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Jon received the news before Dawn’s pale light could shine on their camp; the harsh autumn wind carried the whispers of it everywhere else. A trespasser was found in their midst. A spy, mayhap.
He strode toward the southern fringes where a crowd was already gathered. Jon struggled to hear what the stranger was saying over the men’s mutterings and howling wind, but he managed to catch the tail end of it: “Please…” the voice was soft and unmistakably feminine. “I thought going North would be safer. I promise you I am not a spy.”
The crowd parted for him, and Jon saw that the newcomer was indeed a young woman. Her grey cloak was torn and filthy, and her dark hair was in an unkempt braid draped over her shoulder. The horse she came in on was laying on the ground nearby, its ribs visibly protruding with every fatigued breath it took. His heart lifted. Could it be?... He stumbled forward. She twisted around to face him, and Jon’s eyes eagerly drank in her appearance: porcelain skin, cheeks flushed from the cold, and blue eyes. As blue as a clear winter’s day,
As easily as Jon’s heart soared, it now came crashing down by his feet. Not Arya then. Arya had eyes like his. He didn’t remember much of his life before, but he remembered that. A girl in grey on a dying horse the stranger may be, but she was not his sister. The Red Woman gave him a false prophecy…and false hope, it seemed. So why was he still transfixed? Was she just as affected? He blinked to try and break the spell.
“What is your name, my lady?” he asked, his tone weary despite his best efforts.
Her tongue came out to moisten her cracked lips. His breath caught, and he was pulled right back under. “My name is Alayne.”