is a ghost (for how could she be anything but, anything otherwise would be impossible), and he almost thinks to find Robb at her side, Arya running through the Keep, Sansa reading by the hot spring.
“What are you doing here?” he blurts out, and she lifts her eyes, startled at the intrusion, and he sees shock and joy and wanting written across her face for the briefest moment when she sees his face, before the light there fades and her mouth settles into grim recognition. He raises his hand to his beard, feeling a sudden stab of guilt that he did not think to shave. I did not think to find her here, I have no wish to taunt her with ghosts. “Lady Stark,” he says formally, apologetic, redefining the spaces between them, “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you.” (He is sorry for much more, for everything, and if she were anyone else he would tell her so, but even now after all these years, he knows they are not words she wants from his lips.)
She keeps her distance so he approaches slowly, carefully (how did she even get here, surely she did not travel alone…), mostly curiously, still not certain if she is standing in the ruins of the castle that had been home to them both (and how she had hated that, he knows), or if he is just imagining (though if he were to imagine, she would not be the one he called to mind, those thoughts of cold blue eyes always rose unbidden and unwelcome).
“Lord Snow,” she says in acknowledgement, and a corner of her mouth twitches slightly, the irony is not lost, “as I hear you are called, now. I could ask you the same.”
He stops in front of her.
There is no warmth in her blue eyes, there has never been warmth for him, but the cold distaste he is so used to seeing seems more sedate than he remembers, somehow. He wonders if it is a lesser thing now, really, if she has so much hatred for Freys and Lannisters and wicked creatures who had torn everything from her that she has nothing left for Jon Snow; or if, instead, merely his prediction has come true and he has seen things so much more frightening than Catelyn Tully Stark that her displeasure at his presence is a small thing compared to a widget’s hand around his throat, a betrayer’s whisper amongst the ranks, those who wished him true ill and did not simply wish him elsewhere.
She had always been an imposing figure in his childhood, towering in silent disapproval, but he tops her by nearly a head, now. Her thick auburn hair is pulled back into a sloppy braid (she must do it herself now, he supposes, he sees no one accompanying her), and grief is written in lines by her eyes and mouth that he does not remember.
FILL: Catelyn, Jon (very slight Jon/Robb) ASOS Spoilers - Lady of Ashes (pt 1/3)
Jon did not think to find her here – there is nothing left here, truly (why is she here, then?) – and he knows that he is certainly as unexpected as she is, here.
The castle is not as broken as he had expected, but still far more desolate than he had ever hoped to see it, the tower of the Great Keep remains, though hollowed, and a wall of the Great Hall, crumbled and groaning under the weight of moss and snow where before it would stand tall and proud. Other towers stand half-destroyed, some were brought to the ground, and Jon tries to think of the castle he remembers, his home, the true Winterfell, and not the wasteland this has become.
It is by the sept that he finds her; the newest addition to the castle was strong enough to withstand years of winter but fire brings it to the ground, stones and rubble to worship by. Septs do not belong in the North, he thinks dimly, but he is staring at her, shocked, certain that she is a ghost (for how could she be anything but, anything otherwise would be impossible), and he almost thinks to find Robb at her side, Arya running through the Keep, Sansa reading by the hot spring.
“What are you doing here?” he blurts out, and she lifts her eyes, startled at the intrusion, and he sees shock and joy and wanting written across her face for the briefest moment when she sees his face, before the light there fades and her mouth settles into grim recognition. He raises his hand to his beard, feeling a sudden stab of guilt that he did not think to shave. I did not think to find her here, I have no wish to taunt her with ghosts. “Lady Stark,” he says formally, apologetic, redefining the spaces between them, “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you.” (He is sorry for much more, for everything, and if she were anyone else he would tell her so, but even now after all these years, he knows they are not words she wants from his lips.)
She keeps her distance so he approaches slowly, carefully (how did she even get here, surely she did not travel alone…), mostly curiously, still not certain if she is standing in the ruins of the castle that had been home to them both (and how she had hated that, he knows), or if he is just imagining (though if he were to imagine, she would not be the one he called to mind, those thoughts of cold blue eyes always rose unbidden and unwelcome).
“Lord Snow,” she says in acknowledgement, and a corner of her mouth twitches slightly, the irony is not lost, “as I hear you are called, now. I could ask you the same.”
He stops in front of her.
There is no warmth in her blue eyes, there has never been warmth for him, but the cold distaste he is so used to seeing seems more sedate than he remembers, somehow. He wonders if it is a lesser thing now, really, if she has so much hatred for Freys and Lannisters and wicked creatures who had torn everything from her that she has nothing left for Jon Snow; or if, instead, merely his prediction has come true and he has seen things so much more frightening than Catelyn Tully Stark that her displeasure at his presence is a small thing compared to a widget’s hand around his throat, a betrayer’s whisper amongst the ranks, those who wished him true ill and did not simply wish him elsewhere.
She had always been an imposing figure in his childhood, towering in silent disapproval, but he tops her by nearly a head, now. Her thick auburn hair is pulled back into a sloppy braid (she must do it herself now, he supposes, he sees no one accompanying her), and grief is written in lines by her eyes and mouth that he does not remember.