#streambe

[chiropteracupola]

A May morning.

[insleywinsley]

Further, 2023. ph. Insley Smullen.

[druidofsuburbs]

First steps across the streambed. Featuring black-eyed susans (Rudbeckia hirta)

[nwtdwy]

[siegetheartist]

Landscape Pathway An example of a large asian partial sun backyard stone garden path.

[samconcepcion]

Sacramento Mediterranean Landscape Photo of a large mediterranean full sun backyard stone water fountain landscape in summer.

[spookyblackconservative]

Pathway Milwaukee This is an illustration of a substantial Asian backyard stone garden path with partial sun.

[kreasecock]

Milwaukee Natural Stone Pavers

An example of a large asian partial sun backyard stone landscaping.

[urbantraps]

Brick Pavers Milwaukee Photo of a sizable, classic, fully-shaded front yard with a brick retaining wall.

[itsjonmackey]

Gravel Landscape Milwaukee Inspiration for a large asian partial sun backyard gravel landscaping.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Mint and Memory - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

not me actually doing research for this series, i literally learned sm about medicinal herbs just so i could be accurate😭 sobbing and throwing up a lil bit from the ending bc i’ve put so much of my own feelings and experiences into Y/N

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.72k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The woods are quieter than usual today, like the breeze decided to hold its breath.

You follow just behind Katniss, watching the way she moves through the trees like she was born for it—sure-footed, quiet, eyes always scanning. The sunlight filters through the leaves, warm on your arms as you trail after her, basket in hand.

She crouches beside a patch of green near the base of an old oak. “Peppermint,” she says, running her fingers gently over the leaves. “It helps with pain and headaches. You crush it to release the oil.”

You nod, crouching beside her and mimicking the motion. “It smells… clean.”

Katniss glances at you. “You’ll get used to identifying it by scent. There’s a difference between this and spearmint. Subtle, but it matters.”

She plucks a few leaves and drops them into the basket you’re carrying. You’ve done this together enough now that there’s a rhythm—she identifies, explains, harvests, and you listen, ask questions when you’re brave enough, carry the basket like it’s a small price for her time.

“You remember what this one is?” she asks, tapping a short plant with pale purple flowers.

You frown, reaching down to brush the leaves between your fingers. “Lamb’s ear?”

She nods. “Good for wounds. Stops bleeding and helps fight infection.”

You smile faintly. “The fuzzy one. I remember because it feels like touching a cloud.”

Katniss actually cracks a smile at that. “That’s what my dad used to say.”

The mention of her father hangs in the air for a moment—soft, reverent—but she doesn’t seem to pull away from it. If anything, she seems a little more open out here, in the woods where she probably feels him most.

You walk in silence for a few minutes, stopping occasionally to harvest more herbs. You point out burdock by a streambed, and Katniss raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Not bad.”

“I’m learning from the best,” you say, only a little sarcastic.

She snorts. “Try saying that when you’ve got poison ivy in your socks.”

“I’ll just blame you,” you quip.

She gives you a look, dry and amused. “Then I’ll tell Haymitch you almost cried when you were talking to Peeta about the shoulder incident.”

You gasp in mock horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

You shake your head, but your grin doesn’t fade. There’s something about being out here, with her, that makes things feel easier—more grounded. Like the worst parts of the world can’t quite touch you in the dappled sunlight and the smell of crushed leaves.

Katniss stops at the base of a slope and crouches beside another plant, long-stemmed with narrow leaves. “Yarrow,” she murmurs. “Another one for wounds.”

You nod, committing the name to memory. “You ever think you missed your calling as an apothecary?”

She shrugs. “If things had been different… maybe.”

You don’t say it, but you think she would’ve been good at it. She’s precise, thoughtful, always watching. The kind of person who doesn’t say much unless she means it. You trust her, even when you don’t know how to trust yourself.

Your thoughts drift to the familiar ache on your upper thighs. It’s been worse today, lingering and dull beneath the surface, tugging at your attention.

You shift your weight. “Hey… is there anything that helps with old scars aching?”

Katniss glances up at you, her eyes catching on your wrists for a second. “Scars?”

You nod. “The scars on my thighs. Some days, they just… hurt. I think it’s because they’re worse.”

She studies you for a moment, then nods. “Mint oil helps. Especially when you mix it into a balm. I can show you how.”

You blink. “Really?”

She stands, dusting off her hands. “We’ve got most of what we need already. Come on—we’ll get the rest and make it back before the heat really sets in.”

Katniss doesn’t say much as you walk, but she doesn’t need to. Her presence alone feels steadying—like being tethered to solid ground. You fall into step beside her, the basket swinging between you, filled with mint, yarrow, lamb’s ear, and a few other herbs you’ve learned to recognize by name and scent.

She points out a low-growing plant with small, round leaves. “Plantain,” she says. “Good for inflammation. We’ll use it in the base.”

You crouch to gather some, mimicking her careful fingers. “Do you just… know all of this? Like, from memory?”

“Mostly,” she says. “Some from books. But mostly from my dad.”

There’s that quiet again. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. You glance at her as you stand.

“I remember when he overheard my mom screaming at me once, made him promise not to tell my dad and he said he wouldn’t as long as I came to your house if it got too bad.”

You never did go to her house on the days it was worse, too scared to admit that your own mother believed you were worth nothing.

She nods, smiling softly. “He was good like that.”

You don’t say more. The weight of shared grief doesn’t need to be spoken. You both understand what it is to miss someone who made the world feel a little safer.

By the time you return to her house, the sun is higher and the air heavier. Katniss leads you into the kitchen and nods toward the sink. “Wash everything. Gently. I’ll get the supplies.”

You do as you’re told, scrubbing your hands first, then rinsing the herbs under cool water. The smell of mint hits you hard—clean and sharp, like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room.

Katniss moves efficiently around the kitchen, pulling jars from shelves, a small pot from a cabinet, beeswax and olive oil from a basket. She doesn’t explain at first, but you don’t mind. Watching her move is its own kind of lesson.

“Here,” she says, passing you a clean towel. “Pat everything dry. We don’t want water in the balm.”

You nod, following her lead. She grates a bit of beeswax into the pot and adds oil, setting it on the stove at the lowest heat.

“When it melts, we’ll add the herbs. Let it steep.”

You blink at her. “You make this sound way too easy.”

She smirks. “It’s not hard. Just takes patience. And not setting things on fire.”

You glance at the stove with mock suspicion. “No promises.”

Katniss snorts, then gestures for you to join her. Together, you add the mint and plantain to the melted mixture, stirring slowly. The smell rises almost instantly—cool, earthy, calming.

You watch the mixture swirl in the pot. “Feels weird making something like this. Like I’m doing something good for myself.”

Katniss shrugs. “You are.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the lump that rises in your throat. “Feels… selfish, sometimes.”

Her gaze flicks toward you, sharp but not harsh. “It’s not.”

You nod again. “I know. Just… hard to undo that kind of thinking.”

Katniss says nothing for a moment, just stirs. Then she murmurs, “That kind of thinking usually isn’t yours to begin with. Someone put it there.”

You glance at her, surprised by how closely her words hit the mark.

But again, she doesn’t push. Just waits until the mixture darkens and the herbs have given everything they can, then strains it into a small jar to cool.

“Try it tonight,” she says. “Rub it into the scars. Should ease the ache.”

You study the jar before glancing over at her. “Thanks.”

She shrugs. “You helped make it.”

You offer a small smile. “Still. You didn’t have to.”

The balm cools on the counter, its soft, pale green surface gleaming under the kitchen light. You and Katniss leave it there while she heats water for tea, and you both settle at the table. There’s something easy in the air now, like the stillness after rain.

Peeta arrives first, his boots scuffing the porch before the door creaks open.

“Smells good in here,” he says, brushing dirt off his hands as he walks in. “Mint?”

“Homemade balm,” Katniss says without looking up. “For her scars.”

Peeta’s eyes flick to you, gentle and curious. “They hurting again?”

You nod, but it doesn’t feel as vulnerable saying it this time. “A little. It’s worse when the weather shifts.”

“Didn’t know you were getting into medicine now,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly as he passes to grab a cup. “You’re gonna put me out of a job.”

You snort. “Pretty sure baking and balm-making are two separate industries.”

Peeta shrugs. “Still. You’re on thin ice.”

Katniss rolls her eyes. “You’ll live.”

You sip the tea Katniss slides in front of you, watching the way they bicker softly, the way the edges of your own defenses seem to dissolve in this space. It’s strange—how comfortable it’s starting to feel. How much you’ve grown to rely on these moments, even if you still doubt them on bad days.

The door creaks open again.

“God,” Haymitch calls from the doorway. “The smell in here’s like a damn apothecary and a bakery got in a fight.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Peeta calls back without turning around.

Haymitch steps into the kitchen, flask already in hand, and eyes the jar on the counter. “What’s this? Secret potion? Love spell? Poison?”

“Balm,” Katniss says flatly.

“For her,” Peeta adds, nodding toward you.

Haymitch squints. “You’ve gone fully domestic, haven’t you?”

You sip your tea innocently. “Just wait ‘til I start knitting.”

“I’ll burn the place down,” Haymitch mutters, sliding into the chair next to you.

Katniss raises an eyebrow. “Thought you were all about chaos.”

“Chaos, sure,” he says, “but not decorative yarn chaos.”

You laugh under your breath, and Peeta sets down a small bowl of berries from the garden—strawberries, blackberries, and a few wild ones you can’t name.

“Thought these might go well with the tea,” he says, sliding them to the center of the table.

“Perfect,” Katniss murmurs, already reaching for one.

You follow suit, plucking a particularly ripe-looking strawberry and popping it into your mouth. The sweetness hits instantly, and you hum in approval.

Haymitch watches the exchange with a smirk. “You two having another one of your bonding tea parties?”

“Jealous?” you shoot back, licking a bit of juice from your thumb.

“Deeply,” he deadpans.

Peeta chuckles and leans back in his chair, brushing a smear of dirt from his shirt. “I think he’s just upset you don’t invite him to herb lessons.”

Haymitch scoffs. “Yeah, no. I don’t care about flowers and leaves.”

You snort, picking out another berry. “You know, you say that, but I bet you’d actually love it. Bet you’ve got a soft spot for chamomile.”

Haymitch raises his flask slightly in mock salute. “Only if it’s steeped in something stronger.”

“Does everything have to be alcohol with you?” Katniss mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it.

“It’s a hobby,” he says, then glances at you. “Like your sudden obsession with plants. You start naming weeds in your sleep yet?”

You shrug. “Only the deadly ones.”

“That’s my girl,” Haymitch grins.

The words settle strangely in your chest—unexpectedly warm. Your gaze flickers to him, but he’s already stealing a berry from the bowl, his face the picture of innocence.

Katniss watches the exchange silently, something unreadable in her expression. She doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to rest her elbow on the table, chin in her hand.

“I still can’t get over using mint for the balm,” you say, turning back to her. “I thought it was just for tea.”

“It’s one of the best herbs for soothing inflammation,” she says. “My dad used it for burns and joint aches. I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Haymitch squints at you. “Wait, is that what you two were doing earlier? Frolicking through the woods like little apothecaries?”

Katniss doesn’t even blink. “Yes. We frolicked.”

“Braided each other’s hair too, I bet.”

“Peeta braided mine once,” you offer with a grin.

“That was one time,” Peeta says, hands raised. “And you asked.”

“You did a good job,” you say sweetly, turning to Katniss. “He’s got gentle hands.”

Katniss snorts into her tea. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever heard.”

Peeta only rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

You lean back in your chair, letting the chatter fade around you for a moment. It’s easy here—too easy, some quiet part of your brain whispers. The kind of easy that makes you nervous. Like the second you stop guarding it, it’ll slip away.

You shake the thought loose.

“Alright,” you say, grabbing another berry. “Who wants to learn the difference between yarrow and poison hemlock?”

Haymitch makes a face. “Why the hell would I want to know that?”

You pop the berry into your mouth. “So you don’t die, for starters.”

Katniss nods sagely. “Important life skill.”

Peeta nudges the bowl toward Haymitch. “We’ll make you a study guide.”

“Make me a drink instead.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s already your solution to everything.”

“Exactly. Why fix what’s not broken?”

“Fine,” you say, leaning your elbows on the table. “But if you keel over from picking the wrong plant, I’m not carrying you home.”

“Good,” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta chuckles. “We’ll just wheel him back in the wheelbarrow.”

Haymitch lifts an eyebrow at you. “See what you’ve done? Got the boy thinking he’s funny.”

“I’ve always been funny,” Peeta argues lightly, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Katniss tilts her head. “In a very polite, bakery-adjacent way.”

Peeta gasps, mock offended. “I take that as the highest compliment.”

You shake your head, laughter bubbling in your chest before you can stop it.

Katniss stands and stretches, her arms arching overhead as she steps out into the small patch of sunlight spilling through the open kitchen window. “I need to check on the herbs I’m drying upstairs,” she says. “Y/N, you still want that lesson on storing them?”

You blink, surprised but pleased. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

She nods and gestures for you to follow. As you push up from your chair, Haymitch leans back and rests his hands behind his head.

“Don’t let her teach you too much,” he says lazily. “Next thing I know you’ll be growing roots.”

Peeta grins as you trail Katniss into the living room. “Try not to get recruited into her herb cult,” he calls after you.

“No promises,” you call back, and Katniss just shakes her head without turning around.

The upstairs of their house is quiet, filled with the scent of drying herbs and something faintly sweet—lavender, maybe, or thyme. You trail behind Katniss as she moves toward a table near the window, where bundles of plants are tied and hung with careful precision.

“I forgot how peaceful it is here,” you say softly, fingers brushing the dried edge of a sprig of mint. “Everything in District 13 felt… clinical.”

Katniss hums. “Yeah. That place didn’t know what to do with quiet.”

She sits on the edge of the table and begins carefully sorting through a pile of dried leaves. “This one,” she says, holding up a small, curled plant, “you’ll want to keep sealed tight. It loses strength fast.”

You nod, absorbing her instructions more easily than you expect to. Something about Katniss’ voice when she’s teaching—steady, calm—makes it easier to focus.

She glances at you after a moment. “You really like this stuff, don’t you?”

You nod. “It reminds me of my dad. He used to point out plants to me when I was little. I don’t remember much, but… I remember how his voice sounded when he talked about them. Like he was telling me something sacred.”

Katniss is quiet for a long beat. Then she says, without looking up, “I remember that too. Your dad used to bring my dad these weird root clippings to mess around with. They’d argue about the best way to boil pine bark for hours.”

You smile faintly. “That sounds right.”

There’s a long, comfortable silence before Katniss adds, “He was a good man. Kind.”

Your throat tightens. “He was.”

“You’re like him,” she says, and it’s not soft, exactly, but it’s genuine.

You blink down at the table, something in you cracking just a little. Not in a bad way. Just enough to let some light in.

“I hope so,” you say quietly.

Katniss doesn’t respond. She just keeps working, methodical and calm.

After a while, she tosses you a bundle of yarrow and tells you to get to work.

You start mimicking Katniss’ motions—careful, deliberate, though your hands are slower. She doesn’t correct you unless she has to, and when she does, it’s brief, straightforward. No judgment, just facts.

“You’re better at this than you think,” she says after a moment, not looking up from her own bundle.

You glance at her, surprised. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not,” she replies, tying off a bundle of mint with practiced ease. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, I wouldn’t waste my time.”

That makes you smile. It’s the Katniss version of a compliment—half a threat, half encouragement. Somehow it means more than anything softer.

You both finish what you’re working on, the quiet not awkward but settled, like a breath held steady.

She stands, brushing plant dust off her hands. “Come on,” she says. “If we leave Haymitch and Peeta alone too long, they’ll start debating which one of them is the real culinary genius.”

You snort. “Spoiler: it’s neither.”

Katniss lets out a low, amused breath and leads the way back down the stairs.

The stairs creak as you and Katniss descend, the scent of mint still clinging to your fingers. You step into the living room to find Peeta now sitting cross-legged on the rug, sketching something in a small notebook. Haymitch is in your usual chair, looking far too comfortable and vaguely smug.

“Look who survived botany boot camp,” Haymitch says, tipping his flask in your direction.

“We made a potion up there,” you reply, brushing a stray leaf from your shirt. “Might use it to poison you.”

Katniss grabs a berry from the bowl on the coffee table and pops it into her mouth, eyeing the both of them. “You two need hobbies.”

“This is my hobby,” Peeta says, tapping the edge of his drawing. “And baking.”

“Annoying me is his hobby,” Haymitch mutters.

You snort and settle on the floor near Peeta, peering over at his sketch. It’s not quite finished—some kind of plant, delicate lines shading in the leaves. Your stomach twists with something you can’t quite name. He’s always creating. Always turning something small into something beautiful.

“You drew that from memory?” you ask.

Peeta shrugs, almost sheepish. “I liked the way the light hit it earlier. Figured I’d try to keep it.”

Katniss sits close to him, cross-legged like she’s preparing for a strategy meeting. “You should show her the ones you’ve been hiding.”

Peeta stiffens, but only slightly. “They’re not finished.”

“They’re better than finished,” Katniss replies.

You glance between them. “What’s this?”

Peeta hesitates, then flips a few pages ahead and tilts the notebook so you can see. Your breath catches.

It’s… you.

Not just one drawing, but small moments. You, sitting on the porch with a blanket over your knees. You, holding a mug of tea and staring out the window. You, asleep with your head tipped against the couch.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“They’re not all great,” Peeta says quickly. “Just… I draw what feels quiet. That’s all.”

You swallow thickly, your eyes still on the page. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… someone worth seeing.”

Peeta doesn’t respond, just gives you a small, steady smile.

Haymitch clears his throat loudly, and you glance over to see him watching with a slightly uncomfortable expression.

“If we’re done with the sap,” he says, “someone pass the damn berries.”

Katniss tosses him one without warning, and it hits him square in the chest. You burst out laughing as he fumbles to catch it before it rolls off his lap.

“Violence,” he mutters. “Always with the violence.”

Katniss tosses another berry at Haymitch, this one intentionally softer, and Peeta catches her hand before she can reach for more.

“Alright, that’s enough aggression for one night,” he says, his voice light but fond. He pulls her hand toward him, brushing his lips over her knuckles in a gesture so easy, so instinctive, it makes something in your chest tug.

Katniss rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches at the corners. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re still here,” he murmurs, and she doesn’t argue. She just leans against him slightly, her shoulder bumping his as she steals a berry from his hand without looking.

It’s not overly romantic. It’s not flashy or dramatic. It’s just… soft. Natural. Familiar.

You watch them for a moment longer than you mean to, that quiet warmth from earlier starting to turn bittersweet.

It must be nice, you think, to have that. Something steady. Someone who sees all your sharp edges and doesn’t flinch. Someone who chooses you even when it’s inconvenient.

For a second, you let yourself imagine it. What it would feel like to be touched like that—to be held like you’re worth holding. To be loved like it’s not a risk.

But then the thought slips, and another voice takes its place. A cruel one. Familiar.

The only people stupid enough to love you are already dead.

It’s your mother’s voice, cold and matter-of-fact, slicing through the quiet of the room like broken glass.

Your stomach knots.

You glance down at your hands in your lap, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place they look here—how out of place you look, surrounded by people who belong to each other in ways you don’t.

You press your fingernails into your palm, grounding yourself in the sting.

Don’t spiral, you tell yourself. Not here. Not now.

You manage a soft smile when Peeta glances your way, and he doesn’t question it. Just offers you another berry from the bowl, like nothing’s wrong. Like you aren’t fighting a war with your own mind.

You take it.

Because for now, pretending is easier than explaining.

Next Part

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Lissamphibia - Gymnophiona

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Order: Gymnophiona

Common Name: “caecilians”

Families: 10 - Caeciliidae (“common caecilians”), Chikilidae (“Indian caecilians”), Dermophiidae (“Neotropical caecilians”), Herpelidae (“African caecilians”), Ichthyophiidae (“Asiatic tailed caecilians”), Grandisoniidae (“Indo-African caecilians”), Rhinatrematidae (“Neotropical tailed caecilians”), Scolecomorphidae (“tropical caecilians”), Siphonopidae (also “common caecilians”), and Typhlonectidae (“aquatic caecilians”)

Anatomy: long, limbless, cylindrical bodies; bullet-shaped and strongly built skulls; small or sometimes nonexistent eyes; small chemosensory tentacles in front of the eyes; slimy skin that bears ringlike markings or grooves and may contain scales

Diet: small subterranean animals, such as earthworms.

Habitat/Range: tropics of South and Central America, Africa, and southern Asia; mostly live hidden in soil or in streambeds

Evolved in: Late Triassic

Propaganda under the cut:

Caecilians mostly live hidden underground or in streambeds, and thus they are the least familiar and least studied lissamphibians.

Like other lissamphibians, caecilians mainly use their skin and mouths for oxygen absorption, and one species, Atretochoana eiselti, lacks lungs entirely.

The Ringed Caecilian (Siphonops annulatus) has dental glands that may be homologous to the venom glands of some snakes and lizards, but the function of these glands is unknown. Glands on the tail region are packed with noxious chemicals, similar to the poison glands found in toads and newts.

About 25% of caecilian species are oviparous (egg-laying). Eggs are laid in terrestrial nests rather than in water and are guarded by the female. For some species, the young caecilians are already metamorphosed when they hatch, while others hatch as larvae. Larvae are not fully aquatic, but spend the daytime in the soil near the water. However, most caecilians are viviparous, giving birth to already-developed offspring. The foetus is fed inside the female with cells lining the oviduct, which they eat with special scraping teeth. Some larvae, such as those of Typhlonectes, are born with enormous external gills which are shed almost immediately after birth.

Rare for lissamphibians, all caecilians care for their young (image 3), even “nursing” them with a milk similar to mammalian milk. Some species even feed their young by growing a special outer layer of skin, high in fat and other nutrients, which the young peel off with modified teeth. As it does in nursing mammals, this also helps transfer microbes from the mother to her young, promoting a healthy microbiome. Researchers have observed hatchlings emitting high-pitched clicking sounds as they approached their mothers for milk, a behavior unique among amphibians.

In the folklore of certain regions of India, caecilians are feared and reviled, based on the (false) belief that they are fatally venomous. Caecilians in the Eastern Himalayas are colloquially known as "back ache snakes", while in the Western Ghats, Ichthyophis tricolor is considered to be more toxic than a cobra. Despite deep cultural respect for the cobra and other dangerous animals, the caecilian is killed on sight with salt and kerosene. These myths have complicated conservation initiatives for Indian caecilians.

[esther-dot]

Was gonna do a poll then realized that with how often this has been mischaracterized as show bs by the rest of the fandom, we might want to run through some of the book hints for Sansa being the girl in grey first. So…

The one thing we know about Sansa's future is that she will find her way to Winterfell. ASOS features a prophecy telling us so:

I dreamt of a maid at a feast with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs. And later I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow." (ASOS, Arya VIII) The snow fell and the castle rose. Two walls ankle-high, the inner taller than the outer. Towers and turrets, keeps and stairs, a round kitchen, a square armory, the stables along the inside of the west wall. It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. [...] She picked up a broken branch and smashed the torn doll's head down on top of it, then pushed it down atop the shattered gatehouse of her snow castle. The servants looked aghast, but when Littlefinger saw what she'd done he laughed. "If the tales be true, that's not the first giant to end up with his head on Winterfell's walls." (ASOS, Sansa VII)

Doesn't make her the grey girl, but it’s fun that we’re told she’s going North via prophecy, and Jon is told a sister is coming North via prophecy. I’m sure it means nothing.

We have a quote which points to a reunion between Sansa and Jon by virtue of her moment of despair being a prelude for her wish coming true (there are no heroes/Edd, fetch me a block…wait a sec, that involves Jon too???):

Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise. (AFFC, Alayne II)

More & meta links under the cut (I kept it as short as possible, promise!)

Obviously, the reunion could happen after Jon has retaken Winterfell, except we have this line which indicates a Stark will be present for that:

Battles had been fought at Winterfell before, but never one without a Stark on one side or the other. (ADWD, Jon VII)

We also have breadcrumbs leading North for Sansa by @istumpysk :

"I never knew a wolf to run up a streambed for miles," said Reek. "A man might. If he knew he was being hunted, he might. But a wolf?" - Theon IV, ACOK x The Liddle took out a knife and whittled at a stick. "When there was a Stark in Winterfell, a maiden girl could walk the kingsroad in her name-day gown and still go unmolested, and travelers could find fire, bread, and salt at many an inn and holdfast. - Bran II, ASOS x If Dontos and this northern girl helped murder our sweet king, it seems to me that they would want to put as many leagues as they could betwixt themselves and justice. Look for them in Oldtown, if you must, or across the narrow sea. Look for them in Dorne, or on the Wall. Look elsewhere. - Brienne II, AFFC x Or would she seek her own blood instead? Though all of her siblings had been slain, Brienne knew that Sansa still had an uncle and a bastard half brother on the Wall, serving in the Night's Watch. Another uncle, Edmure Tully, was a captive at the Twins, but his uncle Ser Brynden still held Riverrun. And Lady Catelyn's younger sister ruled the Vale. Blood calls to blood. Sansa might well have run to one of them. Which one, though? - Brienne II, AFFC) [link for much more + a map)

And most importantly, in the vision itself we have a hint that the girl is Sansa, as noted by @starwarsprincess1986

[link]

We even have a tentative travel timeline thanks to @aegor-bamfsteel [link]

Some fans believe Alys or Jeyne is the girl in grey, but neither girl’s path fits with Mel’s vision:

GRRM has the map for a reason, in order go along with the story and where everyone is at in the chapters. FArya is coiming from Stannis’ camp in Crofters’ Village, which is  located in the wolfswood west of Winterfell, on the west side of the kingsroad and on the wrong side of Long Lake. Whereas Alys Karstark was coming from Karhold, which is located on the east side of the North, but it’s no where near Long Lake. This makes neither girl the one Melisandre saw in the flames. [link]

That's a good argument that neither Jeyne nor Alys is who Mel saw, and paired with GRRM’s widely noted thing for the number three, it’s pretty compelling:

Then there’s the GRRM rule of 3s; who the characters think it is, who the audience thinks it is, and who it actually is that has been foreshadowed all along. Jon’s other sister he knows was in a forced marriage has barely been on his radar. by @aegor-bamfsteel [link]

Also, Sansa is Ned’s narrative heir which would explain why Martin would want to write her return North as an echo of her father’s journey home after the rebellion as detailed by @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir [link]

Of course, we have parallels from Jon’s side too. As many fans have noted, Jon getting murdered when he’s wanting to save a sister can be read as a callback to Brandon, but Jon dealing with a prophecy that’s eating away at him makes for an interesting parallel to his father. In both instances, for Brandon and Rhaegar, it is not any girl, but a Stark girl who is central to the matter. In fact, Sansa has specific parallels with Lyanna, and if she is the girl in grey, it would mean she and Lyanna both flee from an unwanted marriage and meet with a Targ which interestingly enough allows the conversation that Jon’s story is having with pre-canon Targ and Stark men to continue. He might save his “sister” where Brandon could not, and where his father spirited the Stark girl far away to a place she ultimately died, Jon will return his Stark girl safely home.

[Elaboration on the Sansa and Lyanna parallels in this tag and in a recent post by @julibf ]

There’s also the succession issue which both Jon and Sansa’s story have prominently featured with LF wanting to use Sansa to claim the North and Stannis wanting to use Jon, and of course, both are significant in the debate about Robb’s will which will create a fun wrinkle:

There is a conflict between them too - until they learn that Bran and Rickon are alive they both are kinda heirs of Starks and Winterfell, both are ruler coded since AGOT and their political strengths complement each other's weaknesses. Moreover, both can support each other's claim. Sansa Stark while being legitimate heir in many lords eyes is still married to Lannister and everyone knows it and she is also a girl who doesn't know how to wage a war. On the other hand Jon Snow even with Stark blood printed on his Ned Stark (who is still beloved in the North) face is still a bastard and can't interfere with claim of legitimate heirs (given that Robb's will is still unknown). One of them on his/her own can raise a lot of questions but two can make a decent claim. by @asoiaf-essays-collector [link]

All of this set up is wasted if they are not both feasible options (in the North) for the Northern Lords to back, allowing the political drama to unfold. (And then imagine when Bran and/or Rickon shows up alive!)

I’d argue this bit hints that the girl in grey will not only make an appearance, but will have real significance to Jon’s story beyond Alys’ brief appearance:

[link]

There’s also the the possibility of Jon post assassination being a play on “the Stranger,” and Sansa a “silent sister” to consider:

[link]

And I can’t do a recap of this theory without acknowledging The Meta. Written all the way back in 2013, this post predicted that Jon and Sansa would not only reunite but reunite first of all the Starks:

If one believes in dramatic irony, it is that thoughtlessness in regards to each other....that gives them the best chances of being the first (if not only) Starks to reunite. [link]

So, is Sansa the girl in grey?

Feel free to add on additional arguments and/or your favorite bits of evidence. I’ll post a poll in a few days!

[druidofsuburbs]

It seems we have come to a streambed through the black-eyed susans (Rudbeckia hirta)

[ineylesian]

— INHERITENLY UNJUST DESTINY

AVENTURINE X READER

AO3 | NAVIGATION

WORD COUNT — 900

WARNINGS — slight 2.1 spoilers, lowk angst, word vomit about aventurine’s lack of self esteem, sappy unconditional positive regard, handsy aven bc he’s touch starved, preesetablished relationship

SUMMARY — aventurine does not understand the twist of fate that allows him to stand beside you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — the lack of official aventurine art is making me gnaw at the bars of my enclosure, sloppy headers for now!!

Aventurine isn’t sure how to feel. 

The low hues of noon cast a gentle light upon his gloves, giving light to the sea of shattered stones that lie in his grasp. A sea of dazzling green, torn and fragmented beyond repair.

He’s sure he sees it now, a reflection of the wildly wretched life he’s lived sitting in the palms of his hands. The remnants of the only control he’s managed to retain in his life frail as dust in the winds. SIlent he remains, still as a pound dog that has had its bone ripped away from it. 

It isn’t until he feels the ghost of your hands along his own that Aventurine realizes his heart is racing. You spin him to face you, and his heart lurches at the worry that etches itself upon your features. He fights with narratives in his head that play games of fallacies, yet the scorch of his devotion to you leaves his tongue tied.

Facades are a game that come like second nature to Aventurine, but he swears he will not do to you what he deems business in his schemes. Instead, he pulls at what little honesty remains in the depths of his heart and his breath shutters. 

“Guess I’m back to where I was five years ago.”

The words come out quiet, too soft for his nature and simply small. It’s a confession that makes him wonder how many other pieces of his life will break apart until the whole is severed. There’s a fear that lingers within, bubbling to the surface as he attempts to withdraw from your hold.

Aventurine does not believe that his life holds any meaning with or without the cornerstone. Yet, that title made him seem as if he truly meant something, and without it, what little reign he held over his life disappeared. 

He believes you deserve fire, yet he is no more than an ember flickering on a stoked match. He cannot burn in flames bright enough to keep you.

Silently, he awaits your scold, the reprimand that deems him as worthless as he believes himself to be. A reminder that it was all but a stroke of luck that brought you to him, a trial that has run out as you see him for who he truly is, barren and scared.

His hands shake as you guide them to pour his shattered stone into the box at his feet. Shock etches itself upon his features, and he looks to you with nothing but raw, unparalleled fear as you speak. 

“You will always be the same to me.”

Aventurine does not understand the twist of fate that allows him to stand beside you. Single handedly, you vowed to peer into the wasteland that was his soul, and devoted yourself to his inherently unjust destiny. And, even as his life’s worth is ripped away from him, you love him unchanged.

An insatiable want carves at his soul like a day yearns for night, and Aventurine knows no other place to put his hands but around you in embrace. His hold is tight, as if he imagines that you will fade away if he abandons it. Yet, the weave of your fingers through his hair is enough to tell him that you’re no illusion, a sensation that will cease to disappear as long as he lives.

“Let me see you, Aven.”

Your words flow as lost prayers on the horizon do, and Aventurine retracts his grasp on you, allowing his knees to bring him to the ground. Your hands, gentle as streambeds in the spring, cup his face, running over spilt tears from keeled eyelashes. Instinctively, his hands latch onto your wrists, desperately chasing after your warmth and attempting to sear it into his skin.

Aventurine outwardly sighs as you run your fingers along his jaw, stopping to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind his ear. Although your gaze rocks with the deepest seas of adoration, the child deep within his heart beckons him to gamble with his luck once again. A risk that trails the faint quiver of his lips, as he would utter no such words to any other being in the entire cosmos.

“Will you kiss me?”

Wordlessly, you nod, and Aventurine closes his eyes. The soft touch of your lips quells the troubles that brew within, igniting fire against endless water. His hands fall to his lap, melting in the passion of your touch, and his heart craves to continue beating as if you are the oxygen that fills his lungs. 

He refuses to leave you until there is no air left for him to breathe. Gasping for the vitality of you that runs rampant through his veins, Aventurine tilts his head upward, and your heart flutters at the gentle smile that greets your gaze. Brilliant hues of purple and blue shimmer amidst the night, and his hold on you returns, hands moving to interlock themselves with your own. It’s the same gesture that holds you in the deep of dusk, never waning as lost prayers to the universe whisper behind closed doors. 

The words that follow are never far from you, spinning like soft woven silk that rests in your dreams when he’s away. Your eyes shut as he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, spreading warmth to your cheeks that subdue the chills of frosted wind. In yearn, you wait, reveling in the soft fan of his breath over your skin.

“I love you.”

[inexplicifics]

Happy New Year Inex! Long time reader, first time asker... authors choice between the below

CAW: Guxart mk 2 - what makes it mark 2? Was 1 fighting you too much?

Aiden vs Puss in Boots ('tis the season after all)

Much love from Scotland

Happy new year! You are entirely correct - mk 1 was fighting me too hard, so I started over. Have a snippet!

The water of the stream is cold, but Guxart would endure far worse than a chill for the chance to be clean for the first time in far too many years. The beta sets Guxart down on the smooth stones of the streambed, with his head propped on a mossy rock, and sets about cutting the rags of his clothes away and scrubbing the filth from Guxart’s skin. Guxart lies still, concentrating on his breathing and on not flinching when the beta’s hands brush against his many, many injuries. By the time he’s mostly clean from the neck down, he feels like he can open his eyes without blinding himself. The world is a blur of green at first - the trees above Guxart swaying in the breeze - but after several blinks and a long minute, the leaves come into focus.