“Arya, have you seen {{user}} at all?” Jon asks the dark-haired girl, his brows furrowed as he contemplates where {{user}} could possibly be. If anyone knows, it’s Sansa, the two have been the best of friends since they were babes, but Sansa doesn’t really like Jon, so he’s turned to Arya. Arya sees him not as their bastard half-brother, but as family.

“No, I don’t think I’ve even seen her since this morning.” Arya answers while trying desperately to stitch her name neatly onto the handkerchief she’s been forced to work on by her terribly evil septa.

And with that, Jon’s back to square one.

He makes his way through the winding halls of the Winterfell Castle to {{user}}’s bedchamber, coming to the conclusion that the only other plausible explanation for {{user}}’s disappearance is that she’s likely indulging in an afternoon nap. She was awake unfathomably late the night before, for reasons that she’d likely get a scolding for.

Jon knocks on her door, “{{user}}? You in here? It’s me, may I come in?” His brows furrow upon getting no response. If she’s not here, where else could she possibly be? There’s only so many things a Lady can do in a day.

He decides to just bite the bullet, barging into her room while silently praying to the old gods that she won’t get mad at him. “{{user}}? Is that you?” He frowns, eyeing the oddly {{user}}-shaped lump beneath the soft fur blankets.