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“You love her.”
Jon startled at the abrupt appearance of Sam beside him. He glared at him for a moment before resuming his staring down at the courtyard where Arya was training with a young squire, the son of some lord or another.
“Of course I do. She’s my sister.”
Sam scoffed mildly, “I had sisters. A man does not look at a sister the way you look at her.”
Jon turned to look at him then, his brows arched high on his solemn face, “And how do I look at her, Sam?”
Sam looked at him as if he was a particularly dense creature, before shaking his head in disbelief, “Jon, you look at her as if you are a drowning man and she’s your last chance at survival. Believe me, that is not how a brother looks at a sister.”
At Jon’s dubious face, he rolled his eyes and added, “She’s your cousin. And you’re relieved of your vows. The war with the Others are over. You can follow your heart now.”
“She is my little sister.”
“Is she?” Samwell Tarly questioned softly, “Do you truly believe that?”
Jon had no answer for him.
* * *
He remembers burning; being engulfed by flames. He feels the fire licking at his skin, and he remembers waking up to the taste of ash in his mouth.
He remembers a vision, so red, so terrible. He saw the truth in death. Fire and blood.
He steps out of the fire, his pyre, and watches as the men flinch in fear. They start shouting and drawing back. Amidst the chaos, the Red Priestess stands calm and sombre, hands folded neatly. The ruby on her throat pulses bright red against the white of her skin, like a drop of blood on snow.
‘Daggers in the dark, didn’t I tell you?’ Her eyes seem to say. Her mouth, however, forms the words, “Azhor Ahai is reborn!”
Jon Snow burns and he remembers.
* * *
“They say you’re Azhor Ahai reborn.”
Jon paused in his attempt to pull off his cloak and turned to look at her. She was standing at the doorway, clad in a white nightgown. He noted with interest that she still held Needle in her clenched fists. It relieved him that she would not be defenceless if caught unaware in this broken ruin of the once shining Winterfell. Ghost perked up his head from the other side of the room before laying it down again.
“They say you are a monster,” Arya continued, stepping into his bed chambers gracefully, and closed the door behind her.
“Do you think I’m a monster, Arya?” Jon asked, taking a seat on the bed.
Arya regarded him with her pale eyes, almost serenely, before crossing the distance to sit next to him. The heat emanating from her body warming him instantly.
“You know very well that I don’t,” she raised her hand, as if to touch him, before dropping it abruptly.
What happened to you, little sister? He wanted to ask, but his mouth would not form the words. Instead, he asked, “Why did you come back, Arya?”
She closed her eyes, and tilted her head upwards. Sitting there on his bed, with her face illuminated in candle light and dark hair flowing behind her, she looked almost ethereal.
“You know why I came back,” she abruptly started, “I told you.”
Indeed she did. Yet, he yearned for more.
Jon traced the slope of her sharp cheekbones with his fingertips, and Arya’s face jerked downwards, eyes flying open. She stared at him impassively, and he heaved out a sigh, “You’ve been here for a moon’s turn and yet I feel you’re still so far away. Why is that, little sister?”
She did not answer him, as he knew she would not. She talked, but she was silent in all the ways that mattered.
“Stay here,” Jon said impulsively, “Stay with me tonight.”
He took her hand in his and laid a kiss on her open palm. Arya watched him for a moment before nodding. When he dropped her hand, she climbed on top of the bed and burrowed herself under the furs, all the while staring at him, as if daring him to take his words back. But Jon would not.
He pulled off his cloak with a practiced ease. Clad in a thin cotton shirt, he climbed under the furs too, and felt the warm weight of her body against him.
So close, yet so far.
In a move that surprised him as much as it did her, if Arya’s sudden intake of breath was any indication, Jon pulled her closer and cradled her head with one hand, throwing the other around her waist almost carelessly.
Blowing out the candle, he whispered, “Go to sleep, Arya.”
In the darkness of the room, Jon felt her nod against his chest. Tightening his arms around his little sister and pulling her even closer, he, too, closed his eyes.
Is she still my sister? Was she ever?
Jon wondered if there were indeed any truths to Samwell's words.
* * *
Monster, they whisper behind his back; flinching when he faces them. Bowen Marsh looks away in fear. Only the Lady Melisandre insists on conversing with him. Azor Ahai, she calls him. The Prince That Was Promised. And his only constant companion was Ghost.
Perhaps he was a monster, for he had risen from death in fire and blood, but he was a monster they needed to win the war against the Others. They don’t have long now. The Long Night approaches, and with it, the Others. The Red Priestess tells him that he is their only hope; their only hope to win, to survive. After being reborn in ashes and debris, no one dares to doubt her. Yes, monster he may be but he was a monster they very much needed.
* * *
He woke up to the feeling of something warm against his side. HIs vision was blurry, and he felt disoriented. After a while, though, this eyes adjusted and the world became sharper once more. He shifted to his side and registered that the radiating warmth was Arya. She was tucked against the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against the bare skin, and the fabric of his shirt scrunched tightly inside her fisted hands. He studied the contours of her face, finding solace in the sharp angles and pale skin. As if feeling his gaze on her, Arya’s eyes flew open and raising her head slightly, they bore into his own almost immediately. Her brows furrowed for a moment before smoothing themselves out.
“Something on my face, brother?” she asked mildly.
“I’m your cousin,” he spoke before he could stop himself, regretting the words the instant they were out of his mouth.
Arya’s face went alarmingly blank before she swiftly untangled herself from him. When she spoke her voice was the steel of her sword, “Of course, cousin. However could I forget?”
Leaping off the bed gracefully, she quickly pulled her hair in a braid. Without looking at him, she hurried towards the door, “I will take my leave now, cousin.”
“Arya, wait! I – “
Jon tried to rise from the bed and reach her, but she was already gone, as if carried away by the wind. The emptiness of his chambers seemed to mock him cruelly. The ghost of her kiss still lingered on his skin, and touching the naked flesh of his neck, he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Robb.
* * *
Fire. The world is engulfed in flames. Jon cuts down into one undead creature after another, the sword in his hands burning as bright as the fire surrounding them. Above their heads, dragons screech, and a silver queen gives her commands.
The Long Night is here.
* * *
He found her in the Godswood, kneeling silently in front of the Heart Tree. Rickon was kneeling beside her too, and Jon could almost hear Bran’s voice whispering in the winds. He did not want to disturb them, so he made to walk away, but he must have made some noise because now both Arya and Rickon were looking at him. If Arya was wroth with him for the callous words spoken in the privacy of his chambers that morning, she did not show it.
“Jon! Come pray with us!” Rickon’s voice tore his eyes away from Arya’s, and he smiled warmly at the young boy.
Almost hesitantly, he walked towards them and kneeled beside Arya. Their arms brushed against one another, and he resisted the urge to shiver.
“Where is Nymeria?” He asked her, noticing the absence of Arya’s constant shadow.
“She is out hunting,” she replied testily.
“What are you praying for?”
“For Bran to come home,” the youngest Stark replied immediately.
Turning to Arya, he softly questioned, “And you? What are you praying for?”
She glanced at Rickon, and seeing the boy occupied with a tree branch, she turned back towards him. She gathered his hands in hers and brushed a soft kiss against his knuckles. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost like a caress of the wind, and its tendrils reached towards the hole in his heart, filling it up with each lingering touch. Her words, and her eyes when she said them, however, chilled him to his bones.
“There’s only one God, and I pray for him to leave my family alone.”
“Who is your God, Arya?” He asked carefully.
“Death,” she looked up at him, and as if in a trance, she continued, “And what do we say to the God of Death? Not today.”
Abruptly, she pulled away from him, and stood up. She turned towards Rickon and leaned down to brush a quick kiss against his forehead before smoothing out his red curls.
“Don’t be out long,” she warned him, and with a quick glance at Jon, she walked out of the Godswood.
He didn’t realize he was staring after her until Rickon spoke, demanding a story. With a smile at his youngest cousin, he began one of the tales Old Nan used to tell them, and quickly lost himself amidst the memories of days happier and filled with life.
* * *
Jon looks at the ruin that is left of Winterfell, and it makes his heart ache. He closes his eyes, and beside him, he can hear Sam’s sharp intake of breath.
“Jon- “ He starts, but Jon shakes his head, cutting him off.
"Rickon is here,” instead, he says, “And I’m the Warden of the North. We have to rebuild it now, Sam. We have to rebuild Winterfell.”
Sam places a hand on his shoulders, “And we will. Your brother is here, Maybe Arya will come back too.”
Arya. Her name runs deep in his scarred soul. His little sister, the little stick of a girl, only the Gods knew where she was.Stannis’s men had brought back Ramsay Bolton’s bride, but she was not Arya Stark. One look in her brown eyes, and Jon knew that it was not his little sister.
Although, he muses, she is not my sister now.
Stannis has perished in the beginning of the war of Ice and Fire, and Melisande has left for the Gods knew where. Jon Targaryen is now the Warden of the North, as decreed by his Dragon Queen Aunt. All his life, he had wanted to be a Stark, and now he is a Targaryen, he is of royal blood. Yet, he wants the old days back, when he was the bastard of Winterfell, just so he could have Arya and Robb with him again.
Robb, betrayed by the Freys, and Arya, probably dead by now. Arya, who he has always loved the best. Arya, who has always loved him best. Arya. She was just a little girl; she could not have survived in this war ravaged country.
“Perhaps,” he says to Sam as he leads the men through the gates of Winterfell, with Ghost trotting alongside them, “Perhaps she will.”
Winterfell’s people, very few that are left, are gathered in the courtyard, all in furs and coats, to greet them. In the front line, beside Davos Seaworth, stands a young boy. Davos is clasping the boy’s shoulder, but all Jon can see is Rickon.
He looks like Robb now, he thinks.
Beside him, Ghost howls, and Rickon’s wolf joins in.
Jon gets off his horse, and stands in front of Rickon, not knowing what to say. It has been so many years. The last time he saw Rickon, he was just a baby.
Hesitantly, Rickon steps forward, and gazes up at him, “Father?”
It breaks Jon’s heart, but he shakes his head, “No, Rickon, I’m Jon. Your brot –“ he cuts himself off before correcting bitterly, “Your cousin.”
Rickon nods his head, and tentatively wraps his arms around Jon. Jon resists the urge to completely break down in front of all these men, and hugs the young boy to his chest tightly.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” Jon says.
“Brother?” Rickon questions into his neck softly.
“Brother,” Jon confirms, and Rickon nods.
“It’s good to have you home,” the youngest Stark smiles at him.
‘Where is home?’ Jon wants to say. Winterfell was once his home, but the people who made it so are long gone, and Jon feels his heart brimming over with grief.
If only Arya were here. He’d give anything to have her back with him, to muss up her hair and hear her finish a sentence with him. Her absence makes his heart ache like a long scarred wound.
* * *
Arya sat beside him in the Great Hall during dinner, as they so often did now. Sitting at the raised platform next to him, Arya brushed her elbow against him. The contact made Jon turn to look at her, but she was engaged into a conversation with Rickon. He turned back to find Samwell staring at him.
As the new maester of Winterfell, Sam was given a place on the high table, as was Gilly, his wife, with little Sam perched on her knees. He raised his eyebrow at Jon, and Jon promptly ignored him, instead staring out at the lively hall.
The entirety of dinner was filled with casual brushes of skin to skin from Arya. At one point, he suspected that she was doing it on purpose. But then again, why would she? Arya knew nothing about the torment of his heart.
After dinner, as everyone retired to their bedchambers, Jon followed Arya to hers, intending to talk to her. He was not trying to be subtle at all, and he knew that Arya knew he was following him. Yet, Arya never once looked back, nor did she halt in her footsteps. However, once inside her bedchambers, she left the door open for him. He entered after hesitating for just a moment.
“Cousin,” standing in the middle of the room, with her back still to him, she enunciated, almost mockingly, “What brings you to my chambers?”
Jon resisted the urge to fidget. He was a grown man, damnit, and he was not going to fidget because of a woman a head shorter than him.
“Arya,” he began, “I do not want you to be mad at me.”
She turned around to face him then, before rolling her eyes and taking a seat on her bed. Patting the space next to her, she said, “Do I look mad to you?”
You look beautiful to me, Jon thought and promptly blushed. With uncertain steps, he crossed the room to sit beside her.
“You have a face that is hard to read,” he said judiciously.
Throwing her head back, Arya laughed then. Her hair had been brushed, likely by the many attempts of the maids, and there had been probably some sort of oil put in it. It looked glorious in the candle light. Jon’s fingers itched to run through her locks.
You sick bastard, you grew up calling her little sister, and now you desire her.
Lost in his misery, he failed to notice that Arya had stopped laughing. When he did, though, he found her staring at him with an odd glint in her eyes.
“Tell me, Jon,” she began, “Why are you so adamant on calling me cousin? You have no trouble calling Rickon your brother.”
Jon debated whether he should tell her the truth; Arya would likely know if he lied, but the truth seemed terrible, and it might cause him to lose Arya. He didn’t want to lose Arya, not after he had found her after all these years.
His mouth, however, seemed to run without his permission, and he was horrified to hear the words coming out of his mouth, “Because, what I feel for you is not how a brother should feel about a sister.”
Arya looked taken aback, “And how exactly do you feel about me?”
His hands seemed to move on their own accord, and they cupped her face. His thumbs rubbed small circles on the apple of her cheeks, and time seemed to still around them.
“I love you.”
“Well, of course, you do. I love you too,” she spoke, bewildered.
“No, Arya, I love you,” he repeated, “I am in love with you.”
Arya froze, her body going completely still, and her eyes locked on his. Slowly, she raised her hands to place them on his, where they seemed to have been left forgotten on her cheeks.
“Jon, “ she started cautiously, ”Brother, do not jest of such things, I beg you.”
Jon flinched, as if she had slapped him, but he did not move back.
There is still time, a voice in the back of his mind said, you still have a chance, you can still back away. She is giving you an out.
But he had made up his mind already. They had been brother and sister once, but the Jon and Arya that roamed the halls of Winterfell together had died along with Ned, and Robb. Left in their places were strangers with familiar faces, carrying ghosts inside their skin, and he did not want to be haunted alone anymore. And he had loved Arya from the moment she came into the world, red faced and squabbling. Robb, Sansa and he had crowded around Lady Catelyn and the new-born baby, and even though he kept his distance, he stayed. And when the squirming blanket had been placed inside his arms, Lady Catelyn too exhausted to say anything, and grey eyes had peered up at him, he had loved her instantly. Loving her had always been natural to him, as easy as breathing.
He had lost her, and then she had come back, so beautiful and so cold in her sorrow, in her grief, and in her rage, and the love that had always been natural to him had grown to something more. He would not deny it anymore. He could not.
“I would not make light of such matters. I’m not your brother,” Jon said resolutely, “and I love you.”
Arya recoiled from his touch, putting distance between them, and Jon’s heart ached. “Arya – “ he began, but she cut him off mid – sentence.
“Perhaps you have had too much wine, cousin,” she said quietly, “I think you should leave now, Jon.”
Her face brooked no argument, so he leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek, lingering just a little too long, all the while being warily watched by Arya. And with a heavy heart, he left her chambers.
If he had just looked back, he would have seen Arya with her hand on the cheek where he had kissed her, a slight frown on her face.
* * *
Jon is going over the letters when Sam bursts into his study chamber, red faced and panting. Most letters are from the Northern lords, hoping to make a match between Rickon and their daughters, and there is a letter from Sansa, who is Lady Arryn now, asking how the rebuilding of Winterfell is going. However, all that is swiftly forgotten as Sam relays the news.
“There is a girl at the gates” Sam says, gasping for breath, “She claims to be Arya Stark.”
Jon’s heart twinges in its cage, but he dares not to hope. “There has been plenty false Arya Starks,” he says, “What makes this one different?”
It has been a few moons’ turns since he had returned to Winterfell, and in that time, he has sent scouts to look for Arya Stark. All have come back empty handed, and Jon’s hope had dwindled with each passing day. But now there’s a girl claiming to be his little sister, and his heart thrums with anticipation.
“She – the girl - has a direwolf with her. And she told me to tell you something,” Sam reports, “She said to tell you – stick them with the pointy end.”
Jon sprints out of the room and doesn’t look back when he hears Sam sputtering. He doesn’t stop until he’s down at the courtyard, and he halts when he sees a girl quietly standing at a shadowed corner, a massive direwolf by her side. He can’t see her face, but the posture, the way she leans against the wall seems oh so familiar.
The sky is beginning to darken, and it is still snowing. There is hardly anyone beside them in the yard, so he walks towards the girl with tentative steps. Once he is beside her, she looks up, and his breath hitches. He would know those grey eyes anywhere.
Jon engulfs the girl in a strong hug, his arms anchoring her to him, and he breathes.
“Arya,” he says her name, almost reverently, “You came back.”
Her arms lock behind his neck, and she looks up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears, and she whispers, “Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle, you once told me.”
Arya’s wolf, Nymeria, howls long and loud, and from somewhere in the castle, Ghost joins his sister in her song.
Jon presses a tender kiss on her forehead, and Arya closes her eyes before tucking her face in the crook of his neck. Jon crushes her to his chest again, and buries his face in her hair.
Standing there with Arya in his arms with snow falling all around them, for the first time in years, Jon feels at home.
* * *
Jon woke to the sound of footsteps in his chambers. Hastily, he sat up to see the intruder and found Arya pacing from one side of the room to another, muttering something to herself.
“Arya?” He rasped, voice still hoarse from sleeping.
Arya abruptly stopped and then quickly strode over to the bed and sat down beside him.
“I thought about what you said last night,” she said quietly, “I thought about it all night. I couldn’t sleep.”
Indeed, she looked exhausted; her eyes were red and there were dark circles around them. Before he could utter a word, she continued speaking.
“I thought about it long and hard. And I need to tell you something.”
Jon nodded, reaching out to take her hands in his. Arya exhaled slightly, seemingly finding strength in his touches and went on.
“Before coming here, I was a Faceless Man, I served them. I killed in their name, I poisoned in their name. I did bad things in their name. I was no one. I was no one’s daughter, no one’s sister. I was no one, Jon. I was supposed to be no one,” she paused to take a breath before continuing, “But I could never be no one. I remembered you, and I remembered your smile. And even when I managed to forget you, news of your death, and then resurrection, and the war reached me, and I forgot who I was supposed to be and remembered who I was all at once,” her voice wavered slightly, “I understand if you hate me now.”
Jon gathered her in his arms quickly, and ran his fingers through her hair, “I feel a great many things towards you, Arya, but hate is not one of them.”
He felt Arya nod in his chest, and he titled her head up to look into her eyes imploringly, “Do you love me, Arya?”
“I have always loved you,” she admitted softly, “and somewhere along the way, I think I fell in love with you.”
He crushed her lips beneath his then, and felt the change in her instantly. She went from soft and uncertain to wild and determined in a moment. She was a wolf through and through. She growled and straddled him, and they clung to each other, with bruising touches and breathless laughter.
When he would recall it later, the first part of the memory was hazy except for the taste of blood in his mouth, and Arya’s red lips spread in a feral smile and the knowledge that he wanted her more than he wanted air. Ripping each other’s clothes off, they came together in an explosion of teeth and tongue and lips and hands, and Jon whispered her name over and over again, as if chanting a prayer.
When he entered her, time seemed to freeze around them, and together, they whispered, “I love you.”
Jon laughed, and Arya followed him before they both locked eyes, and as one, they breathed.