The tales had always told of the people—the heroes, the villains, and the monsters—but never of the lands. Men had been told of the folklore, but never of the existence. They had all been so thoroughly disillusioned by the truth of it all—that they could march straight into a story without initial recognition. History was never a question—they were the players and the books were the game—but the past had always been taken as that, immovable and untouchable.
But there they were, living amongst the legends, in the lands of the folklore without a true grasp of the background and culture. Few Southerners knew the stories, and even fewer recognized the transition as they marched North: from current reign to the lands of the deepest history. And though their party was great, she was the lone witness to such transition: as the trees wavered between bleak plains, there was a paranoid sense of being watched. And this was more than History watching—no, there was a sense of the great and forbidden Nature following behind them, ready to overthrow the petty Southern customs for the true power that hosted these lands. Winterfell was just a blip on the map of the North, a holdfast against the greater threat of Mother's Nature. These lands were not meant to be inhabited, and yet they were travelling with relative ease. Gabrielle Baelish knew that they were being marked—stained—for punishment. Her people had come to believe themselves superior to the whims of Nature.
Robert Baratheon was not the worst of them, despite his preceding reputation as they passed from town to camp to village. He might have been the greatest customer these taverns and whorehouses had catered to—making her job all the more difficult—but the primal urges of the king were just that—natural. No, it had to be the youngest cubs of Cersei Lannister. From their ornate and decadent clothing to the suppression of all intelligent and natural thought, Gabrielle was sure that the carriage they rode in was the only thing keeping them safe from the sharp winds of Nature. She half hoped the doors of the coach would burst open to the devils of these lands if only to murder Cersei and Joffrey. Natural as they were—sexual preferences, cruelty, and all—the two were the worst creatures to crouch upon the banks of King's Landing. She'd happily see them dead.
And though she had a decadence about her, Gabrielle Baelish was one of the few conversing with the Northerners in their path towards Winterfell. At first, she'd supposed it to be due to her position—bastard daughter of a whorehouse owner—but few knew enough of her to recognize the pageantry of her mockingbird pin. Then she'd supposed it to be due to her appearance—'the Most Beautiful Woman in Westeros'—but she looked far too much like a Lannister—blonde hair, green eyes, tall—for this to be a possibility. It only left her character to be the cause of her popularity: the green eyes of Lannisters revealed a grey strength of the North, her taller posture proposed shoulders that could hold back a Winter, and her blonde hair, wily in the ways they turned but fierce in its windy conviction. For those who came in contact with Gabrielle Baelish, they were convinced she was born of the North.
But that "Northern blood" was not so, the harsh winds of the North bearing heavily upon her petite bones, through layers of cloak and fur and beneath the pale skin of the woman. Robert Baratheon had tried to convince her to take refuge within the carriage of the Queen and the cubs, but had miserably failed as she'd claimed not wanting to "taint the air of the carriage with her whorish blood." And, of course, the King was obliged by that (as he always was) and she was left to rot in the cold that thickened her blood with each step North. Indeed, with the cold becoming less poignant with time, she was far happier to be on a horse than in the carriage. Robert Baratheon would not be surprised if either Cersei or Lady Baelish was killed in their joint company.
The cold had yet to taint her cheeks, wearing down the skin into an uneasy and painful red burn that would not go away even during the night's spent at the inns. And so, with two weeks of windburn to account upon her face, she finally decided to undermine her better sense and wear her fur-laden hood about her facade, a sudden relief to her skin if not her mentality. Indeed, she would have done this sooner if not for the continual feeling of being watched, her visibility greatly diminished by the hood and wearing her worries thin. She thought herself to be subtle in her common attempts to check her back for betrayers or spies, but the sharp and humored look the Hound had sent her undermined such a notion. But then again, it was Sandor Clegane and he tended to be sharper than most.
Despite the humor he derived from her attempts, Gabrielle Baelish did not cease her paranoid activity, that sense of suspicion now beat into her blood. And anyway, there was not many other things to occupy herself with: the bleak plains and forests quickly had become redundant and her horse was especially suited to be a bore. You would think horses to be easily swayed and enervated by the promise of food, but the pesky brute seemed more inclined to wither away than to entertain her. Gabrielle solely blamed the Hound for this rubbish cattle, and was more inclined with each bored minute to burn the other half of said man's face.
And so it was that the sight of Winterfell upon the horizon lifted the load off her shoulders and tweaked the corner of her mouth into a smile—such a bleak sight to be happy about though even the animals and soldiers were expressing great joy. Indeed, it only seemed like the stallion she mounted was indifferent at such a sight, likely slowing down, and she became more inclined to ride there faster if only to pass off the horse with no intention to ride it again. Let the Stranger take this horrid beast, and Stranger buck the Hound off his back.
Winterfell could not stir excitement into her belly as much as anticipation to rest, her tailbone aching to the Heavens. With its stone-cold walls of thick and gray brick, towers of an unimpressive height, and mud trodden leeways, Gabrielle was convinced that the only salvation of such a place was its supposed natural heating from the hot springs. But all the while, she was equally convinced this was a nicer home than that of King's Landing, if only for the fact that the royal family was absent and corruption did not brew here. We will taint these lands, just as Nature will mark us for death.
"You look as if you've seen a ghost," the little Lannister remarks, trotting up behind the only female rider with noiseless abandon that has her whipping around. But upon realizing the identity of said Imp, Gabrielle releases a sigh of relief, her shoulders not releasing from their tense grasp but her lips parting into an "O." And the expression that had him remarking does not fade, a twitch to her face and again she is looking for the predator as if she is the fearless prey.
"I wish I had." Those pretty pink lips of the Lady Baelish part in solemn seriousness, an eye behind them to see no more than the King's Guard. "It'd be a far better sight than those I keep imagining. A deep and dark figure slowly picking us off with silent slaughter until I am the only one to remain. It is not the blood that scares me, nor the pretense of loneliness. Just that my skirts might be tarnished, proper Lady I am."
The sound of laughter rings from the youngest son of Tywin Lannister, those mischievous eyes prickling with humor at the acting of the slyest women in Westeros. A small smirk peeks up on her cheek, barely visible under the darkness of her green cloak, and only marking a small departure from the even tenser atmosphere surrounding the lone female. It's as if laughter's worn her worry to heart.
But that is likely the case, the carefree attitude with what she speaks and the laughter of the little dwarf bearing a far departure from her true feelings, that indeed it'd be better to see the ghost. The unknown enemy, her greatest fear when it comes to folklore and this story she now lives. No, she does not trust the Northern lands to bare any resemblance to the lifeless South. These footpaths and unworn forests scream of a wild Nature that has killed more men than the individual wars of many centuries past, combined. She'd be stupid to trust such a thing.
And Lord Tyrion—one of the few to hold her trust—seems to understand this expression, not the fear itself for he is one of the blind men who walk North. Remarking, "It is likely only a bear or elk, my Lady. The men've been exclaiming the praises of these lands, for the animals seem to follow us."
"The North is a wild place, and not one that upholds the expectations of Southerners. Watch your back, my Lord, or'st a branch might snap you up and into Heaven," she says with that light-hearted tone meant for Tyrion to witness, such a common façade for the untold nature of the woman.
"Wouldn't be too hard, now would it?" he haltingly jokes back, that grin then bracketing her face, the creases so falsely used, now catching the overcast sunlight and giving her a look much like a smirking Death.
"No, I expect not."
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The Starks were a family that lived up to their legend: a strong people descended from the First Men, true blooded and strong, noble to a fault and as stubborn as the bulls of Dorne. And it is a good thing that there were never legends of the looks behind these people, for indeed, the Starks of the current generation had been tainted by the 'good' graces of the Tully line. While many generations of Starks in the past bore bleak looks of brown-hair, grey-eyes, pale skin, and dire expressions, the ones that greeted the royal entourage of murderers, cripples, rapists, sadists, and the like were far from the expectations of such deep-set people.
Eddard Stark looked as he always had: thick-boned, deep-set grey eyes, mousy-brown hair, and a serious look to match. And Catelyn Tully had aged well—those deep-blue eyes only half-sunk, and dark copper hair only dimmed by a hint of grey, still young and fertile from the look at the children. And like most of the children, Robb Stark took after his mother: an auburn head-of-hair, blue eyes, and squared jaw that bore the same expression of his father. Sansa Stark was prettier than her brother—as only right—even in the awkward-stage of youth, with her light-copper mane, bright blue eyes, and pale skin, so soft that a feather might chip upon its touch. Arya Stark, one of the few, took more after her father, with a rounder face, darker brown hair and eyes, and the look of a warrior on her growing shoulders. Bran was like this sister, the same hair and eyes but with a thinner face that would further thin with the years to come. And Rickon Stark was not much more than a mere child with a wild look in his dark eye, looking like his second brother but with a curl to that brown hair.
They tried to take away from his station, to undermine the importance of his person, but it was only half successful to the truly observant. Jon Snow, stationed behind the family but rightly far from Catelyn Stark, had the look of his father without truly bearing the same coloring—far more than any other child in this family. His black hair was unruly in its curls, obviously having been shortened but still the dream of many women to have. His eyes—most potently brown—were solemn in their expression, like a doe that had been beat to an almost-death before recovering and beat again. And though he bears the sins of his guilty father and is shorter than Robb, Jon Snow is a presence of that natural power found in the oldest Stark blood, the blood of Nature itself that was bred into men, long ago.
In a line, the Starks gaze upon the party of royal proportions, Prince Joffrey being the first to prance in upon his horse, only having mounted minutes ago with a vigor of proving his superiority to both the natural and supernatural present. Behind him, that snarl meant only for the Prince now hidden behind the equally-deformed helmet, the Hound follows, the massive horse—Stranger—the boot that could eat the ant of Joffrey's mare—Mincer. And though there had been many to catch his attention, Joffrey is moved by the sight of the first Stark daughter, the copper-haired girl smiling shyly at the Prince whose ego held the typical position of a man's morals. And Joffrey smiles that small grin of joy, a look to her figure revealing a snarl on Robb's looks like any good brother, even if they do not know the terror of the first 'Baratheon' prince.
The coach follows with the Queen and cubs, following after the fattest man of the procession, a marked departure from the once-valiant knight who was far too stubborn to stop a war. The people of Winterfell and the like bow to the massive King, his leg barely lumbering as he swings off his poor horse and onto the muddy ground that was a more permanent fixture of Winterfell than the weather. His cheeks rosy with the wind, King Robert Baratheon is not heeded as he comes to stand in front of his oldest friend, a hand gesturing for the people to rise while his eyes lock only to those of the final Stark at Winterfell.
"Your grace," Ned Stark is wise to remark to the arrogant king, a departure from their friendship that often forgets duty.
But Robert Baratheon is not one for the proper language or mannerisms of such position, not so strange given that the war put him in this position. Looking down at the Stark, Robert remarks, "You've got fat."
And as if it's a sign to drop the propriety, Ned gives Robert one look that almost scoffs at the King's hypocritical verbiage. And it sets off their laughter, embracing each other in an unusual hug with heightened cheeks of many smiles, before pulling away as Robert looks to the wife of Ned Stark, "Cat!"
Like a proper lady of mindless instincts, the woman is quick to respond with, "Your Grace."
"Nine years. Why haven't I seen you?" the King barks with raucous laughter. "Where the hell have you been?"
And though the North was never a true and proper kingdom of the King's domain, Ned Stark is well trained in the words of proper Lords, remarking, "Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
A splash and blur of dark colors draws the attention of the gathered and prepared crowd, Cersei Lannister with her children, Myrcella and Tommen, descending from the carriage with Southern flair that remarks more on privilege than goodwill and faith. All golden-haired with green eyes to match that of Prince Joffrey, the children of Cersei Lannister look far more like clones of herself than individuals of unique intentions.
But—as expected for those who know this family—Robert is quick to forget their presence, shuffling widely down the line of Starks to gaze upon the strong and stubborn form of Robb Stark. "Who have we here? You must be Robb." Taking another step to gaze upon the bright copper jewel, the King says, "My, you're a pretty one." And to Arya, another step: "Your name is?"
"Arya." It becomes obvious that the King really does not care for their identities, moving before the girl properly responds to the boy on her left, "Ooh, show us your muscles. You'll be a soldier."
Another flash of showy gold and Jaime Lannister comes into the picture from this less-than-discrete helmet, now off his head. And as if that is her cue, Cersei steps forward from her children of Lannister-likeness, to address both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell in the coldness of a warm-colored lion.
"My queen," Ned and Catelyn echo after one another in the correct fashion despite their Northern home, the Queen's unwelcoming expression failing to waver in their expression of loyalty. And though the whole scene could not seem more awkward, the whole moment tumbles back to seventeen-years prior when Robert demands, "Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects."
But, as all Houses seem to have a stubborn streak, Cersei is quick to denounce her husband, "We've been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait."
And yet, Robert Baratheon is not one to listen to the words of the others, especially since he is now king, and he is even less likely to respond favorably to the Queen. So, it comes as no surprise as the kinder demand of Ned Stark becomes firmer, "Ned."
To reassure the hatred that the Lannisters hold for Starks as Ned and Robert walk away, Arya just reassures these feelings, preying on the crippled as she against asks, though louder, "Where's the Imp?"
Turning away from the shame of being ignored by the King, Cersei turns back to her twin, the Kingslayer, as she passes her eyes upon the crowd. And though it was focused upon one person—Arya's question—Tyrion was likely be found with the other female of the journey, again, miraculously having disappeared. So, instead of her brother, Cersei demands, "Where is my brother and Silver Tongue, Hound?"
"Saw 'em break from us after entering. They went left," the burned man responds in that deep and hearty tone of a soldier. And though she never outwardly expresses the emotion, Cersei wants to scream at the humiliation of it all: the little devil that is her brother, the slut-fucking king, and the blasted-perfect Starks. But, instead, she just turns to the Kingslayer with a commanding tone, "Go find the little beast and her."
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Few had seen her enter Winterfell, departing from royal coach at the most immediate time to get off the least immediate horse. Indeed, any attention she acquired derived from Tyrion's appearance next to her—a dwarf in a land of uniform Northerness, a land where differences often never survived. And thus, that lot of attention was great, not taking heed to hide herself away, but knowing that few would care of her appearance next to the infamous Imp. It was a blessing after all the strange looks she'd received while travelling, and maybe she should have put on the hood earlier.
But whatever the case, Gabrielle had been sure to keep the pretense as she hands off her horse (gratefully, and at last) and entering the brothel with Tyrion at her side, such a dingy place when compared to her home in the south. And yet, she was not one meant to care—being a woman and in no need of other woman—only watching as Tyrion bought himself a red-head before flocking off at the twist of her finger. For such a short man of strong character, it was incredible what he would do for a whore.
Once he was gone, it was down to business, removing her hood to reveal the face acclaimed by all men who had looked at her since the age of 14. And though she ought to have turned on the charm of her mirage, she'd had a tiring trip--instead, diving straight into the business of her father and the needs of the king, arranging rooms for the king's men and company for the ruler himself. If the brothel-keeper thought it odd for her to undertake these duties, he did not say, likely because he knew of her background, the daughter of a whoremonger.
With arrangements made for the 'good of the kingdom,' she makes way for the keep of Winterfell, down the dreary corridors of the whorehouse without that typical charisma in her step. And though she feels lost to sleep already—something that's seemed fleeting since her travels began—Gabrielle cannot mistake the voice of the Kingslayer around the corner, his feet propped into a room and promptly addressing his brother. And when Tyrion demands that Jaime shut the door behind him—not abided—only then does she reveal herself to the golden-haired knight, his form towering over hers but bulky with his ego and armor.
"Ser Jaime," she greets, stepping about the corner as if she'd just seen him, a thing he easily falls for. Those green eyes of Lannisters move up to her feminine form, seeing nothing new from all the years he watched her blossom. That painted face hides the intelligence of the woman so well that he almost wants to believe its tale. But he's seen her at work, and no man can return from that. And although she does not answer to him, the girl asks the question she's always sung, "Do you need any assistance?"
He wants to believe she is not playing with him, but as the daughter of the Master of Coin, she is likely doing just that. He shakes his head, "Not myself, no. But I've sent some more whores into my brother. I'm sure you can cover the cost...?"
"Of course, my Lord. It is my job after all." It's not like I have other things to do. But that charming smile is a glance towards the sun, blinding Jaime of her true feelings as he squints at her, again confused by the splendor of her ways.
Shaking his head, he continues, "And my sister was looking for you. I think she wants you at the feast tonight with the Starks."
"I do as my Lady commands," Gabrielle nods submissively, no lie upon her tongue but the truth of the matter ringing clear. "But please let her know I might arrive late—I've deemed it necessary to meet with the keeper of the brothel here in order to minimize costs for our stay."
"Sounds smart. I will let her know," Jaime responds, half suspicioning that she'd done this already, but not wishing to go against her wild whim. The eldest Lannister son had always been one of a brash tongue and action, but the Lady Baelish radiated a sense of danger that not even the bravest would cross. The daughter of her father, she was a woman to be feared for her cunning.
"My lord," Gabrielle nods and walks away, back towards the boarding room of the brothel without that hop in her step, likely a better sign than not.
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Tyrion had been quick to find her after his supposed 'gluttonous feast,' something she failed to cringe at with all her years of experience in brothels. Gabrielle had only been lucky enough to avoid further conversation by remarking that they were already late to the feast—it having started an hour ago and now darkness painting the wares of Winterfell. She'd changed into a black dress with gold trim, knowing this was the night for her best apparel, as her father suggested. Black had never been her best color, but the gold trimming brought out the green in her eyes and gloss in her light blonde hair, tied back by two braids more resembling of the Northern style than those of the South. She would allow them to suppose her to be honoring their customs, but really, she far preferred it that way.
Tyrion had not failed to compliment her image—and as she always did around this Lannister, she'd received it with charm and returned it back to him, complimenting him on the nice bruise on his neck and swollen lips on his face. They'd laughed as they walked down the corridors with some hurry, passing through stone and mortar far too many times to keep track of where they were. And though unintentional at first, the courtyard outside the Hall of Winterfell was a thoroughfare of their intentions, picking up the pace as they made to move across the way, only to hear voices. Gabrielle tucks Tyrion back at the noises from somewhere near, meeting his eyes before turning back to look upon the equally dark men of different ages.
"You don't understand what you'd be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons," the older one said, his dark clothing and words revealing him to be of the Night's Watch. He is not overly tall for a man, but his face is chiseled in a charming way that befits both his station and reveals his family. With dark eyes and words of honor and duty, Gabrielle had no doubt that this is Benjen Stark, younger brother of Eddard Stark and First Ranger at Castle Black.
"I don't care about that," the other man says, but still a boy, given his words and expression. He is obviously younger with a roundness to his cheeks and immaturity of his tongue. And yet, hair now grows across the lower portion of his face and he's beginning to build muscle under the dark of his tunic. His eyes are like his uncle's, dark brown, but the way they glint under the lacking light, they look both depthless and sorrowing, as if he'd been kicked more times than she could imagine. Paired with the turn of his lips, the boy seems to be in a permanent state of brooding and pouting, and yet, it does not detract from his looks, those that many girls would turn for.
Soft cheeks but bearded—around her age, 16. Dark of hair and eye—offspring of a Stark. Presence outside the hall and brooding tendency—bastard. This was Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard Stark.
"You might, if you knew what it meant..." the uncle is quick to reply to the ignored son of his brother, faltering awkwardly before again addressing the boy, "I'd better get inside. Rescue your father from his guests. We'll talk later."
Benjen steps away and into the banquet, leaving the bastard son to his thoughts and brooding, Tyrion not halting at the opportunity to kick fun with another of his station. The blond dwarf steps out from beside Gabrielle, into the lacking light but not to the notice of Jon Snow. Not a question, Tyrion remarks, "Your uncle's in the Night's Watch."
The boy's head whips about to see the dwarf, obviously Tyrion Lannister if his height is any sign. With wine in his hand and a smile on his face, it is clear Tyrion is one for festivities. And maybe that's what prompts Jon to ask, "What're you doing back there?"
Gabrielle hardly thinks his tone is appropriate for someone of his station, but he is of the North where courtesies are lacking and especially in bastards. And anyway, Tyrion does not seem to mind, taking a sip of his wine before returning, "Preparing for a night with your family."
Tyrion looks at the boy closer then, seeing nothing less than a Stark and a man denied of a family. The silence of the bastard of Winterfell is most overwhelming, but minute when Tyrion again speaks up, "I've always wanted to see the Wall."
"You're Tyrion Lannister. The queen's brother," Jon states, not entirely lacking in intelligence to Gabrielle's slight grin. And yet, she also knows Tyrion's not one to pride himself on that relationship, taking another sip of his drink as Gabrielle watches, the pestering of the dwarf only bringing out his great character.
He chuckles humorlessly, "My greatest accomplishment. You–you're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?"
He is still a child, Gabrielle observes as the boy turns away from Tyrion, obviously wearing his heart upon his sleeve if his obvious anger is any sign. She cannot wish to understand that ability, having grown in an environment where emotion was the key to finding others' weaknesses and the worst thing you yourself could reveal.
Unapologetically, Tyrion is quick to continue, following after the Snow, "Did I offend you? Sorry. You are the bastard, though."
"Lord Eddard Stark is my father," Jon turns back with a stiffness to his shoulders and the obvious wish to flee this quarrel. Gabrielle easily expects that Jon's life was not one of much love from his other 'mother,' the Lady Catelyn never having rubbed her as the charitable type of lady, a woman who overlooked children for their unintended sins. No, Jon is likely a stain to the Lady of Winterfell—a shame if history is any sign.
"And Lady Stark is not your mother. Making you a bastard," Tyrion bluntly reminds him, sipping from his wine as Jon makes to leave the dwarf to his own drinking.
"Lord Tyrion," Gabrielle says, stepping out from her shadows and nearer the dwarf Lannister, a charming scold on her face, "I hardly think that's the way to gain favor with the Northerners."
Her eyes never waver from the sight of her friend, but Jon Snow looks upon the woman with wide eyes of dark brown. And yet, she cannot blame him if the rumors of her beauty are true in any case. Even in the lacking light of the courtyard, Gabrielle is an angel sent from heaven. Jon gazes upon her undirected teal eyes, shining with mirth, and pale skin, unblemished and a form of perfection he'd never seen. From the light hair on her head to her plump pink lips...from her thin form to her curvier waist. The black dress does not do wonders for her, but Jon is convinced there was never a more beautiful woman to live. He half imagines he's seeing things until Tyrion responds to her wise words.
"Who ever said anything about befriending them, my Lady?" the dwarf grins at his friend, though the grin is more of a smirk than the other way around.
"The Valyrian kings of old feared the North the most—for its monsters as well as its people," that enchanting voice foretells, as if she's seen into the past and seen the true Northern culture from unmasked Southern eyes. "You'd be idiotic to infuriate them."
Tyrion again smirks at the woman, turning his gaze to see a struck Jon looking at Gabrielle. He's not surprised in the slightest, of course, as this is more often a natural occurrence of meeting new people than seeing those bow for the king. It is difficult to praise a fat man you do not know, but it is easy to idolize such a beauty as the Lady Baelish. Gesturing between them, Tyrion offers, "Jon Snow, this is Lady Gabrielle Baelish."
Jon is startled by her name, knowing the stories of her father and having heard of Gabrielle's beauty even this far north. And yet, his father had always been one to discredit the words of bards and birds from far away, and Jon paid much attention to the words of Lord Stark. Maybe I should have trusted him less, for if she is true, not all rumors are lies. He blushes at his swooning thoughts, ducking his head in embarrassment as he mutters all that he can manage: "My lady, it's a pleasure."
Her voice is not as warm as it was addressing Tyrion, but it still sounds like the winds whistling through the trees as she addresses the Bastard of Winterfell, "Trust me, I'd be far more trusting of your words if you looked me in the eye, Lord Snow."
There is a moment's delay as the crags of Jon's mind wear into work, his head slowly rising to meet eyes with the Mock Queen for the first time. He doesn't know what to expect when he meets her eyes—disgust, carelessness, love—but in any case, he does not expect it to be mischief. Her green eyes glint with a hidden plot, a strong contrast against the pale of her skin, like a tug to his heart. He is highly intimidated by it all, but her words—"Lord Snow"—stir him into staring at her. And all the while, Gabrielle watches him from beneath her façade of lies, those brown eyes like deep ponds for the taking, his heart shining with every wish for nobility and love. It's weak, but it's a sight for her sore eyes.
Tyrion grins between them, not seeing past Gabrielle's mask but watching Jon's eyes with great humour. After a moment, Gabrielle grins and turns to Tyrion, the little man not marking his eyes from Jon, especially as he offers him, "Let me give you some advice, bastard: never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor. Then it can never be used to hurt you."
It's those words that finally return Jon from the oblivion of perfection, eyebrows twitching before his brown eyes grow angry, moving to Tyrion with a clenched jaw and pain of heart, "What the hell do you know about being a bastard?"
"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes," Tyrion easily remarks, having been unphased by men worse than Jon Snow, and not willing to change at this moment.
"And I was born a bastard." Jon's eyes flicker back to Gabrielle at her words, not lost to her beauty once again, but widened in shock at her conviction. This is the voice of a redeemed bastard. She grins, as if hearing his words, as she remarks, "There is hope for you, Jon Snow, but only if you're strong enough to fight for it."
Tyrion takes that as his leave and Gabrielle soon follows, not sending a look back at the young Jon Snow, but realizing this is only the beginning of his story. Jon watches them—and then her—for a moment, seeing the stiffness of her shoulders, rise of her chin, and length of her stride. He knows then that Gabrielle Baelish is as much a warrior as a man in every right—though he does not know her stories nor the consequences that led her to strength.
He picks up his sword again with a huff of anger and resentment, swinging down on the dummy with a ferocity fit only for a bastard—one of the two now here in Winterfell.