W I N T E R // has // [[come]] {Jon, alone}

Although the summer heat pelts down on District Eight in its full presence, the boy with the bag still dresses as if against the most spiteful winter night. He moves with the swiftness of a blizzard, tirelessly jabbing his gently sharpened stick at his playmate, best friend and most equal match. Blow after blow, their "swords" meet, his silent, unpredictable while her with all the strength and ferocity of the lion heart inside her. Their dance, so practiced and electric it is almost with intimacy that their eyes and weapons lock, takes them closer and closer to the boundary fence – once humming and deadly but now weak as the first surrenders of spring. They stop suddenly, breathless, like Wolfes wolves after a hunt and just as inflated with adrenaline. She grins at him childishly, and the crystalline icicle of his composure melts in an instant. The love that surges from him in that second is so obvious that for him, stifling it would be like trying to stop a mountain avalanche with little more than a song. He reaches out tenderly and brushes her wild mane of dark hair away from her porcelain cheek, and his heartbeat hammers with all the strength of a stallion's hooves as she does not flinch or protest against his frosty touch.

Aria

was his first thought on waking, though she had plagued his dreams as well. Aria and Reaping and all the love he felt for her, every moment of every day. But what if I'm reaped and I lose her? No, he had no tesserae, the Coldhouse had enough supplies for the family and Jon as well, because never would the Queen let him feel like he was included in that unit, but he knew, with some chilling blade of foreboding in his gut, that today would not be a happy day for the Wolfe House. Aria was all he thought as he took breakfast early, before the rest of the family were awake. He bit half through his lip in his sleep that night, but didn't notice when the already foul water tasted of crimson iron. The bread was burnt, and he could almost picture Caroline the night before, hands shaking with her hysterical worry, cooking the loaf for her beloved children and hoping, praying that no Wolfes would have to join Ned on the Wall this year. Johann knew she was wrong, knew that this year something terrible would happen. Already, he knew that Winter was indeed coming for his family.

Johann often thought about what it would be like to be Reaped. The concept terrified him as he watched the Bloodbath in the Square each year, examining each tributes face, seeing how even the strongest, with the most chance of winning, were terrified. Imagine being taken away from everything that you love AriaAriaAria and then being forced to leave this world as well? It was the sort of thing from nightmares, horror books, stories from beyond Death – beyond that finite and ultimate Wall – not the sort of thing that existed as a reality in the lives of millions of teenagers, siblings, parents, cousins, citizens and friends. And their children and their children's children and every generation forever because this is a punishment that will never be fulfilled for a government that will never be satisfied with the penance of its people. Jon tended to think big, always seeming like he was ready to spring up and leave, just run away at any given moment, his satchel swinging on his back and the ice that had previously frozen his heart into contortions of fear and worry melting into biting adrenaline, surging through him as he surged towards the escape from it all. However, the reality was extraordinarily different. The King of the North, the champion of the Coldhouse and a proclaimed Wolfe, was nothing more than a sheep himself. A sheep that, now Winter was coming, had been stripped of his protection and shivered, exposed and embarrassed, in the first fingers of ice fog that caressed his skin-draped bones.

Yes, the Reaping scared Johann Eddard more than any other Wildling that he could possibly, or impossibly, face.

Aria?

Was his only thought as reluctant footsteps caused the old staircase to complain almost like Rajas without Jeyne, or Sarita without whatever it was she wanted. But the rhythm was too heavy for her, the girl with nimbleness like a Water Dancer, the pale toes that curled around the splintering woodwork of every step too rough and wrinkled. The legs, torso and face of the woman that Jon couldn't help but hate came into his line of just-hopeful vision, however unwelcome those body parts, and the woman in general, were when he needed to be alone. She met his glazed look with a harshness to rival the most terrible snowstorm, her already thin lips paling and pressing together as if in a permanent seal. He turned away from her then, disappointed and bashful about his keenness for Aria, broad shoulders hunched and muscles tense, forcing himself to regain a cold composure. It was useless attempting to rival the Ice Queen if you were not frozen from verbal, emotional and mental damage yourself. She spoke, then, her voice solid but quivering like a snow-caked rope in the wind, and the words she said were the ones that Jon had expected. And yet, still, they cut through him like shards of glass, ripping him right to his delicate lamb's heart.

"How many years have we done this now? You know the drill. Find your spot in the crowd and pretend not to know them." He stared through the rippled window, hearing but not listening as she insulted him over and over, emphasising the chasm she wished to gouge between her family, her property and him, the Stranger who never belonged there. The Bastard, the reject. Still without turning to her, he nodded, seized his bag with unnecessary force and headed for the door. But Aria needs me, he wished he could retort, but then thought about those words. He wouldn't be able to see her anyway, once the boys and girls were separated. If anything, his job would be to push Bran, though that was unlikely, too. His mind again wandered to the possibility of him or her being Reaped. Would Caroline let her see me in the Justice Building? Would I be able to find her face amongst all the others in that gaggle as I stood up on the stage, or would it be as hopeless as finding matching snowflakes? But maybe, though Jon wished fervently with every atom of his being, Carol was right, and Aria didn't need him as much as he needed her. She would have her sister, and the rest of her family, to tell her it would be alright as she wandered towards that imminent Death lottery. The thought of absence became more than just one of them being taken to the Capitol, and instead was embodied in the fear of absence together; that she would be fine without him even when he was still there. He was physically pained to think of it.

What about… Gendry? she muses as they sit at the boundary fence, eating apples and tossing stones lazily through the dead wires and into the visible unknown. Definitely not – it sounds like a name for a Bull, not a sword. Too clumsy for such a fighter as yourself. She smirks at his indirect compliment, creases appearing between her eyebrows on the area he has always studied while she concentrates. He loves studying her like this, trying to recognise all the things that make her her and cram them into a permanent place in his brain marked NEVER FORGET. Her second attempt at naming the weapon she twiddles aimlessly between spindly fingers is closer to what he tries to convey to her, Nymeria. She was a warrior I read about, once. I think Nymeria's a great name for a sword. He snorts, and is rewarded with a smart blow from her stick, (definitely not Nymeria, you want a name that doesn't sound so clumsy) but still stays with his argument that Nymeria would be the name of a disobedient sword. Nymeria sounds like it could get you into a lot of trouble with high powers. She raises one eyebrow, a cheeky smile dawning at the corner of her lips, maybe trouble is exactly what the higher powers deserve. He laughs again, and she interrupts him through a bite of apple with what seems to be a sword-naming epiphany: well, Sarita has her sewing needles, but I have a Needle of my own. He grins with approval, and adoration for his bright soldier, and ruffles her hair, while she swoops the freshly anointed "blade" through the air, testing its name on her tongue.

He only saw her briefly before they had to separate for blood samples and roped-off sections of the District Square. The family were dressed in their most beautiful clothes, each looking regal, noble and elegant in an independent way, each with a lucky charm around their neck or wrist. Little Ricky hid his head on Rajas' shoulder, Caroline looked demure in glowing lavender coloured clothing in Stark stark contrast to her plain and ashen expression. Jon pulled on a pair of gloves and tied a scarf around his neck, and then there she was, staring at him with her engulfing eyes and making him feel eternal; trapped in a moment where nothing else mattered, not the past where their father was, nor the future where they may not be. He put his hands on her shoulders, noticing how fragile she seemed, how frightened for him? For herself? For her family?

Ghost and Needle lie abandoned on the floor next to two browning apple cores and a pile of pebbles, the owners of all these items standing several yards away, staring into another world. For the first time, he isn't tempted to look at her rather than at the focus, because all he can think about is the glorious freedom that must come with being able to go as far as you want, with no one to stop you, and infinity ahead of you. Beyond the wires that act as no restraint for this boy and girl, now that only their caution and fear hold them back, is somewhere new to explore, somewhere dangerous and frightening, and somewhere totally secret. It is somewhere he wants to be.

We could just do it, you know, Lionheart. She mmms in agreement, staring just as he is at somewhere so close but still so far away. Me and you and our swords and our adventure, can you imagine? She looks up at him, but he keeps frowning desperately forwards, no, I can't. He looks down at her, surprised that this fierce, brave warrior could be so limited by rationality, but she ignores what should hurt and takes his hand instead. But one day, I will be able to imagine, and then- and then we won't even have to imagine- we'll just go for it. His face creases into a sad smile, love pouring from him in a Great Thaw. He squeezes her hand and she returns it, a wordless promise bouncing between them, a promise that one day, they'll be together on the other side of the fence. And they'll look in, and see where they once stood with their childhood playthings on the ground around them, and remember the promise. And everything will be love. Everything is perfect right now, Aria. Everything is perfect right now, Jon. They stood together, fingers twisted like tree roots, dependent on each other to stop themselves from falling, imagining their future together and picturing it becoming more solid every day.

I lay on the ground there, in the shadow of a house dissolving in weather and with my despair and the rocky ground as a pillow for what seemed like an Eternity eternity. The rest of the families had all cleared out of the Square by the time the world stopped seeming so grey, so flat and sorrowful. I assumed the family must have been in the Justice Building by now, so that was where I tried to wander. Like my mind was trying to drown me in reality, my feet moved as though I had rocks tied to them. The whole world was dim, my head playing me a steady funeral rhythm as I staggered around. I can imagine what I must have looked like to passers-by: a boy lost in open space, confused by clarity and left behind while life hurried on around him. The Reaping had finished for everyone except the Wolfes. And I was still a Wolfe, even though as soon as Aria got on that train there would be nothing anchoring me to them anymore. I imagined how empty the Justice Building must seem, with no second family or any friends mulling around inside or outside the other rooms. Bran and Aria could stay together, seeing as they were family, and the Wolfes being how they were, there were no friends waiting for us outside. But even as I tried to picture the emptiness of the building, there was no way it could compare to what I felt inside. My heart was a dark labyrinth that my mind, nor my soul, dared to venture into. It lay cold and desolate, throbbing dully but barely there at all. My little Lionheart had become more than just an external beat; she filled me with life, too, and without her I was only a shell. A shell of a boy who belonged nowhere, who could never be a King or a knight.

I found the Justice Building, a looming, ugly mass with a gaping arched door like a wailing mouth and imposing Capitol flags that daubed every vertical surface, and identified myself as a member of the family. A Peacekeeper led me inside and upstairs, where the dense scent of sweat and low quality tobacco were almost tangible on my skin, and I heard the room where the Wolfes were before I saw it. Compliments going to Bran, the "brave night," "little champion," "fearless warrior" and messages to fight strong going to their feisty little girl. No, I wanted to cry out, she doesn't need that. She needs love. Caroline was out in the hallway, hiding her tears like a coward, rather than showing her desperate children she cared enough to weep for them, and my siblings trailed out as I approached the door, indicating that the allotted time was up. The Peacekeeper leading me exchanged a look with the one at the entrance to the room, and evidently neither wanted me to go in. I looked at the man at my shoulder with a fervid sadness, imploring him to let me in. Carol looked up then and saw me, but instead of narrowing her eyes softened. I stared at her as she briskly turned to the doorman and croaked, "Please." I was deducted one minute, so not to waste precious time, and stumbled into the room and towards the two tributes of the Wolfe family.

But how could I ever express all my love for Aria in two minutes?

Baffled and urgent, I meandered to Bran first. Imagining how the others could possibly have wished him luck, impersonally, formally, not wanting to get upset in front of him, I did the opposite. He doesn't need a command,, he needs a promise. Kneeling in front of him, I tied up his fraying shoelace which he had no change of tripping over, anyway, and leaned close to him. "Bran, I can't tell you not to be scared because scared is exactly what you need to be. You're not safe unless you stay with Aria, and unless you find someone else who you can keep near you, always. People will always trust you, because you're a hero. You were born to inspire people, Bran."