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not even death [robb/jon drabble]

written for the infinitely lovely brittwidgeon.

When Robb began packing to leave Winterfell, he found that one of his furs had been switched. A light-colored one that he had been gifted with some years ago – it no longer fit him properly, his shoulders too broad, but it had been a striking piece and very, very warm.

In its place was a soft, well worn dark grey, not as fine as anything he might have worn to a proper occasion but perfectly suitable for wearing while marching with the armies. He buried his fingers in it for a second and pretended it was still wrapped around a body he knew well, a body he missed and wondered after almost every aching day.

A body it had never quite fitted right on – a hand-me-down, Robb knew, a cast off for the bastard son kept around only because of the goodness of their father. The fur smelled of cold rain and strong lye soap, smelled of Jon

Jon, somewhere even further North than he, clad in his cloak, covered in his scent.

Robb smiled, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips that had been missing since he heard of the news from King’s Landing, and tightened the cape around his neck before walking out the door. Nothing would truly separate them – not distance, not time, not even death.

2:09 pm Sunday, December 18, 2011 | 22 notes
viimote game of thrones asoiaf robb stark jon snow writing THE THINGS I DO FOR LOVE now back to my regularly scheduled dragon age things i am responsible for
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