Summary: My take on the AU scenario where Robb is a girl and Jon is her closest friend.
Author's Note: I would assume, being the oldest and heir for so long until Bran's birth (not to mention growing up with Jon), girl!Robb would still possess a lot of what would be considered masculine qualities by Westerosi culture, although I would think she wouldn't exactly be identical to Arya.
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine. Don't sue. Please.
"I only just escaped her attempts at getting me to achieve minimal competence in embroidery," Robb had been saying.
Jon wasn't listening, not really. He wasn't sure what to make of it. It was increasingly difficult to forget that Robb, er Robyn, was indeed growing into a woman, no longer Jon's sparring buddy but a future lady of House such or such.
In his preoccupation, Jon nearly missed Robb's swift, underside blow. He staggered unbecomingly. Once he regained his footing Jon glowered, if half-heartedly.
"Something on your mind Snow?"
If you only knew, Jon thought glumly. If Robb did know how progressively difficult it was getting for Jon to dismiss the very obvious contours of her figure, she'd toss him down and knock some sense into him. Of course, in Jon's mind, such punishment was not without its appeal.
"What is it Snow? Tell me!"
This time she successfully jabbed him on the side with her practice sword, using enough force to ensure he'd topple shamefully.
Robb stood over her half-brother, watching him with wide, laughing blue eyes. Red curls, impossible to contain neatly within braids, fell about her face, accentuating the sweaty, unruly mess that she was.
"You're certain you want to know?" Jon asked in a hoarse voice.
Robb nodded eagerly and her faced loomed closer.
"It's come to my attention," Jon began, fighting hard to conceal the mischievous grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth, "sweet sister, that you've become so very lovely."
With an indignant cry, Robb threw her full weight onto Jon, wrestling him into a subservient position.
"Take that back Jon Snow!" she demanded, threatening to invoke the ever familiar tickle war.
They lay side by side on the cold, hard ground. Jon watched her from the corner of his eye, uncertain if he should say anything. He was torn over how much she felt, whether she'd noted the…uh…
"You're one to talk, really, as pretty as you are. I reckon, between you and Sansa, I shall have no suitors. Ah well, at least there's Arya…"
Jon was relieved. She didn't seem likely to mention it even if she had noted.
He rolled onto his side and watched her then, his prying eyes betraying him.
She was so much like Sansa in appearance; beautiful and delicate, and of the same soft creamy complexion they shared with their mother. At the thought of Catelyn Stark Jon swallowed thickly. Surely she would object to his thoughts regarding Robb, she was already critical of their friendship, as innocent as it was. Oh, if she only knew the sort of things that crossed Jon mind…especially when Robb wore those old, too tight, breeches she had technically outgrown.
Robb must've noted Jon's gloom because she too turned to her side, facing him. She wore that gentle smile, the sweetest of the looks that ever formed on her face. The expression of love and affection in brilliant pale gaze alone was enough to tug at Jon's heart. It was a look she reserved for him alone, not even the baby received such tender smiles from her.
"I know what bothers you Jon."
Jon frowned. Did she? He wasn't sure how to feel if that were the case.
"I'm—it's time—I've flowered." Her cheeks flushed at this confession, and Jon was certain his were no less red. "Soon father will make arrangements to have me married to some Lord—gods willing a Northern House—and I will have no choice but to go…"
Her voice had grown so small Jon reached out to caress her cheek. She smiled sadly and maintained his gaze.
She'd been wrong; Jon hadn't given it much thought. He couldn't bear it. It was enough to see the developments of Robb's bosom and her backside, to restrain from gawking, to despise Greyjoy for his lecherous smirks, but it was quite another thing to even fathom the possibility that Robb, his best friend in the living world, leaving his side for good. Jon preferred to pretend a future didn't exist where he'd be stationed at The Wall and Robyn, no longer Robb, would go off to be some other man's bride.
"I don't suppose you'll do much sparring at your new home," Jon managed weakly.
"I suppose not."
"No," she pressed a finger to his lips and maintained her smile, however sad it remained. "I won't hate it; at least, not entirely. I will keep my sword, I'll be damned if I won't, but perhaps I will enjoy other things."
"Other things?" Jon echoed dully.
In a move that startled Jon, her hand reached for his breeches, tracing the outline of where he had not yet grown soft.
"What are you—"
He did not need to be told twice, not when Robb's hand slipped inside, past his small clothes, her palm pressed against his most sensitive—
"Robb we can't—not here…in the open…not…"
Jon's protests died. Robb's hand was persistent, tugging and stroking vigorously, if inexperienced.
Just as suddenly she stopped. She withdrew her hand, patting his thigh gingerly, and rubbing off the colorless stain.
"When I'm betrothed…before I leave," she murmured her breath hot on his face, her body now so close to his that her knee nudged the gap between his own. "I want you to take—I want you to have…"
She needed not continue. He was aware of what exactly she meant to say. He knew it so painfully well that his breeches felt increasingly restraining.
"Why?" she repeated dryly.
Jon cringed, but decided he had to ask.
He felt her grow tense. She didn't say anything for a moment, the silence becoming unbearable when she finally did speak.
"Jon," she said his name like a thousand times before. Only now, she whispered it, low and husky.
He shivered at the mention of his own name. He wanted her to say it again, to moan it.
"I want you."
When her lips brushed his a terrible aching took hold of him. Jon knew this was wrong, and not only because she was his half-sister. But this was Robb, his Robb, and he couldn't find a reason good enough to warrant pulling away.
"I love you," Jon choked, pressing his lips to the damp skin of her shoulder.
Robb chimed with low laughter and turned, droplets of sweat glistening across her bare breasts.
Jon hovered over her, still, so his eyes could feast upon her where she lay, vulnerable, bare, and merry as she was in that moment. Impossibly beautiful, Jon thought with an amazed look.
He couldn't believe that she'd let him have her. That Robb Stark, Lady Robyn Stark, had let him do those things to her. Between the wine and his disbelief, Jon was hazy enough to claim it was all a dream. An unspeakably wonderful dream, Jon gathered.
"Perhaps when I'm to be married," Robb had whispered, wearing a devious smirk as she spread out under him, knowing that there was one thing he'd be denied, that he wouldn't dare take, not even then.
His hand disappeared in her unruly curls, pulling her head closer so he could kiss her some more.
"I love you," he said again, barely taking his mouth off of hers to declare it.
"And I you."