Author's Note: Written for ASOIAF Kink Meme. The prompt was as follows:

The boys wake up in their sister's bodies and viceversa. (preferably Jon trades with Arya and Robb with Sansa, but up to you).Robb and Arya are overly curious and touchywith their new found anatomies and Jon and Sansa are mortified of their siblings attitudes.

Bonus points for Sansa-as-Robb is pathetically rubbish at sword play, Arya-as-Jon being overtly excited and weird out at her mother's ugly looks at her, Robb-as-Sansa wants to throw himself out the window at Septa Mordane's lessons and Jon-as-Arya absurdly happy at Lady Catelyn being a mother to him.

I mainly went with the bonus points.

Many, many thanks to poppyxxxx from Hawthorn and Vine ( ), for stepping in and betaing this piece for me even though she had no idea who the characters were.

A Change of Perspective

A piercing scream woke the majority of Winterfell castle just as day was dawning. It seemed to come from the maiden quarters, so Catelyn stumbled sleepily from bed, touching Ned's shoulder as she went, and made her way down the corridor to where her daughters slept.

She peeped into Sansa's room first; she was more likely to scream than wild little Arya, but her eldest daughter was fast asleep, so she proceeded to the next bedchamber. There she found Arya, staring into a beaten silver mirror. She was running her hands all over her face, pinching and tweaking her cheeks, chin and nose.

"Arya? What's wrong?" Catelyn asked.

Her daughter's head whipped around and she cringed slightly as Catelyn came into the room.

"What is it, sweetling?" she asked, a frown at her daughter's unusual actions.

"Nothing, Lady… er… Mother."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

Arya hesitated slightly before nodding.

Catelyn pulled her little daughter into her arms and stroked her hair. She was surprised at the stiff posture of her youngest daughter. But just as she was about to comment on it, the skinny little arms went up around her neck and latched on like a barnacle. Catelyn was even more perturbed when Arya burst into tears. "Hush, sweetling. Nothing will harm you here."

An incomprehensible answer was muffled against her shoulder, but the tears continued to flow. Arya must have been terrified to behave in this manner. She was not one to cling to her mother in this manner. She manoeuvred them over to the bed, disentangled her daughter's arms, and slid them both under the furs.

"Come, sweetling, try and go back to sleep," she said, brushing Arya's messy hair off her face, giving her forehead a kiss before hugging her close. Catelyn began to sing a lullaby,the one that worked in soothing all her children back to sleep when they were babies. Arya's eyelids began to droop, but not before she gave Catelyn such a look of gratitude it was almost pathetic.

She must have had a truly terrible dream, Catelyn thought as she enjoyed the closeness with her second daughter.

Sansa woke with a jump as her door was kicked open.

"Get up, you lazy worm!" Jory Cassel shouted as he ripped the furs off her.

She jolted up and tried to drag her covers back. "How dare you!" she protested. "You wait until my father hears about this, he'll have you dragged into the yard and whipped."

Instead of the cowering response she expected, Jory put his head back and roared with laughter. "Aye, he will, will he, my Lord? Who do you think sent me, Ser Slugabed?"

Lord?

No one had ever mistaken her for one of her brother's before. Arya, maybe, but not her, with her long red hair and graceful figure.

She looked down at her hands and jumped as she saw how large and masculine they were. She lifted her rescued furs up and nearly fainted at the sight that greeted her. Blood infused her face as she was faced with parts of the male body she had never thought to see until her wedding night.

"You have five minutes, my Lord, to be in the training yard before my uncle has you cleaning all the practice swords."

Jory slammed the door behind him as he left, and she clambered out of the bed, face held deliberately high to try and stop any further glimpses of scary appendages and ran over to the mirror hammered into the stone wall. The face that looked out at her was a male version of her own. Somehow she'd turned into Robb.

She was struggling to make sense of Robb's wardrobe when the door banged open again. She leapt behind the dressing shield, peeking her head around. It was Jon, her half-brother. Whilst she might keep her proper distance from her father's bastard, Robb was as thick as thieves with him, and she might as well utilise that to help get her clothed.

"What are you wearing?" Jon asked, amused.

She looked down at the tunic and trousers she had haphazardly put on. "What's wrong with it?"

"You are wearing the new clothes Father bought you to go and train?"

Sansa couldn't help the perplexed look she threw her half-brother.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Sansa?"

She jolted before laughing nervously. "Have you lost your mind? Sansa? I'm Robb, remember," she said, attempting her brother's blustery humour and knowing she'd failed at the sceptical look Jon threw her.

Her half-brother marched over to the wardrobe, and she couldn't help but notice that he was a lot more confident in Robb's supposed presence than he usually was in hers. She had never seen him swagger like that before.

"Here," Jon said, before chucking her some items of rather grubby, sweat-stained clothes.

"I'm not putting those on. They are filthy."

"Oh, this is going to be so entertaining," Jon crowed in a manner so unlike him that it was Sansa's turn to narrow her eyes. If this had happened to her, then it was possible it could have happened to more of her siblings and Jon never crowed. Her little sister on the other hand…

"Arya?"

Her little sister burst out laughing. "Yep!" she said, spinning around. "Isn't this fun? No more Septa Mordane, and I get to fight. Actually fight without being told that it's unladylike or Mother dragging me off to sew."

Sansa paled. Oh, seven heavens, she was expected to fight. She had never held a sword and had no desire to. "This is awful," she said, her voice trembling.

All this did was increase Arya's laughter. "I wish Robb were here so he could see the tears in his eyes. He would be mortified. Speaking of Robb," her degenerate little sister said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "have you had a look?"

"Arya!" she screeched, scandalised. "Of course not!" Sansa could tell from her sister's smirk that she had not had the same scruples. "You're disgusting!"

Arya shrugged; it was a mannerism so ingrained in her sister that it was strange to see it on the much larger, manlier shoulders of her half-brother Jon.

She rubbed her eyes. "I think I'm getting a headache."

"Do hurry up, Sansa. I want to fight, and I am being made to come and chivvy you."

Robb was ready to explode. This was the dullest work imaginable. He could hear the swords clanging outside and, every now and again, a shriek that sounded suspiciously masculine. From the brief glance he had managed on the way to the maiden's solar, Sansa was currently residing in his body. He had hoped that it would be Arya at least, not because he favoured either of his sisters, he appreciated their very different qualities equally, but because at least Arya knew one end of a sword from the other. He had a horrible suspicion that the shrieks were emanating out of his mouth.

"Sansa, how is your flower garden coming along?" Septa Mordane asked, startling him out of his reverie.

He looked down and grimaced. The majority of the embroidery was lovingly done with beautifully small, neat stitches. The colours had been perfectly blended, creating something that looked like it belonged in southron lands. The few stitches he'd added, mainly when Septa Mordane's beady eye was trained on him, were large, clumsy, and had nothing in common with the rest of the piece.

"Are you feeling okay, Sansa?"

Trained as he was for strategy, Robb saw his way out. He put a theatrical hand up to his brow and moaned dramatically.

"I didn't want to say anything but my head aches, and my eyes hurt in the light," he simpered, he hoped in the manner of Sansa.

The look Jon-as-Arya sent him wasn't impressed, but apparently it was enough to fool the old Septa.

"Oh, sweetling, why didn't you say anything sooner? Why don't you go back to your bedchamber, and I'll ask Maester Luwin to come and bring you a tea for your head."

Robb jumped to his feet quickly, a little too quickly if the rolled eyes Jon sent his way was anything to go by, so he staggered a little, putting his hand on the wall as if to catch himself.

"I think I should go and make sure Sansa gets to her chamber safely," Jon said.

The pursed lips Septa Mordane sent Jon's way summed up how fond she was of the youngest female Stark. "Go on then. But I do realise that you are looking for a way to escape sewing."

Jon said nothing but put his skinny arm around Sansa's shoulders and led them both out of the room.

"What was that?" he asked, as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Did you see the stitches I set? Sansa is going to kill me. Besides, I was going to throttle someone if I had to remain there any longer. And I want to see how training is going."

Jon smirked. "At least Arya is masquerading as me."

Robb groaned. "I dread to think how badly I'm fairing with Sansa in control."

"Race you to the bridge," Jon said before sprinting off with Robb in hot pursuit.

Jon got there first and skidded to a halt when he saw Lady Stark already standing watching proceedings down in the training yard. The tightness around her mouth didn't bode well, and he dropped his head, looking to slink off before she noticed him. Her tongue could be sharp and cruel when the mood struck, and Jon wasn't willing to open himself up to one of her barbs.

"Arya!" she called, and it took him a moment to remember that he was currently residing in his little sister's body.

"Mother," he replied, turning around to face her.

Lady Stark looked deceptively stern, but he could see the affection in her eyes, probably because it was an alien expression where he was concerned.

"Why are you not with Septa Mordane?"

"Sansa wasn't feeling too well, so I helped her back to her chamber."

"Shouldn't you be making your way back up the solar now then?"

Jon grimaced and Lady Stark laughed before beckoning him closer.

"Come, I know you'll want to watch the lads train. It's not always easy being a girl in this world, and you have it much harder than Sansa."

He didn't know what to say in response. What realistically Arya would say? Lady Stark had never shown any understanding of his favourite sister's wild nature and inability to behave like a little lady before.

But then again, Jon thought, it's not as if I'm in her confidence.

He was startled by a chuckle coming from Lady Stark, and she put an arm around his shoulder. "Silence, Arya?"

He relaxed into the warm motherly embrace, enjoying the unconditional parental affection. The most he usually got was a pat on the back from his father. He had tried to stem his jealousy of his other siblings who had had this their whole lives, but he found it hard. He rested his head on Lady Stark's shoulder and wished once more that he wasn't a bastard and he knew who his mother was.

They stood like that for a long while, Jon paying no attention to the sparring going on in the yard until Lady Stark tsked, "I don't know what is wrong with your brother today, but he's allowing Snow far too many liberties."

And just then, he remembered how his life really was. He wasn't one of Lady Stark's children; he was the bastard of Winterfell. The outsider who was a reminder of Eddard Stark's one lapse in honour, and his lady wife was never going to forget the slight.

Jon stiffened and pulled away, but Lady Stark didn't notice as she was already putting her arm down and picking her skirts up. "Well, as nice as it is to spend time with you, Arya, my duties aren't going anywhere, and neither are yours. I think it's time you returned to Septa Mordane."

He nodded, keeping his eyes low as they had filled with tears, one slipping down his cheek as Lady Stark kissed the top of his head. He heard her skirts rustle against the stone as she moved away.

He ignored the hissed "Jon!" that Robb called out, looking to get back to his... no, Arya's chamber as quickly as possible. He certainly didn't want Robb to see his tears; he'd never hear the end of it.

Arya was the happiest she'd ever been. Spending her day sword fighting and practicing her archery was everything she'd dreamed of. No more sewing, no more Septa Mordane, and, more importantly, no more comparisons to Sansa, her perfect sister, highlighting everything that was 'wrong' with her.

Instead, it had been Sansa who'd struggled, who'd felt the wrath of Rodrik Cassel. Well, really, it was Robb, but Arya shrugged. It was still Sansa in their eldest brother's body, and, for once, it had been Arya who had been praised whilst Sansa was chided.

She swaggered her way down to the Great Hall for the evening meal, hoping that she would never have to become Arya again. In Jon's body, she could do all that she'd ever wanted. Going south and becoming a knight wasn't her ideal - that was Bran's dream - but maybe she could travel to the Free Cities and join one of the mercenary bands. Fighting her way across Essos sounded like much more fun.

Whistling a jaunty tune, she wasn't paying any attention and bumped into her mother. Her larger frame made Lady Catelyn stumble.

"Oh, sorry, Mo… Lady Stark," she said, catching her slip at the last minute. "I didn't see you there."

Arya withered under the ferocious glare. "How dare you? Lord Stark may allow you room here but remember your place."

She recoiled at the venom in her mother's voice before bowing her head and stuttering out an apology. Her mother swept past her, and Arya kept her head low, hiding the tears that had welled up. She knew how much her mother resented Jon, they all did, but she had never given thought to how Lady Catelyn interacted with her brother before.

Arya balled her fists, her blood boiling at the injustice of it all. It wasn't Jon's fault that he had been born a bastard, and it wasn't fair that he should be punished for it. He was her best brother, the one who would sneak her treats when she had been sent to her chamber in disgrace, the one who had taught her to fight with a sword despite her mother's disapproval, the one who had made Theon teach her archery despite the Greyjoy's bitching.

Arya slunk into the Hall feeling unsure of herself for the first time in her life. Gone was her earlier joy at being a man, and she wished she could return to her own body and her own life. Poor Jon, she thought, and whilst she slipped into the seat next to him, she didn't dare give him the hug she desired with her mother's beady eye trained on her. Instead, she grasped his hand under the table, marvelling at how much smaller it was than hers.

"What's wrong?" Jon asked her.

She flicked a brief but hesitant glance up at her mother, and Jon followed her gaze.

"Ah," he said but left it at that.

And once more she found her heart breaking for her brother. He understood her so much better than any of her trueborn brothers.

Sansa ached. She'd never physically hurt like this in her life – not even when she was learning how to ride. Sitting on the wooden benches in the Hall wasn't making her life any easier. She shuffled once more and winced when the muscles in her thighs twinged.

She jumped and let out a groan when she felt a foot connect with her shin, looking around angrily only to meet the furious blue-eyed gaze of her brother. It was strange to see his steely gaze in her softer face.

"What did you kick me for?"

"Stop wincing and making me look even more of a fool than you already have."

"I can't help it! It hurts!"

Robb kicked her again. "Stop it!" she whined.

"Try to remember that you are meant to be Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, and not some mewling little girl."

Sansa huffed. "I'm not a mewling little girl."

"You gave a good impression of it in the yard today."

"That's not fair!" she objected. "I can't help it if I've never held a sword before."

Before Robb could say anything else to her, Theon swept in and sat down next to her, slapping her hard on the shoulder as he did so. She winced again but managed to stifle her grunt of pain.

"Good evening, Lady Sansa," Theon said with a mocking bow of his head in Robb's direction – the one that always angered her when she was on the receiving end of it. "I think you could have given a better account of yourself than your big brother here today."

Sansa heard Robb mutter, "I bet I could," before he simpered something about how fantastic Robb usually was at sword play. It was Sansa's turn to kick him. She was not a simpering ninny. His impression of her was just as awful as she was in the training yard, and she would never give him such fulsome praise.

Theon threw his head back as he laughed. "I will allow you to say such things as natural affection for your brother, but Rickon would have beaten Robb today." Sansa narrowed her eyes at Theon. She hadn't been that bad. "Stark, it's true. The bastard made mincemeat of you!"

The rest of the meal passed with brother and sister getting increasingly angry at each other's portrayals of their characters.

Ned sat in the light of the moon, cleaning his greatsword, Ice. He looked up, feeling the heavy gaze of someone watching him, and he saw Old Nan standing a little way from him.

"Is it done?" he asked.

"Yes, they will be back in their own bodies tomorrow."

"My thanks, Nan."

She smiled before departing the godswood and leaving him to his thoughts.

They were mainly good. He'd looked to teach Robb to be more humble and the ribbing he would receive from Theon Greyjoy and others about his swordplay would go a long way to stem the arrogance that had been growing in his heir since his natural fighting ability had become obvious.

Sansa had started to become too obsessed with ladylike manners and courtly love. So he'd tried to show her how others viewed her, mainly in the form of Robb overplaying her character with his simpering airs and graces.

Arya was a difficult one. The wolf blood flowed strong in her veins, and Ned found it difficult to stem her wild ways. She was too similar to Lyanna in this, always preferring to be out fighting or riding than sitting demurely in a solar, sewing. But he hoped that seeing that not everything was easy for her brothers would make his youngest daughter appreciate being who she was and become more comfortable in her own skin.

With Jon, Ned had the simple plan of giving him a day of motherly love, something the poor boy had never had. He had originally been pleased to see how Jon sunk into Catelyn's embrace, enjoying the softer affection. But now he wasn't sure if he hadn't been cruel. Maybe it would have been better if Jon had never experienced this than to have had it for so short a time.

Ned sighed. He worried about them. It wasn't easy bringing six very different children up. Winterfell was isolated from the rest of the great houses, and the North had a different way. It didn't make interacting with the southron lords easy. They would need to temper the weaker parts of their characters in order to successfully face the responsibilities and duties they would face as adults.

After all, winter was coming.