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Fire and Blood.
His hand traces the words lightly, cautiously, almost afraid it will burn his fingers. The parchment stretches out on the desk before him, yellowing at the edges, names signed in black glittering in the candlelight. Black as blood. Black as a bastard's heart.
But you aren't a bastard anymore, are you? A voice whispers mockingly. You made a wish and it was granted.
Not like this. Never like this.
Distantly, he hears a wolf's howl, and Jon closes his eyes and lets the sound wash over him. He sits alone in his solar, as he has for the last three days since Bran had held an audience and doused his world in red and black before setting it on fire.
Fire and Blood. Targaryen, Targaryen, you are a Targaryen. A prince, a king, a dragon -
No. No, I am a Stark. I am the son of Lord Eddard. I am a brother to his children. I am -
A lie. Once a stain on the honour of the Warden of the North. Now a stain on the honour of an unfaithful prince and a rebellious daughter. But always an orphan. Always alone.
The thought creeps in unbidden, and sinks its dark claws in his heart. His breaths quicken and he struggles to take deep breaths to calm himself. Instead, he chooses to turn that scene over and over in his head, like he has done a million times already.
He had sat opposite Bran, a little confused but alert since he'd been told of the urgency of the matter. Daenerys sat on his left, curiously watching the crippled boy, while his sisters - cousins! - sat on his right. Arya had been closest to him, wearing a tunic of deep blue. Blue like the summer sky, blue like the turbulent seas. It was pretty and it suited her. He'd wanted to tell her that but Bran had called his attention. He'd told himself that he'd tell her later.
He never did. The truth was out, and he hadn't been able to do more than sit agape in his chair, frozen with shock. From the corner of his eye, he'd seen Arya's face grow still, like the pools of the godswood. Her eyes, two chips of grey had clouded over with an emotion he could not place. Jon had wanted to turn to her, to reassure her...of what? That nothing had changed? Everything had changed!
Daenerys had reached out and touched his arm, and it had felt like flames, searing through his sleeve and scorching his skin, marking him. You're one of me, it said. You're a dragon.
No, no, no.
Jon had snatched his arm back in panic then, and he felt all eyes turn to watch him. Grey and blue and purple, all boring into him. It was too much. He'd snatched the letters on the table and bolted from the room, aware of the voices calling after him. In hindsight, he realizes his behavior was hardly befitting that of a man, of a King, but Jon hadn't cared. He'd needed space. Locking himself in his rooms had seemed like the best solution at the time, and it is here he still hides now.
In his three days of self-imposed imprisonment, he's only had a handful of visitors. Some servants to serve food and Davos to ensure he hadn't done anything foolish. Jon's mouth twists at that. Perhaps they think him irrational enough to destroy the marriage contract, the letters, the proof of it all. Perhaps they think him as insane as his ancestors.
Maegor the Cruel. Aerys the Mad. My ancestors. My family. My blood.
Sweat beads his forehead.
The candlelight begins to die, washing the room in a faded yellow. The wolves have stopped howling and he listens to the silence, his heart beating to its deafening rhythm. His ears strain for any sign of life, any sign of the footsteps he desperately wants to hear.
Fool! he thinks angrily. She won't come. She won't want to see you. She's not your little sister anymore, you are not a wolf. Only wolves can be in a pack. You are not a wolf. You are not her pack.
The words were knives.
As Jon resigns himself to another night of wallowing in his sorrows, a sharp knock echoes around the solar. He jumps from his chair and rushes to the door. Hesitating briefly, he takes a breath before yanking the door open.
Arya glides in, quiet and graceful. He watches warily as she moves to face him, her steps careful and controlled, as if the slightest misstep may cause a disturbance.
Are you unsure around me, little sister? Am I so different to you, now?
"I wasn't sure if you'd come," he says instead, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. When she doesn't respond, he shifts on his feet nervously.
"I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me," Arya finally says, grabbing his attention. Her cheeks are flushed a blushing red, and her eyes are unusually bright. Pools of grey, so like his own. Not purple, not blue nor green nor black. Grey like the North. Grey like Stark. It calms him.
He gives her a smile. "I always want to see you." His answer releases some of the tension in her shoulders, and she sighs almost in relief. Grinning at him, she saunters to the centre of the room and looks around critically.
Shaking her head, Arya titters. "It's not healthy to hide away for so long, you know. I had to give Ghost extra kisses today to placate him. He was ready to break the door down, he was that upset. I should have let him." Her voice is light and taunting, and Jon is grateful for it.
He chuckles. "I'm sure he appreciates your company far more than mine anyway. He'd be miserable stuck in here with me." He means it as a joke, but Arya's smile disappears and Jon worries over his words. Has he said something wrong?
The she-wolf closes her eyes and sighs deeply. It isn't exasperated or melancholy, rather a bone-weary sigh that resonates in his own body.
"I didn't come here to discuss Ghost, Jon. We need to talk." His stomach drops. "You can't avoid the world forever, and you certainly cannot hold yourself hostage here any longer." Arya folds her arms over her chest, and gives him a hard stare, daring him to argue. It is a look not unlike one that the Warden of the North would have when giving an order. She is everything a daughter of Eddard Stark should be, from her long pretty face to the straightness of her shoulders, a far cry from the girl he'd left behind and his heart clenches at the thought. He's missed so much. He cannot afford to miss a moment more. He is being a fool, hiding from her.
Jon bows his head. "I'm sorry, Arya. Truly, I am. I just...didn't know what else to do." He leans his head back against the door and stares at the ceiling in frustration. "I didn't want this. I hated being a bastard, and the Gods know how much I wanted to be rid of it. But not this way," He laughs without mirth, and lowers his eyes to meet hers. "I am one no longer. I have you back. We have Winterfell back. I have everything I've ever wanted, yet I feel as if I've had to lose myself to get it. How is that fair?"
He expects her to counter him, to tell him that he hasn't lost anything and that she'll always be his little sister. He thinks he'll like that very much. He thinks he'll like that more than anything in the world.
Instead, Arya asks, "What are your words?" Her face is blank, and the grey of her eyes are unreadable.
Jon blinks stupidly, her question taking him by surprise. "My words?" he repeats, in confusion. "What do you mean? Why does that matter?"
"Your words, Jon," Arya insists patiently. Her arms are hanging loosely by her sides, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She is looking very pretty in the candlelight. He should tell her that. "Your creed. What is it?"
Hair that is black in the dying light, thick and tangled and wild. Black as midnight, black as ashes, black as a dragon.
Black, black, red and black. Red as flames and black as smoke, his blood, his House, his words.
"Fire and blood," he answers in a dark voice, each word heavy on his tongue and dripping from his lips like poison. It tastes unfamiliar, something strange and foreign.
Arya is still silent, and Jon feels as if she is expecting more, waiting for another answer. When it does not come, she bites her lip and closes her eyes briefly, her dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks.
He grows warm, too hot, irrationally embarrassed. It's not the answer she wants, but it is the truth, he thinks bitterly.
Arya's eyes suddenly fly open, and they burn into him with the intensity of a dying star. He finds himself melting to the spot, holding his breath for whatever comes next.
"Who is your father? What was his name?" Her voice is clear and sharp and crystal, and it slices his already wounded heart.
"Arya, please don't-" he begins weakly.
"Answer me, Jon." It is the tone of a Queen and he finds himself bending to her icy will.
He clenches and unclenches his sword hand, taking a step closer to her as his mouth forms the words, "Rhaegar Targaryen."
Unlike before, Arya's eyes flare up in a storm of winter clouds, and just as before, she seems to wait for something else. Something more.
Anger begins to well in his chest, and he feels tears prick the edges of his eyes. "Don't look at me like that," he manages to mutter. "We know it's the truth."
"You know nothing."
His heart stops for a moment, and he suddenly feels the need to reach out and wrap her in his arms. He still needs to tell her how lovely she looks tonight.
"One last question," Arya whispers, the grey of her irises flickering with an unknown emotion. "Who am I to you?"
He wants to hold her, press her warmth against his own and lose himself to her scent, bury his face in the white tunic she wears. He is lost and confused and she is familiar and she is home. White and grey, his little sister is clad in. White and grey, just like their House.
No, her House. Not yours. Not truly. And she is not your little sister.
He takes another few steps forward until they are close enough for their breaths to mingle. Jon raises a hand to her face and lightly caresses it with his burnt fingers, the hideous scarring contrasting sharply with her creamy untouched skin. Cream and fair like snow.
I was Snow once. Not anymore. Never will be again.
The air seems charged and he hears her steady breaths. Her eyes are locked onto his face, almost pleadingly, desperately. He can see flecks of blue in the grey, and he leans in, fascinated. They are promises of clear skies after a winter storm. Blue and grey. She had looked so pretty in blue that day. He still has to tell her that.
"You're my little cousin," Jon gently says instead, afraid of uttering it too loudly and breaking the magic. He means the words to be loving, to tell her that the label doesn't matter, that cousin or not, she'll always be his. He means to show her that nothing has changed.
But everything has changed.
Her face crumples, and so does his heart.
"I have to go," is all she says before she flees.
Jon slumps back in his chair, a heavy weight sitting on his chest as he gazes at the closed door in misery.
She had tested him, this he knows for sure. And he'd failed at every turn. He's failed her.
The sun claws its way through the winter sky, clouds of silver and white swirling and shimmering over the castle. A blanket of snow, oh so white, envelops the grounds in an embrace. The air is crisp and chilly, and Jon wraps his furs closer as he makes his way towards the sounds of clanging steel and laughter.
Winterfell seems so full these days, and he looks over the balcony to watch several men engage in a deadly dance, twirling and ducking and striking. A short distance away, he sees Brienne gaze at them critically, weaving in and out of the group and occasionally stepping in to correct a form.
Jon leans against a post and lets his mind wander absently as he watches them train. It has been several days since he'd finally emerged from his solar, and he is already itching to go back and lock the door forever, kingly duties be damned.
He's asked Bran to keep quiet of the revelation until a final decision is made. He knows what it means, of course, for himself and for the realm. For now, he sits on a throne of ice when he can be sitting on a throne of iron. It is, after all, his birthright. His duty. And his rightful place.
Daenerys seeks him out constantly, and he can feel her heated stare through the great castle walls even when she is not around. She grows restless, and he is very aware of what her desires are. A new name, a new crown, a new wife. He's been careful to delay encountering her until he can think of a solution that would satisfy everyone and potentially avoid another war. He draws a blank every time.
It is rather humorous, the situation. The King in the North, the White Wolf, the seasoned warrior, peering around corners for the Dragon Queen, a woman half his stature. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards. Arya had laughed once when he'd hidden behind her small frame on one particular occasion. He likes her laugh. It is airy and musical and he can feel it in his bones, spreading through him like an evening chill, soothing his enflamed heart. He thinks he'd like to hear it everyday. He thinks he'd like to hear it for the rest of his life.
He should tell her that. She laughs so little these days, he hopes maybe she might do it a little more then.
She has little to laugh about, a voice, deep and cruel, begins to whisper. You have taken everything from her.
Jon's nose scrunches and he whips his head from side to side, as if ridding himself of the words like a flea. But it nestles in his chest like a knife, spreading poison to his every thought.
Winterfell does not belong to him. Bran does not want it. Sansa cannot have it. No, Winterfell belongs to another. A true Stark. A daughter of the North.
As long as you delay, you are taking what is hers, the voice maliciously whispers, stronger than before. You took her brother away, and now you take her crown.
Jon forces the thought away angrily. I took nothing! he tells himself persistently. Arya knows I'd never usurp her, she knows I'd pledge my sword to her in a heartbeat.
Then why are you still King?
A burst of air escapes his mouth in a sigh, and he watches the little cloudy mist flick this way and that before disappearing. He wonders if the little voice in his head is a sign of his madness. He is a Targaryen, after all. Perhaps it is a family trait. He frowns at the idea.
The sound of creaking floorboards cuts through the murky waters of his thoughts and he turns to see Arya walking his way.
If he'd called the fighting below him a dance, then Arya is their master. She moves with feline stealth, and he admires how fluid her steps are. It is more than a dance, he muses. Dances are merely an expression. She is the art itself.
When she finally stands beside him, he is still staring at her. Arya raises an eyebrow and says, "Silver for your thoughts?" and he is yanked from his wanderings with a blush. Maybe he should tell her how much he likes how she walks. No, don't be a fool, she'll mock you for days.
"Oh, just...just thinking," he replies lamely. He gazes over her, a ring of snow melting in her hair, white on brown. White like the world around them, brown as the earth it covers. White like a winter crown.
"Do you remember how Father would watch us from here?" Arya says suddenly, watching the men fight. "He'd stand right at this spot, and quietly just...watch. I liked that a lot."
He observes her profile, her straight nose, the curve of her lips, beginning to tug into a grimace. The thought of Ned Stark still pains all of them, he knows.
"I do," he offers, "Even with everything, all his duties, places he had to be, he was always here for our training. Whenever I'm down there, I still feel him watching. Don't you?"
She nods her head mutely, the snowflakes disappearing into her tangles. His hand itches to find them, to run it through and see where they are hiding.
He clears his throat. "Arya?" he begins, uncertainly.
Her eyes, so grey, so Stark, turn from the training ground to look at him curiously. He falters a little, struggling to stop himself being lost in the colour. Grey like him. Grey like Stark. They are the same.
"Do you want to be Queen?" he blurts out, gracelessly. He is mortified once the words are out, and he feels a chill pass through him. What a fool.
Arya doesn't respond immediately, she narrows her eyes and seems to deliberate. The grey has grown darker.
"It's not something I dream about, I'll admit," she starts, her words slow and carefully chosen, "but a duty is a duty. Should I find myself in such a position, I will not shy away."
He ponders her answer, turning to look out at the castle grounds. The snow is everywhere, pure and unyielding and white.
A touch on his arm, cool through the furs and calming. "Why do you ask?" Arya inquires, softly.
Without turning back, he replies, "You should be Queen. As a Stark, your claim is before mine. My crown is in the South." His mouth shapes the last word with distaste. He has never been South. The North is all he knows, all he cares about. It is the only home he had, has and will ever have.
And yet, he is expected to rule a kingdom whose Gods he does not follow, land he does not know, people he does not like. His hand clenches and unclenches.
"You are no Southerner, Jon," Arya's voice washes over him. It reminds him of snow somehow, light and bright and lovely. "You're Northern to the bones. They are so different down there. I think you'd absolutely hate it."
He laughs at that. It's true, after all.
"I think so too." His smiles fade, and his mood begins to dull. "I'd rather stay here as a blacksmith than be a King in the South. I don't want to leave Winterfell."
And he doesn't. He loves the grey of the castle, the white of the snow. The sound of laughter, of bawdy jokes. The godswood, the crypts, the Old Gods, his family, her.
Arya is here. How can he possibly leave? She is home, after all. She is the grey of the skies and the white of the snow, the blue of the pools and the browns of the earth. She is Winterfell in its entirety.
And she is staring at him with an odd expression, as if listening to his thoughts. He realizes he hasn't told her that he likes the colour blue on her, that he enjoys her laugh, how pretty she is. He opens his mouth to speak.
"What are your words?"
His mouth snaps shut, and he regards her warily. Her shoulders are set, the wind licking strands of her hair, her gaze challenging.
Another test, he muses. I won't fail, this time.
"Winter is Coming," he say, with a hint of pride. The words are a cool breeze against his lips, familiar and true. Winter is here already. It is around them, inside them, imprinted on their bones. It's in their blood. Theirs, not just hers. He is a Northerner, like her. They have the same grey eyes, the same brown hair. Stark, Stark, he is a Stark. The thought makes him giddy.
He expects her to grin at him, to nod approvingly then call him stupid for saying otherwise before.
She does not.
Instead she waits, her expression turning darker as she realizes he has nothing left to say.
Confused, he begins to ask, "I thought -"
"Who is your father?" she interrupts, a chill at the edge of her voice that makes him shiver. No, no, the cold can't affect him. He has ice in his blood! He is a Northerner to the core, just as she said.
"Eddard Stark."
He does not mean to sound so forceful, but her lack of smiles and cold stare are beginning to chip at his chest. He doesn't understand, she hadn't liked his last answer either. What does she want?
She waits again.
Fear seeps into the cracks of his heart, unbidden and painful. He hates seeing her look so disappointed, let alone in him. His jaw clenches and he finally bursts with, "What the hell do you want, Arya? Your father is mine just as much as he is yours! I refuse to say the same for any other."
His breaths are heavy and hers have stopped.
The silence is thick between them, the clang of steel below them breaking the charge and sizzling the moment. He regrets lashing out, but she unnerves him with her questions. Where they had burned before, they creep along his skin now, freezing and mocking.
"Who am I to you?"
The ice chips of her eyes have brightened impossibly. They swirl and they twirl and they dance to the beat of an emotion he yearns to know. Her face is so still, like a sculpture of ice, and he fears the wrong words will shatter it.
So he says that which had always been true, that have always been right. He raises his hand to touch her skin, to see if it really is carved by winter.
"Little sister."
The words seem...off. They ring through him like bells, the sound so familiar and fitting yet, not enough. They were not enough. There is something else, something he can't place.
A puff of air escapes her lips, red lips, red like blood, and disappears. Her face flickers with an emotion - what is it? Why can he not say? - when she turns and walks away without another word.
His hand is still raised. He lets it drop, lets his heart fall and crack and splinter into a million pieces.
He knows he failed her again, but mostly, he feels he failed himself.
After hours of council meetings, Jon finally steals away to the cool night air. He sighs and leans against the window of a hidden alcove, allowing himself to enjoy this brief moment of peace by drinking in the flurry of stars above him. He starts to count each sparkle, losing himself in its insanity. It always amazes him how something so unattainable could be so...beautiful. It is as if all the bright colours came in one, and he revels in its light.
He hears the sound of a door opening and closing, and instinctively knows who it is. Without realizing it, his feet carry him to the source of the sound, and he pauses momentarily before knocking on Arya's door.
She opens it immediately, and he notes the same deep blue tunic as before hugging her figure. The candles in her room bathe her in golden light, shimmering off her thick mane of hair and the white of her skin. For a moment, he feels breathless.
"Is everything alright?" she asks, with a raised eyebrow. Her expression is confused, lined with...something else. Some other great emotion he still cannot name, but intends to find out.
Jon slips into her room without asking, knowing if he stands still a moment longer his courage will fade. She lets him through.
The room is impossibly warm, but a window is open and a cool breeze brushes through, caressing his skin. He relishes it briefly before spinning on his heel to face the young woman watching him with vivid interest. She is only an arm's reach away, and he takes a minute to look at her.
It has been a week since she'd caught him on the balcony and flipped his world. He's spent every minute afterwards, painstakingly agonizing over every answer, every word, the colours of her eyes and the colours of the world around them. He's played the scene in his head again and again, desperately looking for something - anything - that might soothe the chaos, calm the turbulent winds of thought.
Her lips are red in the light, pulled into an inquisitive frown that extends to the twin pools of black and grey of her eyes. He thinks he can see the flames of the candlelights flicker in her pupils, circled by a ring of blue. He's never agreed with Daenerys' poetic notions of fire as a lover and heat as an embrace, but as he watches these flames dance in Arya's eyes, he thinks his aunt may be right. It's beautiful in its chaos, and he loses himself in them. Gold on black on blue on grey on white on red. Never just one, she is never just one colour. She is the spectrum. She is all the bright colours, in one.
And in his mind, it is enough.
"Ask me again," he whispers, gentle and insistent.
She swallows, her chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
"What are your words?" she whispers back, her voice hoarse.
He gives her a soft smile, and the words roll easily on his tongue. "Fire and Blood. The words of my father."
He waits. She hesitates, and begins to withdraw, disappointment etched on her face -
Before she can move, he takes a step closer, until all he can see is the ice of her eyes and the fire in her stare.
"Winter is Coming. The words of my mother. The women are important too."
Her expression brightens and the corner of her mouth begin to quirk upwards. She takes a step closer.
"Ask me again," Jon says again, softer this time.
She is close enough for him to count each faded freckle on her nose, little spots of brown on cream. Cream like Snow. Like he always will be.
"Who is your father?" Her voice hitches in the end, heavy and thick with anticipation. He can feel her body thrum with fear.
I won't disappoint you again, I promise.
"Not just one. Lord Eddard Stark raised me as a son, and I am proud to call him Father. He is my blood and I am his." He pauses, his chest constricting and the charge in the air licking his skin, encouraging him to continue. "But Rhaegar Targaryen is a part of me, he will always be a part of me. I cannot deny him any longer."
Each word unties a knot in his mind, his heart, his soul. It is as if he has carried a sack of boulders on his shoulders, tied together by lies and denial, weighing him down. With every utterance of the truth, the ties that bind them are cut and he can feel each stone falling, and with it, taking his pain and sorrow.
Arya is so close now, they share the same breath. He can feel it on his tongue, sinful and sweet. It clouds his thoughts with a blissful peace, the spring sky after a winter storm. He thinks he could fly through it forever.
Her eyes are filled with emotion now, and once where it was raging and turbulent, it is blissful and peace and he revels in it. He can name it. He knows it well. And he knows she sees it in his eyes too.
They are the same, after all.
He does not need to ask again.
"Who am I to you?" The question is so quiet that if he isn't so close, he'd miss it.
He can feel her shake. With fear, with anticipation, with love.
He was wrong before, when he had thought that Bran's words had changed everything. No, no it is this moment here. This moment, with the dying flames and the winter winds. This moment, with the grey of her eyes and the red of her lips.
Everything is about to change. And by the Gods, Jon is ready.
"Mine. My home. My heart."
The words are honey on his tongue and he sees victory in her eyes. Nothing has ever tasted as sweet. He feels the last rock fall and suddenly, he is weightless. Free.
He soars.
"You are mine."
She leans in and he is lost in the grey and red and white and black. Her lips press against his and he loses himself to all the colours of her.