rizzlesisthebest

She was on perhaps her fifteenth pass of the plasma fireplace when she heard a scuffle at the door, someone fumbling near the handle. She realized she hadn’t actually gotten around to scanning Jane’s profile into her security system; recalling their awkward parting, the realization was met with a faint relief. She crossed quickly to the door, flipping the bolt, pulling it open just in time to nearly collide with a complete stranger. “Oh, shit, sorry,” the man said, cheeks going bright red in an instant. “I mean, uh—” “Not even five seconds in,” Jane drawled from somewhere behind the stranger, who Maura quickly deduced must be Jane’s brother Frankie, his dark eyes, his thick black hair giving it away in the same instant. “Gotta be a new record.” “Uh,” he said, grimacing as he backed quickly into the hall. “Uh, yeah, I’m really sorry, I was gonna knock, but then I sort of tripped over the cable here, and . . .” he gestured to his feet, a length of isofilm-wrapped cable looped on the ground. “Sorry again,” he mumbled, clearly miserable. “It’s fine,” Maura smiled. “Please, don’t worry. I’m Maura, you must be Frankie. Thank you so much for helping today.”

Jane wakes in the middle of the night from enlightening dreams, burning for Maura, for soft skin and goofy smiles and, God, talk about tits.

Okay, she does still feel a little guilty for thinking that last one. A little.

But it isn’t just that kind of wanting. Jane misses Maura’s company when they’re not together. She can imagine spending every day with Maura, not with dread, like every guy she’s ever tried to have a relationship with, but with joy. She loves Maura’s big brain and Google mouth and slightly robotic social skills.

She loves how much Maura loves her family… which is yet another reason that Jane absolutely cannot tell her about her feelings. She can’t take another family from Maura.

Besides, even if by some miracle, Maura loves her too, Jane isn’t sure she could do it, could live this long-buried part of herself out loud. Every day. The way Maura truly deserves.

***

She doesn’t have to say it out loud for Hoyt to see it, of course.

Hoyt targets couples.

The truth is that Jane would have let him kill her; she was frozen. But then, he threatened Maura. When Jane heard the terror in Maura’s voice, it had unlocked another well of strength inside her.

When it was just her life on the line, she could let the justice system handle Hoyt – trial and incarceration were just fine. The moment he laid a finger on Maura, though, sweet, strong, innocent Maura, Hoyt signed his own death warrant. Jane knew she would end him, even if it took her very last breath.

It didn’t, thankfully.

Jane got to hold a sobbing Maura, in awe of this amazing woman she was so desperately in love with, and so utterly unworthy of. And Jane didn’t need more, as long as she got to hold Maura at the end of days like this.

The pony surprise party was… a choice, and Maura, who acted like the trauma of the day belonged to Jane alone, had of course gone above and beyond and spoiled her with birthday gifts. Jane doesn’t know if Maura is in love with her, too, though she has suspicions. She does know that Maura loves her better than anyone ever has, sees her, better.

And Jane sees her, too. Sees her anxiously cleaning the kitchen in the same clothes Hoyt had touched. Sees her avoiding talking to the others, tense shoulders marring usually perfect posture.

So, she herds everyone else out of her apartment once cake and presents are done, grabs a soft fleece blanket from the back of the couch, and gently wraps it around Maura, pulling her towards Jane and interrupting her in the middle of putting dishes in the sink.

Maura stills, looking up at Jane, having long since abandoned her heels. She looks so small and vulnerable, even though Jane knows and adores the steel in her as well.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You can fall apart now.”

“Jane, I-“ Maura objects, even as her voice quavers. “You… he’s your-“

“He’s dead. His damage is done. And I’m the one with experience here.” She goes for a joke with the last comment, but Maura’s brow crinkles in consternation and she opens her mouth to argue.

Jane cuts her off.

“I promise. I will break down later. But you can go first. I’m right here.”

Those changeable hazel eyes, more brown than green in the dim light of Jane’s kitchen, meet Jane’s for a moment more, filled with tears. Then she crumples into Jane’s embrace, boneless. Jane catches her, keeps them standing, gently rocks as Maura sobs into her shoulder.

Her instinct is to say it’s ok, but it’s not. So, she just murmurs nonsense into Maura’s soft, soft hair and lets her cry.

“I was so scared,” Maura says, voice scratchy, an unknown amount of time later.

“So was I,” Jane rasps back. For herself, sure. But more for Maura, and that had ultimately saved both of their lives.

“If he’d-“

Maura, clinical, no filter, genius Maura, can’t finish the thought, hands bunching in the front hem of Jane’s shirt.

“I wouldn’t have let him,” Jane promises. She pushes Maura away just enough to meet her eyes again.

Tear tracked, flushed, nose red and dripping, Maura is still the most beautiful person Jane has ever seen. Maybe more so, knowing only Jane’s allowed to see her like this. It had been fear and protectiveness that surged through Jane when Hoyt touched Maura, yes. But, perhaps shamefully, she had also felt possessive.  Hoyt could not be allowed to touch what is hers.

“I will never let anyone close enough to hurt you again,” Jane swears, feeling the rasp in her voice deepen with sincerity.

“You can’t promise that,” ever logical Maura admonishes, breath evening out as the wave of emotion ebbs.

“Well,” Jane says stubbornly. “I am.”

Maura manages a watery laugh at that, wiping vainly at her wet face. Jane grins fondly and brings up the corner of the fleece blanket, dabbing at Maura’s tear tracks and even, to Maura’s horror, wiping her cute nose with it.

Maura gapes, and Jane laughs softly.  She tweaks Maura’s nose again, before letting the blanket fall to the floor.

“Jane,” Maura objects.

Jane shakes her head, grabbing both of Maura’s hands. “You’re staying the night, yes?”

Maura nods, shuddering again.

“Good.”

Jane loves Maura’s soft, strong hands, and the way they fit so perfectly in hers. She squeezes them gently and begins to pull Maura towards the bedroom.

“The dishes, Jane,” Maura argues half-heartedly, voice still raw.

“It’s my birthday. I can skip the dishes if I want.”

Maura worries her lip a bit, but Jane just keeps gently tugging.

***

Months ago, Maura had claimed a soft Sox shirt and shorts that are comically long on her as her own. They live in the drawer of the nightstand on Maura’s side of the bed, the only furniture Jane routinely keeps clear, neat, and tidy. Also in that drawer are extra running clothes and underclothes that Jane studiously refuses to look at. Maura keeps a dress or two in Jane’s messy closet.

Probably best to not unpack any of what any of that means right now.

Hair still damp from the shower, Maura is wearing those “Jane’s place” pjs and has tucked herself under Jane’s lackluster sheets, so unworthy of touching that creamy skin. Jane feels a surge of love in her chest, then a pang of guilt when she sees the faint scalpel mark on Maura’s neck.

“I’m so sorry.”

Now Maura’s brow does that cute little crinkle of confusion.

“For what, Jane? I will survive a night of your dishes being left in the sink. It’s certainly not the worst indignity that they’ve ever endured.”

“Maura,” Jane complains, sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers extending towards the wound. Maura closes her eyes but doesn’t flinch. The tips of Jane’s middle and pointer fingers brush lightly against the scabbing cut, then trace down Maura’s throat to the light burn on her clavicle.

This is one of those touches that loses plausible deniability if Jane speaks her feelings aloud. Friends, best friends, can touch each other warmly. They’re both girls, right? It’s the type of middle school logic that is patently ridiculous as they are well into their thirties, but in Jane’s defense, she did leave this part of herself in middle school. She’s got a lot of catching up to do.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

“I insisted on going along,” Maura argues. Her hand finds Jane’s at the stungun mark.

It’s Jane’s turn to close her eyes, relishing the sure, gentle touch.

“Yeah, for me.”

“Jane,” Maura admonishes sternly, and Jane opens her eyes. “There are many people who bear some blame for what happened in that infirmary today. But you are not one of them.”

Maura’s voice is strong now that she’s had a cry and a shower, even if her face, free of makeup and exhausted from everything, looks so young and vulnerable. Her voice keeps that strength even as it drops to a softer tone.

“You saved me, Jane. You saved us both.”

Jane bites back many confessions:

“Because I love you.”

“Because you’re mine.”

“Because I wouldn’t live for myself, but I would live, or die, for you. For moments like these, where you make me feel needed and powerful and capable of loving you right.”

She settles for something safer, but that also implies all of that.

“I told you. I always will.”

Maura squeezes her hand and drops her hold on Jane.

“Thank you for being my hero, even though you don’t have to be.”

But Maura does make her feel like a hero, like the knights that courted fair ladies, like the rough cowboy winning the favor of the refined city woman. All the games of her youth, back when she allowed herself to actually feel like herself.

Again, Jane doesn’t say all of that. Instead, she lifts the corner of her polyblend comforter and slides in next to Maura, the sheets already warmed by that soft body. She says simply, holding her arms out for Maura:

“Not a matter of have to.”

Maura sighs, maybe with a faint smile, enamored but frustrated. Still, she slips into Jane’s waiting arms anyway, allowing Jane to curl around her protectively.

They don’t speak again, both enjoying the quiet of an absolutely awful day. Jane smells her own soap and shampoo on Maura’s skin, knows she’ll hear complaints about the quality once Maura is feeling more herself. They leave the tiny bedside table on; it’s not a night for total darkness.

Minutes later, after each likely believes the other is fast asleep, Maura whispers:

“Hoyt targets couples.”

Jane’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t give a sign she’s awake. She practically holds her breath until she feels Maura truly slip into sleep in her arms.

Then, she finally breaks down, silently sobbing into the silk of Maura’s hair.

***

Hoyt got his own box in Jane’s head for a while. She only opened it for nightmares and case insights.

Maura had a box, at first, but it spilled out into every corner of Jane’s mind. And Jane doesn’t like that Maura and Hoyt are now mixed together, but she’s also ready to throw the whole Hoyt box out.

Hoyt knew. The monstrous bastard read Jane like a book, knew that the greatest threat he could make was to rape Maura while Jane was forced to watch. He knew what Jane only recently allowed herself to see.

Knew how to stay in Jane’s mind, even after he was gone.

Hoyt targets couples. Targeted.

Jane should sleep. She is exhausted, wrung out, even more so after her sobs finally subside. But she is holding Maura, who sleeps sweetly, who emerged from that infirmary not unscathed, certainly, but so much better than she could have. Who lays in Jane’s arms with such full trust, with such warm love.

It is love; Jane knows it. Suspected it, before, but felt it confirmed in Maura’s quiet words.

Hoyt targeted couples.

Maura loves Jane, and Jane loves Maura, but Jane’s love puts Maura in danger. Not from Hoyt now, thank god, but Jane attracts crazies, and now her heart walks around outside of her body, in absurdly expensive couture and heels that Jane would hate on anyone else.

Maura is stronger than she looks, and the brightest light in any room she walks into, so she can probably handle the danger. And Jane will always, always protect her. But it is a big ask, especially given how little Jane has to offer in return.

Because Hoyt saw it. And Frost saw it. And Tommy saw it. And who knows how many other people have seen it. But Jane doesn’t know if she can say it, out loud.

***

After Hoyt, things mostly go back to normal between them. Coward that she is, Jane doesn’t acknowledge the confession? Statement? Observation? That Maura made in the dark of Jane’s bedroom.

So, they return to playful banter and increasingly domestic intimacy and flirt right up to that uncrossable line.

So, she files it away in the same box in her head as taxes and driving and jobs and prom (the last of which the pretty older girls at church are always talking about, so, it must be important).

But as Jane gets older and some things leave that box (a job at the local burger joint to pay for softball and field hockey equipment, a driver’s license acquired to the soundtrack of her father’s chuckles and her mother’s shrieks), the “I’m gay” thing stays firmly hidden in the back. In fact, sometimes Jane can even make herself forget it’s there.

Because as the time passed and Jane didn’t grow out of the tomboyish ways that annoyed her mother and delighted her father, Jane learned a lot more about what it meant to be “gay”.

Not the particulars of course.

Just the way people always dropped their voices when they said “lesbian”, the way the disgust and disdain dropped off the “dyke” boys spat at her when she was better than them at a sport.

The way her mom and Mrs. Talucci consoled Mrs. Valente as she sobbed about her wayward daughter saying she was gay, and how after the shock and gossip faded away, no one ever saw Teresa Valente at another church gathering or neighborhood cookout. Like she disappeared off the face of the earth.  

The way even her pop thought it was time she grew up and liked boys. The way he got uncomfortable when she tried to help him with plumbing jobs. The way Mr. Caruso insinuated that maybe Jane was a bit, uh, and her pop told him to shut his fucking mouth, but never actually refuted him.

The way it was the early 90s and “the queers” were all dying of a terrifying disease that might have been a punishment from God. At least, that’s what the jocks said when they called Greg LaRossa a fag.

By then, Jane had shoved that earlier revelation of herself so far in the back of the box that she did usually forget about it.

She couldn’t change a lot about herself. She was tall and tough and athletic. Naturally protective and very rough around the edges. Guys weren’t exactly knocking down the door for dates with the former Roly Poly Rizzoli, even if the baby fat had transformed into lean muscle by the time high school came along.

But Jane could have crushes on them. She could pick up on how other girls on the field hockey team liked about boys, choose a nonthreatening but basically unattainable guy to pine over, and never have to actually date them.

In fact, she did it so long and so well that she really, truly did forget she was doing it on purpose. The intense female friendships of elementary and middle school ended with Emily’s tits. Jane figured that everyone was sneaking shamefaced glances at other girls’ chests in the locked room (comparing, right?) and that she was distinctly uncomfortable in the lingerie section of Filene’s and Victoria’s Secret in the mall because she was a prude.

When it came time to have sex with guys, she figured her age peers were pretending when they talked about liking what they did with them. That all the gossip she overheard in her ma’s kitchen as a kid was right: sex was for men, and women tolerated it until they had enough kids and then spent the rest of their lives avoiding their husbands’ advances except on special occasions.

Besides, no matter how hard her mom pushed, Jane really had zero interest in a husband and kids, when her career was so much more important.  And that career pulled double duty of chasing away most men.

Massachusetts has changed since she was ten. The Commonwealth proudly touts its status as first in nation with gay marriage, there are openly lesbian judges on the bench, and BPD even has its own affinity group of gay (mostly women) cops. Her ma casually mentions her hairstylist’s husband and bemoans the fact that even Teresa Valente is married and giving her mother grandbabies by now, as if the whole neighborhood hadn’t rejected Teresa before.

Even Southie and Revere and Dorchester are pretty live and let live about the LGBTQ community.

But Jane still, subconsciously, bears the scars of all the “dykes” and “lezzies” and other insinuations of her childhood and early career, and so she won’t touch that dusty box in her mind for all the money in the world.

***

Maura Isles, of course, has all the money in the world. It’s one of their many differences.

   Jane has repressed her queerness into prudishness, but Maura has a European comfort with her sexuality, a beautiful woman with a beautiful brain, so far out of Jane’s league even platonically that it’s pretty insane that they are close as they are. And while Jane’s brain has so studiously ignored that near empty box of things to figure out later, her body and her heart have not.

As their friendship deepens, Jane’s hands find themselves quite comfortable on Maura’s body, and it’s been a long time since Jane’s hands were comfortable at all. Maura needs touch and softness and affection, things her life has lacked, and without even consciously realizing it, Jane naturally gives that to her. She is always aware of Maura physically, and that impeccably dressed lady on silly heels had awakened the chivalry in Jane that she’d saved for victims and grieving widows since she’d realized how weird and uncool those things were in high school.

And her heart? Jane would give up anything, sacrifice her career, her dignity, her life, to keep Maura happy and whole and here.

Whatever you want, I can get it.

Maura is everything good and pure and beautiful in this world, and scrappy, scruffy Jane Rizzoli could never measure up to that. But Jane picked Maura as her protector and guide and confidante, and who is Jane to doubt a genius?

Maura is home. She makes everything more bearable. Even Jane’s mother.

So, Jane’s heart and body know she’s completely, hopelessly devoted to Maura. They probably even remember that she’s gay. But her brain’s having a little trouble catching up.

***

That box starts rattling the moment she meets Maura, but it gets louder as time goes on. And it throws itself open when a fully clothed (in yesterday’s outfit) Maura opens her door and a flirty Tommy calls out after her.

Jane’s stomach drops out, her veins burn with fire, and suddenly Emily is blowing her off to go make out with boys in the back row of the movie theater all over again. But she swallows the bile and gets on with life. Pretends she begs her best friend not to sleep with her brother because of the “bro code”.

No other reason.

She seems to convince most people that’s it, but not that very brother.

Jane helps Tommy move things into his new apartment, teasing him about Maura, telling him probably too forcefully, once again, not to pursue Maura.

“Fine, fine. I get it, Janie. I do. She turned me down anyway.”

“Good. She can do a helluva lot better than you,” Jane says affectionately, punching his arm.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, then grabs Jane’s wrist when she moves to turn away, towards the pizza cooling on the counter of his crappy little apartment. “She can do a helluva lot better, Jane. And some day she will; she’s not gonna wait around forever.”

The bile is back; her cheeks warm.

“What does that mean?” Jane challenges, but it comes out way squeakier than intended.

“It means you an’ I are a lot alike, and I see the way you look at her.”

“Tommy, I don’t-“

“Janie, I’ve known you my whole life. I know you like girls.”

The box springs open.

“And that’s okay. Don’t let Maura get away.”

Jane, reeling, opens her mouth to protest, but then her phone starts ringing, and there’s another murderer to catch. Homicides don’t stop just because Tommy casually blew apart twenty-five years of repression.

***

After the next murder is solved, Jane lays awake, staring at her ceiling, and mentally picks up the last thing in the “deal with it later” box. The box disintegrates, and Jane is left examining that decade-old revelation:

Jane Rizzoli is about as gay as they come.

It’s easier to process for two major reasons:

First, her baby brother finally said it out loud, calmly, surely, and without judgement. It is no longer a silent, terrifying secret, even if only Tommy knows about it.

The second reason? Admitting she’s gay, coming to terms with that, is a hell of a lot easier than facing the next world-altering revelation:

She is hopelessly, relentlessly, didn’t actually believe this actually existed, in love with her best friend.

Examining the objective but somewhat abstract truth of being a lesbian is preferable to the life-altering, paradigm-shifting knowledge of her love and what, if anything, to do about it.

And Jane is a lesbian. The boys on the playground and the fellow recruits and the old boys’ club of the force had all picked up on the truth about her, even if they had used it to demean and harass and abuse her.

Months ago, Maura had gone on a long tangent about human sexuality, explaining all the letters in the now popular LGBT acronym, denoting the difference between homosexuality and bisexuality, going on way too long about the Kinsey scale. Jane pretended to be annoyed and not paying attention, as always, but really she’d been trying to figure out why her head felt like there was something trying to claw its way out.

And none of that stopped her from going home and confirming what she suspected Maura was saying when she called herself a “classic Kinsey 3”. And then promptly not thinking too hard about what exactly it meant that Maura liked men and women equally, and why Jane had never seen her actually date a woman.

***

She and Frost are grabbing drinks solo at the Dirty Robber. Korsak had to go home and tend to a sick cat, and Maura has her hands full at the lab with a five car pile-up on the Pike. Their booth feels a little empty, but it’s nice to get a little non-work one on one time with her partner. They wander off work topics soon enough, Jane checking her phone every few minutes to see if Maura might be done yet.

As some good-natured ribbing and banter about Frost’s latest failed romance fades away, Frost gets a bit too casual and remarks:

“You know, my mom and her roommate aren’t actually just roommates.”

Jane has good enough reflexes not to choke on the swig of beer she just took, but it’s a close thing. She takes her time responding, her hands peeling the label of the bottle.

“What, uh, what are they?”

Barry gives her a flat, unimpressed look.

“Partners, Jane. Romantic partners.”

“Oh, really? How do you feel about that?”

Subtle, Jane.

“I’m happy she’s happy, and Camille makes her a hell of a lot happier than my dad ever did.”

Jane has to smile at that. “That’s nice, Frost. You just find out?”

Another skeptical look.

“No. Look, if I’m out of line here-“

Jane feels ice in her veins, bile in her throat.

“You can punch me in the face and we’ll never speak of it again,” Barry says gently. “And if I’m not, then whatever is said in this booth stays here.”

Jane grips the bottle so hard she’s scared it might break.

“I know what the force is like for anyone who isn’t in the old boys’ club, and I get why you don’t want two targets on your back. But it’s also a lot different from when we were young. Especially here. I wouldn’t bring it up, but I feel like my mom wasted a lot of time and-“

“You askin’ if I’m a dyke, Frost?” Jane rasps, voice thick with emotion even as she tries to play it cooler.

Anger, disappointment, flash in Barry’s warm brown eyes.

“Not how I would put it, but sure. I’m saying I’m not as good a detective as you, but I do think I’m pretty good at my job, and since I think we’re friends as well as partners, if I’m right, you don’t have to hide it from me. You don’t have to hide it at all.”

“You just said Robin and Camille pretend to be roommates.”

“Yeah, but they teach at a military college in Virginia. You live in Massachusetts. It’s 2011, Jane; there are kids in elementary school who were born after gay marriage. It’s Boston. I mean, c’mon. The Mayor marches in the Pride parade. Our senators do.”

Jane is quiet for too long, then simply says:

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“You know what.”

Frost smirks, but then his mouth settles into a soft, warm smile.

“Your secret is safe with me. And I got your back if you ever make it not a secret.”

Jane goes to take a swig of her beer, grimacing when she realizes it’s empty. She sees Frost flash two fingers at Murray at the bar with a casual nod.

“I, uh, I just realized myself. A little while ago. Isn’t that stupid?”

But Frost doesn’t take the bait.

“No, it’s not.”

They’re both quiet for a few minutes as Murray drops off two more bottles, each murmuring thanks.

“I’m pushing forty, Frost,” Jane continues when they’re alone again. “it’s stupid to have not known all along.”

Frost raises an eyebrow.

“They real accepting of gay people in your parish? Your mom ever ask when you’re going to meet a nice girl and settle down? It’s not stupid, Jane. And watch it, because if you’re stupid, my mom’s stupid, and that’s not gonna fly with me.”

Jane sighs, lifting her bottle to him in surrender.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” she says gently.

“I know,” he acknowledges. He pauses, clearly weighing his next words. “So, since Mama Rizzoli probably hasn’t asked yet, when are you going to make an honest woman out of Dr. Isles?”

This time the beer comes painfully out of her nose.

“It’s not, I,” Jane splutters.

“I’m a detective, Jane,” Frost repeats. “The air practically crackles between the two of you.”

“We’re friends,” Jane insists, because she’s still not ready to go there.

Frost must sense he’s crossed a line, because her just nods with a knowing “mmhmm”.

“I know I’m just a straight guy. And your embarrassing new partner. But I’m here, if you do want to talk about stuff. And until you do, we can go back to grunting about sports and perps.”

Jane feels a surge of affection for her young, certainly not embarrassing, partner. So, she grunts and extends her bottle to him. He clinks the neck of his beer against hers and grins:

“So, how ‘bout them Sox?”

***

Jane knows she should tell Maura about her new life revelation. They’re best friends, and best friends talk about these things. Plus, Maura isn’t straight herself; Jane doesn’t think she’ll judge her.

But if Jane’s not straight. And Maura’s not straight. And they both say that out loud…

Well, then Jane’s actions towards Maura lose a lot of plausible deniability. Which means deep talks. About feelings. Feelings that might not be requited.

Feelings that could destroy the most important relationship Jane’s ever had, even if it is just platonic.

Frost, for his part, keeps his word. In front of others, he is the same as always. But, if they’re alone, and he’ll look around to make sure, he’ll lean in and make a comment about an attractive witness or raise his eyebrows towards a new mail girl, all in good fun.

Surprisingly, Jane doesn’t hate it. In fact, it makes her feel seen. Like for that moment, she can stop fighting all her natural instincts.

Although, the first time he shows up with a rainbow flag pride pin on his lapel, Jane almost throttles him. Crowe makes a snarky comment, but Frost brushes him off.

“It’s 2011, man. Chicks like an enlightened guy. I got three numbers on the way in today, since I’m such a good ally.”

Korsak chuckles. Jane tenses.

“Well played, newbie.”

Frost flashes that million-dollar smile, and their casework resumes.

He wears that stupid, amazing pin every damn day.

If you think they’d be from a smaller house, go with the Great House that that smaller house is sworn to (ex: House Manderly —> vote Stark)

They don’t have to be a nobleperson, they can be someone working for the house or being ruled by them. Roles could be a sworn-sword, a septa, a butcher, a blacksmith, or even a lowly peasant.

You can consider the region itself. For example, if you feel the character would be from Dorne, pick House Martell.

You can consider the personality of the character. For example, if your character is all about honor, then consider either House Arryn or House Stark.