Oznaka: got

wolfandhound-got:

sarya-trash:

“Everyday.”

She sat across from him, having their daily talk like always. Arya spoke of anything and often everything knowing that he just liked listening to her talk.
The Stark woman leaned back onto a stone bench across from him, her legs tucked under her and cloak wrapped around her as she chattered on,
“I got a crow today, Daenerys has given Jon another title, Queen’s Justice. She made it up just for him so she could keep him around more I think. He hasn’t been back to the North in months, much less Winterfell. So much for Warden of the North if he’s never here.”
She rubbed her temple as the thought of her cousin, no, her brother stirred a headache. He’d always be her brother.
“Sansa want me to come south for a while to King’s Landing for the birth of her and Tyrion’s new baby. They’re hoping for a boy finally, after 3 girls. It’s hard to believe I’m an aunt and don’t really even know what my nieces look like. I just…” hanging onto a pregnant pause, looking around like there was someone there to hear.
“I just don’t want to be away from you, I know you understand. You’ve sacrificed so much for me. It seems wrong to leave you here alone.”
Arya smiled softly, something cracked and broken in her grey eyes as she carried on. “You’d be amazed how beautiful the North has become now that spring is here. The grass is so green and lush, and the trees are even blooming. Small blossoms here and there, it makes the air smell so sweet. Not like Highgarden, but something…clean, it’s refreshing.” Nodding to herself, she adjusted herself on the uncomfortable bench by untucking her legs, swinging them around in front of her and standing up to stretch them out.
“I got a couple caskets of wine from Dorne for my nameday today as well after the crow had arrived. A surprise from Daenerys and the crown, but I bet it was Jon or Sansa who suggested she send it.” She looked at his peaceful face and breathed in deep, a hitch in her voice. “They know I’m here by myself, I guess they didn’t want me to feel alone. I know they forget I have you.”
She just loved to talk to him alone like this, it was the only time they got together anymore. Reaching out to touch his folded hands, they were firm and unwilling under to gloved hands. Running her fingers over each knuckle, she studied the detail of the stonework. It was impeccable, so real as if they could just start moving at any moment. No expense was spared to make it right, to make his visage right.
Arya felt that uncomfortable pain rise in her chest again, as her eyes started to well. No matter how she wished, prayed, cursed and beg he would never hold her hand again. Never call her girl, never kiss her lips again buffing her softly with his beard. The wounds caused by fighting the wights had seen to that. Her hands clenched tightly, as the first of the hot tears started to come and she wouldn’t fight them back.
It was like this everytime.
It was like this when he had fallen ill, when he told her he loved her as he lay dying, when his hand finally stop holding hers back. These hot painful tears came, every time.
A draft blew past her in the semi-damp crypt of the House of Stark, rustling her hair and cloak. She’d demanded he be put to rest here, even though he wasn’t family, through blood or marriage. Arya wouldn’t have minded that though, to not be Stark anymore. Lady Arya Clegane. It has such a lovely ring to it, but that was a non-issue now. She had been so grateful they’d acquiesced to her sobbing demands as she fingered the engraving on the edge of his sarcophagus.
The tears came freer and did the shaking as her cries turned to sobs. Arya could no longer see through the burning of her eyes, the salty trails on her face burning. Or was is the heat of her face that burned? Or perhaps the burning was her heart breaking all over again? As it had done a thousand times before.
Her grip on the carved stone tightened and the final dam broke, as her wracking sobs turned to screams, and she could no longer hold herself up. Dropping to her knees she pressed her face to the engravings that sided the large stone grave. She knew the picture by heart; A large dog, running with a wolf through feels of acacias, everlastings, asphodels, and lilacs.
He was gone, he would never answer back, but she couldn’t let go. Not of him, not ever. She wailed and screamed until her voice could do no more, then quietly cried until she was weak, till she could cry no more. She lay against the stone in silence, curled up against what remained of him for what felt like hours but she didn’t worry, no one followed when she came. They knew better than to ever follow Arya Stark here, than to ever come for her when she was here.
As the chill in the crypt deepened as night came she rose, wrapping her thin cloak around her tighter around herself. Standing on wobbling legs, supporting her body on his carved bicep as she appraised him for the last time for the evening, her eyes roaming his form from his delicately carved hair down to his booted foot. Stepping closer, as close as she could get Arya pressed her lips to the unmoving form of his face, laying in peace for an eternity before pulling herself away.
As she slowly made way out into the darkness of the night, she turned back once, calling out to no one but the dead,
“I’ll see you tomorrow Sandor, please don’t forget. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

NO YOU’RE CRYING.