Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1010707.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Arya_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy/Arya_Stark, Jon_Snow/Val, Catelyn
      Stark/Ned_Stark, Robb_Stark/Margaery_Tyrell
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Arya_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy, Ned_Stark, Catelyn_Stark, Sansa
      Stark, Robb_Stark, Val_(ASoIaF), Jory_Cassel, Rodrik_Cassel, Asha
      Greyjoy, Myrcella_Baratheon, Jon_Arryn, Robert_Baratheon, Garlan_Tyrell,
      Loras_Tyrell, Brandon_Stark, Rickon_Stark, Ghost_(ASoIaF), Nymeria_
      (ASoIaF)
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Half-Sibling_Incest, Sibling_Incest, Adultery, Adult_Content,
      Dubious_Consent, Sexual_Content, Sex, Arranged_Marriage, Alternate
      Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Underage_Sex, ASoIaF_Kink_Meme, Kink_Meme,
      Winterfell, House_Stark, House_Greyjoy, Romance, Angst, Drama, Character
      Death
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-20 Completed: 2014-07-18 Chapters: 10/10 Words: 26168
****** Between Wind and Water ******
by luna_plath
Summary
     “All she ever wanted was to be with him.” Jon left Westeros to make
     his own way as a sellsword in the Free Cities. Five years later, he’s
     summoned to Winterfell for the marriage of his youngest sister to a
     childhood enemy.
Notes
     In this story I’m writing as if Theon’s father Balon is already dead,
     meaning Theon is the Lord of the Iron Islands. Thanks to machioness
     for the beta!
***** Chapter 1 *****
The gray sea outside of White Harbor wasn’t familiar to Jon, but the cold air
and the fierce winds were. He’d been to half the ports in Essos but never to
Northern waters. It had been five years since he’d been in Westeros, since he’d
seen his family or traveled over familiar land, and the prospect of riding to
Winterfell filled him with both dread and excitement.
As they got closer to port, Ghost began to pace the deck, eager to be on land
and away from the ocean. The direwolf’s agitation made the crew uneasy, but Jon
paid little attention. It was difficult for him to believe that he was
returning to Winterfell, especially for the reasons his father had shared.
When Jon had learned of his sister’s betrothal he’d been unwilling to believe
it, but his Lord father had summoned him back to the North and Jon had always
done as he was told. He could think of no worse match for Arya than Theon
Greyjoy, but he had learned long ago that the opinions of a bastard were worth
very little among nobility, even if he once knew Arya better than any of his
other siblings.
After they were docked and cleared by White Harbor’s port inspectors, Jon
stepped onto Westerosi soil for the first time in half a decade. Ghost drew
lots of stares and frightened looks once he reached the city proper, but it was
nothing he hadn’t encountered in foreign ports before.
The first thing Jon did was find the best horse in White Harbor. The stable
master who sold it to him gave Ghost a long, hard look before handing over the
reigns to the slate gray palfrey, but the man brightened when Jon handed over a
substantial amount of gold.
He looked at the short sword on Jon’s hip and the long sword on his back before
offering a suggestion.
“Are you sure you won’t be wanting a courser, m’lord? Or a destrier?”
Jon coaxed the palfrey towards him, hoping Ghost wouldn’t startle her.
“No, I won’t be needing a horse for battle. What’s this one’s name?” he asked.
“Fang,” the stable master said darkly. “She bites.”
“She’s perfect,” said Jon.
--
The journey to Winterfell went by quickly. As a lone rider Jon didn’t have to
worry about the pace of other horses or the extra attention paid to multiple
travelers. He tried to kill a few birds during the ride, but Ghost was the best
hunting companion he could have asked for. Every evening his wolf would return
with a hare or a particularly slow fox and they would share what they’d caught
during the day, roasting the game over a fire before sleeping beneath the cold
Northern sky.
It wasn’t long before he reached the eastern lands surrounding Winterfell. Jon
half-expected to see the stonewalls of the castle around every turn, though the
thought of arriving at his childhood home wasn’t necessarily pleasing. During
his time away he’d been a sellsword in Essos, a very different life from the
one he’d known as Eddard Stark’s natural son, where his skill as a warrior had
been the only important thing about him, not his parentage. Jon knew that Robb
and Arya would be happy to see him, and he hoped that Bran and Rickon
remembered his time with them as boys, even if they had grown out of their
fondness for their baseborn brother.
Ghost bounded ahead of him, a white streak down the trail until they were in
the shadow of the castle. The castle guard had already opened the gate by the
time Jon arrived. His direwolf had alerted everyone at Winterfell of his
return.
Jon needn’t have feared that his brothers had forgotten him. Once he rode
through the castle’s Gate House he saw Bran, Rickon, and Jory waiting for him
in the Bailey. Ghost and Shaggydog were already chasing after each other in the
direction of the Godswood.
Fang slowed to a halt. “Now these can’t be my brothers,” Jon said, dismounting.
“There must be some other Stark boys around, because the one’s I remember were
about half your size.”
“Then perhaps you should have visited more,” Rickon said before crashing into
him for a hug.
Bran was a bit slower on his feet, but he hugged Jon as well, all gangly limbs
and sharp elbows. One of his legs had a noticeable limp to it, but even with
that reduction in height Bran was still an inch or two taller than him.
“If you don’t stop growing you’ll be able to see over the castle walls soon,”
Jon said. What happened to your leg?”
“I slipped while I was trying to climb some icy rocks,” Bran said sheepishly.
“Maester Luwin says it’ll never fully heal, but I can still walk and sit a
horse.”
A heavy weight settled in the pit of Jon’s stomach. Bran had always wanted to
be a knight, but with an injured leg he wouldn’t be fast enough on his feet.
Jon supposed he could still joust and, with enough training, become a decent
longbowmen. However, before Jon could ask any more questions Jory Castle
clapped him on the shoulder
“You’re father’s asked to see you right when you arrive,” he said.
Rickon looked inclined to tag along, but Bran caught his elbow. “We’ll talk
later.”
His father’s solar was much the same as it had been since Jon was a boy, though
it had the look of being much smaller than he remembered. Most of Winterfell
seemed that way—infinitely large when he was a child, but as a man he realized
that even the largest castle had limits.
“Lord Stark,” he said, more nervous than he’d expected to be.
His father stood from his seat by the fire, hesitated for a moment, and hugged
him, taking Jon by surprise. He was grateful for the gesture. A part of Jon had
expected his father to greet him like a subject—what kind of son went to the
free cities for five years because of his own ambitions?—but it appeared that
Ned Stark was simply happy to see him again.
“You’ve been missed,” he said, and warmth flared in Jon’s stomach, somewhere
between shame and happiness.
“It’s good to be back,” he said. Jon felt the sudden urge to tell his Lord
father about all the things he’d done and seen, that his time away had not been
a waste, but he was sure that Lord Eddard would ask in due time.
They both took a seat by the fireplace. Two stone direwolves watched them from
its frame.
“You know why I’ve asked that you return,” his father started, his long face
taking on a serious expression. “Arya is to wed Theon in a moon’s turn. I need
you to go with her to the Iron Islands, I don’t know for how long. She wouldn’t
agree to the marriage unless you accompanied her.”
Jon saw what his father had not said: without his help, the union between House
Stark and House Greyjoy would not happen.
“You need me to be Arya’s sworn shield.”
“Yes, but also more than that. Their ways are different from ours, it will be a
long time before Arya feels comfortable in her new role. Believe me, I
understand that your sister is not a . . . conventional lady.”
“A conventional lady would be even more miserable married to Theon,” Jon said
dryly.
That made the corners of his father’s mouth turn up. “Which is precisely why
I’ve given the task to Arya. The last time House Greyjoy had this kind of
freedom there was a rebellion. By the Gods, that won’t happen again.”
Jon nodded. It was an unpleasant task that his father had given to Arya, but
there was no one else capable of it. Sansa would be married to a southern lord
one day, and even though Robb and Theon were friends now there was no guarantee
that it would temper Theon’s actions in the future. His father had the right of
it, Jon knew, though he had always hoped that Arya would end up with someone
better, someone who understood her and wouldn’t try to change who she was.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Jon said.
“Good. I knew I could trust you in this.”
Once their talk was finished Jon went looking for the rest of his siblings.
Five years was too long away from the people he cared most about.
--
The Godswood was quiet while the rest of the castle rang with activity. Jon
slowed his pace once he entered it, listening for the sound of the wolves, for
Arya’s laugh or the distinctive echo of Robb’s footsteps. This place reminded
him of the life he could have had at Winterfell if he’d stayed—there were whole
years he’d missed, parts of his siblings’ lives he’d never gotten to see, but
the regret he felt was momentary. Jon was not a Stark, and though he’d enjoyed
his time here Winterfell would never be his place.
Quietly, he came around the side of a tree and saw a pair of bare feet hanging
beneath a tattered gray skirt in the branches of a white birch tree. A wooden
practice sword was discarded in the grass beneath its branches, along with a
pair of lady’s slippers that looked far too impractical for climbing.
Smiling, Jon reached up and tugged on the girl’s bare ankle.
“Aren’t you going to say hello?” he asked, laughing.
“Jon!”
Arya nearly toppled out of the branches. She swung down from the limb,
launching herself at him as soon as her feet touched the ground. Chuckling, Jon
hugged her, surprised at how tall she’d grown. Arya was still a head shorter
than him but she’d been so small when he’d left for the life of a sellsword.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she said. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
“I suppose I’ve missed you as well,” he joked. “What are you doing hiding in
trees? I thought you were supposed to be a lady now.”
Arya could barely hide her contempt. “Gods, not you too! Mother has been giving
me lessons every day on how to be a proper lady. The septa as well. The way
they carry on, you’d think I was marrying into the royal family. It’s like
they’ve forgotten that it’s just Theon.”
Jon picked up her wooden practice sword. “I’m sure your lady lessons also cover
sword fighting.”
Arya tried to snatch it out of his hand, but he darted away from her.
“Who’s teaching you?” Jon asked. She playfully circled him, trying to trip him
up and get the sword back.
“No one. I nicked it from Bran.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said, tossing it back to her. “Just come find me after
your lady lessons.”
Arya’s smile brightened. If she only had a month left in Winterfell before
becoming Lady Greyjoy for the rest of her life, then he hoped she could enjoy
just being his sister for one last time.
--
Arya stood on a platform while the seamstress took her measurements. Sansa and
her Lady mother watched while she tried not to complain. Her mother had sent
for the best dressmakers in White Harbor to make her gown, but having the
fitting was only another reminder of how drastically her life was to change.
Soon, she’d be Theon’s wife, she would have to wear dresses every day and move
away from home and comply whenever her lord husband wanted to touch her. The
thought made Arya’s stomach clench painfully.
Her mother and septa Mordane had told her how to speak, act, and dance, but
Arya had already asked the serving girls about what would really happen on her
wedding night. When he’d lived at Winterfell, there had been whispers about how
Theon had enjoyed the company of “loose” women. At the time she hadn’t
understood, but now she was almost six and ten, old enough to know what a whore
was.
“Don’t look so sad, dear. Aren’t you excited for your wedding?” the seamstress
asked.
No, Arya thought. And if you had any sense you wouldn’t be either.
“It’s quite far away from my family,” she said, hoping she was being
sufficiently ladylike.
“But it’ll be so wonderful,” Sansa said. “You’re going to a new place to be
with your new husband and start a family of your own. You’ll grow to love
Theon, you’ll see.”
Arya forced herself not to snort. Her mother would certainly chastise her for
that.
“You do remember Theon, don’t you?” she asked. “He never seemed very interested
in me before, perhaps he’ll continue to feel that way once we’re married.”
The seamstress gave her a dress to try on. Arya was saved further conversation
while the gown was being laced up. The dressmakers and her mother began going
over the details that would be added later, the gold panel that would be in the
front, beneath the laces of the bodice, and the gold needlework that would
adorn the sleeves. Sansa had thought black too drab for a wedding, but their
mother had insisted on it, saying the Greyjoy colors, her new house, were only
appropriate.
Arya did like it. As gowns went, it was not as ridiculous as she’d feared it
would be. Her mother had explained that the ironborn were simple people and
that she’d be better received this way.
“I wonder what I’ll have to wear on my own wedding day,” Sansa said. “Father
has promised that I’ll be betrothed soon, but it’s taking so long. The oldest
daughter usually marries first, you know. People will be so excited about your
wedding that they will have all but forgotten about mine.”
Arya began to remove the dress herself, impatient with the silly black fabric,
with the idea that she should be perfectly happy to leave her entire family and
marry a man who had no feelings for her.
“You can marry Theon then,” she said, throwing on her regular clothes. “I doubt
he’ll notice. It’s not like I’m anything more to him than the sister of Robb
Stark.”
“Arya,” Sansa started. “You know I didn’t mean it that way—“
It doesn’t matter, she thought. Just like everything else I say.
She fixed her clothes as quickly as she could, her hands shaking as she yanked
the Stark-gray fabric over her head.
Arya pulled open the door to the corridor, already thinking of places she could
escape to. She heard her mother call her but she didn’t turn back, anxious to
escape her mother’s solar, hot tears stinging her eyes. She refused to let
Sansa see her cry.
--
The part of the Godswood where Jon was standing rarely saw much light. The
thick upper canopy of leaves blocked out the warmth one usually felt in the
bailey or at the tops of the wall walk, but he dare not move from his spot.
He’d heard enough to make him weary of announcing his presence. His father and
Lady Catelyn were talking beneath the Heart Tree, and Jon knew that their
conversation wasn’t for outside ears, his least of all.
He’d been looking for Arya. Earlier, Sansa had worriedly asked him if he’d seen
his younger sister, which had made him think they’d had a fight. Jon hoped to
take her riding to cheer her up, but instead of finding Arya in the Godswood
he’d stumbled upon a private conversation between the Lord and Lady of
Winterfell.
“Bran doesn’t have near the experience necessary,” he heard his father say.
“Besides, Theon’s men could easily take advantage of his condition, and then
Arya would be without protection. Rickon’s far too young, and Robb’s place is
here. Jon must be the one to go.”
He didn’t hear Lady Catelyn reply, but Jon could made out the sound of twigs
breaking and leaves being brushed along the forest floor, as if by a skirt.
“You ask a great deal of me,” she said. “Arya is the first of our children to
marry, one of the youngest of our children, might I remind you, and I find it
difficult to trust Jon Snow in this way.”
“Arya insisted that Jon be her guard,” his father said, his voice firm. “She’s
been surprisingly compliant with the betrothal. I won’t deny her this one
request.”
Jon’s chest tightened at his father’s words. He trusts me, he thought. Even
after leaving his family for five years, his father still saw something worthy
in him.
--
“You’re not to be nosing around the stables, m’lady,” said Hollum, the stable-
master.
Arya tried to peer over his shoulder but it was a wasted effort. She was too
short and he was too broad.
“I always saddle my own horse,” she said, arms crossed. “I don’t need help.”
Hollum sighed. “It’s not a matter of help, m’lady, I’ve been given specific
instructions to—“
“It’s alright,” Jon said, coming up behind Arya. “I was going to wait until
your wedding, but now will have to do.”
“Wait for what?” Arya asked.
Jon smiled and entered the stables. She followed him, quick to dart around
Hollum and the other stable-hands. “What have you been hiding?”
“A present.”
He reached the stall where Fang was housed, taking notice that the stable-hands
avoided the range of her muzzle at all costs. Jon eyed her carefully before
taking an apple out of his pocket and holding it out for her.
“Her name is Fang,” he said, stroking her along the crest, where her white mane
fell across her neck. Once she finished eating the apple she made a go for
Jon’s shoulder, but he drew away quickly.
“She bites, but I’m sure she’ll come to like you.”
“She’s for me?” Arya asked, looking at her even gray coat and the pure white of
her mane and tail.
“Think of it as a wedding present,” Jon said, gathering the two saddles and
bridles they’d need for a ride. “Don’t you want to try her out?”
“Yes, of course!” she said.
Arya saddled Fang while Jon took Rowdy, the horse she normally rode. They left
by the Huntsman’s Gate, and for a moment he saw his sister truly happy, the
demands of the future forgotten.
--
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     A big thank you to marchioness for the beta!
The journey to Pyke was too brief for Arya. Nymeria paced the deck of the ship,
frightening the crew and earning the ire of the captain, who thought there was
no place for wolves at sea. Unfortunately for him, there were four direwolves
on board, none of whom much liked the turbulent ocean.
Sansa and her lady mother cautioned her to avoid spending much time on deck for
fear that her skin would darken under the sun, but Arya could not force herself
to do so. The sea was beautiful and she thought it worthwhile to learn about
sailing from Jon and the deckhands. If she was truly going to become the lady
of the Iron Islands then she needed to understand their waters.
“I wish I could travel the ports in Essos,” Arya said, leaning against the rail
of the ship with Jon.
“Perhaps you will,” he replied. “It wouldn’t be the first time a great Lord or
Lady has traveled the Free Cities.”
Unspoken words hung between them, with Jon and Arya both wondering if Theon
would allow it or if they were entertaining impossible dreams. Many similar
thoughts had crossed her mind already, in her bed aboard the ship before sleep,
or even before that, in her daydreams at Winterfell. However, Arya had accepted
the task her father had given her and she had decided that she would not fail
in her duty to House Stark.
Her duty was to marry Theon, and if her father thought it important enough to
arrange then it was her responsibility to see it through, even if that meant
sacrificing dreams that she’d held onto for too long. Jon put his arm around
her, as if he could hear the excuses she was making for her future.
As a child his touch had always been playful—ruffling her hair, picking her up
to sit on his shoulders, grasping her arms to show her the proper way to hold a
bow and arrow. She was no longer a child, but comfort in the arms of Jon Snow,
warm and safe and everything she was giving up, was all she had to ground her
to the past.
--
The raw, unabating wind greeted them at the rocky shore beneath Pyke. In her
simple white maiden’s gown Arya walked down the slope to the ocean where Theon
and the other Greyjoys waited for them. Her father escorted her to the water’s
edge, along with Nymeria, who wouldn’t leave her side even when she stepped
into the biting waves.
Jon, Robb, Sansa, and her lady mother were present, along with several of her
father’s household guard. Arya picked out a woman who must be Theon’s sister,
judging by how closely they resembled each other, along with other relatives
who had the same shock of dark hair that must be common to the Greyjoys. Theon
and the priest of the Drowned God stood in the water up to their knees. Arya
and Nymeria joined them.
“Before you can be wed, you must be cleansed in the waters of the Drowned God.
Kneel, Arya Stark.”
Arya sank to her knees in the frigid water, her white dress fanning out around
her. The priest took her shoulders firmly in his weather-beaten hands and
submerged her beneath the waves. She closed her eyes, blowing bubbles of air
from her nose while the priest’s hands anchored her underneath the surface. It
felt as if she were beneath the icy water for a long time, and just as she
began to struggle, feeling lightheaded from the lack of air, the priest pulled
her up, gasping.
Arya sucked in a few long breaths. The priest took a skin of seawater and
poured it over her brow.
“Let Arya, your servant, be born again from the sea as you were. Bless her with
salt, bless her with stone, bless her with steel.”
“What is dead may never die,” she said.
The priest fixed his black eyes on her. “What is dead may never die, but rises
again, harder and stronger.”
Theon reached down and took her hand. She stood from the waves, her arm in his,
drowned and brought back to life. The wedding began.
--
Her lady mother helped the handmaidens lace up her gown, pulling at the bodice
until it was tightly fastened. The women patted at her damp hair with cloths
and pinned the bustle of her long skirt so it wouldn’t get caught while
dancing. With three maidservants attending to her and an entire wedding party
awaiting her arrival Arya had never been the center of so much attention in her
life.
During the commotion, Sansa pulled a small package from her sleeve and
presented it to her.
“I know it’s not something ladies usually wear, but I made it for you as a
wedding present. I thought you would like it.”
Arya had never seen her sister do anything that a lady wouldn’t usually do, so
the admission caught her completely off guard. The bundle was wrapped in gray
silk and pinned with a silver direwolf, its sterling teeth barred in a snarl, a
piece of the North just as she was being transfigured into someone else.
Arya carefully opened the gift to find a strand of seashells that had been made
into a necklace, each shell a unique size and color. As far as Arya could
remember, Sansa had never made her a gift, not even one of the countless pieces
of needlework her sister had stitched during their childhood. Arya held the
necklace in her hands, unable to find the words for the tender, weak feeling
that had taken hold in her chest.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Sansa smiled and fastened it around her neck. “You’re welcome, Lady Greyjoy.”
Before they entered the hall for the feast Arya caught a glimpse of her mother
dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She hadn’t felt like crying during the
wedding ceremony, she had been too intently focused on the fiercely cold water,
but as she touched the seashell necklace against her neck Arya felt close to
tears herself.
You have no time to weep, she reminded herself; the guests were waiting for her
before beginning the feast. Arya, Sansa, her mother, and their ladies went to
the hall as quickly as they could manage. A Greyjoy guardsman opened the doors
for them, allowing Arya to hear cheers of “Lady Greyjoy!” for the first time.
Nymeria mirrored her every step, following her to the dais where Theon took her
hand.
There were many toasts and songs played in their name. Her father had provided
a generous amount of wine for the feast, though Arya suspected the presence of
four direwolves had a dampening effect on the celebration. She was introduced
to nearly every member of House Greyjoy, along with several prominent bannermen
and their families, but she was most interested in Asha, Theon’s sister. Arya
had never seen a lady wear throwing axes in the belt of her evening gown.
They received gifts from the guests for much of the evening. Some were as
simple as a set of well-crafted axes for Theon, while she was given an ornate
Myrish hand-mirror that had a mermaid etched into the frame. Arya had never
been one for dancing but, as it was required of her, she danced with her new
lord husband, her father, and both her brothers. At one point she was returned
to Theon for another dance while Robb partnered with Asha.
“Perhaps I’ll do my friend a favor and propose a betrothal with my sister,”
Theon said, smiling.
“I think your sister would find Winterfell boring. There are no pirates there.
The women sew instead of throwing axes.”
To Arya’s surprise, Theon laughed at her quip. They didn’t speak about the
subject of betrothals anymore that evening, but that laugh stuck with her all
through dinner, a lapse in the distance she’d maintained until now.
After several hours of feasting, and once the musicians had played every song
twice over that was appropriate for dancing, calls for the bedding were heard.
A tight knot formed in Arya’s stomach that refused to loosen. This seemed to
excite the ironborn more than anything else that evening, and in her anxiety
Arya carefully looked over the hall, searching for her wolf.
The women began to drag Theon away by the front of his jerkin, though he seemed
to be enjoying the attention. Some of the Greyjoy men started to pull at the
laces of her gown that had been so carefully stitched, pulling away the black
panels, sliding the dagged sleeves of her dress down her arms. Arya felt hands
lingering on her bottom, her breasts and her sides before her skirts and her
thin shift were torn away.
She could not tell who the men were, they were mostly in service to House
Greyjoy and unknown to her, but a shock went through the crowd when one of the
Ironborn jumped away from her, screaming. Nymeria had bitten his hand and taken
off a finger. Before the situation could escalate, Arya felt herself being
picked up by a familiar form and carried the rest of the way to the bedchamber.
“Thank you, Jory,” she said, watching the flagstones pass beneath them from
over his shoulder.
“Thank your brother Jon. He asked me to help you if these ironborn got too
excited.”
Jory said “ironborn” as if it were an insult. In less time than she’d expected,
they had reached a door that led to the lord’s private apartments. At some
point her hair had fallen out of its braid and it now hung over her bare chest,
covering her nakedness. Jory purposefully avoided looking at her in her
smallclothes while Arya did the only thing left to her—she swallowed her riled
heart and entered the chamber.
She bit her lower lip hard enough to make it bleed, her hands shaking as the
heavy door closed behind her. Theon was already in the room, undressed and
drinking a cup of wine on the bed that had been made for them, causal in his
nudity.
“Wife,” he smiled, setting down the wine. “It’s time, isn’t it?”
Arya nodded, internally scolding herself. He’s just a man, she thought. A real
wolf wouldn’t be afraid.
There was nothing kind about Theon’s smile. She pulled her smallclothes past
her hips, kicking them off and waiting, the sound of the ocean outside the
castle filling the silence between them.
--
The drinking continued late into the night, even after the feast and the
bedding were over. Jon and Robb found their chambers, forgoing sleep while Lord
and Lady Stark retired; Sansa even stayed to drink a cup of wine with them
before drifting off in her chair by the fire, her direwolf curled up by her
feet.
Robb poured himself another glass of wine. Jon had barely started on his, too
preoccupied to enjoy the alcohol that seemed to please the ironborn so much.
From their room in the castle they could hear others on Pyke bellowing into the
early hours of the morning, singing the usual wedding songs and tunes better
fit for sailing, each one off key and distorted by drink.
“Get ready, brother,” Jon said. “Your wedding will be next.”
Robb laughed and shook his head. “Not if Sansa has any say about it. I barely
have an idea of who father’s been considering. At least Arya and Theon know
each other.”
Jon nodded in agreement, even if he didn’t side with Robb on the benefit of his
sister’s marriage.
“I’m sure he’ll take your preference into consideration,” Jon said, though a
part of him didn’t believe it. His father was a good man, but he wasn’t
infallible, and Jon himself had wondered if his father was asking too much by
marrying Arya to the Greyjoys.
“I can only hope as much,” Robb said, finishing his wine.
It was very late by the time they both went to sleep. Jon pulled off his nicest
jerkin and doublet, both of which he’d purchased during his time in the Free
Cities. He wasn’t yet used to the idea of being in one place for the
foreseeable future after traveling extensively for the last few years. The
rooms he’d been given at Pyke would be his as long as he was in his sister’s
service.
Jon fell asleep thinking of Arya. He had missed so many years of her childhood,
with the image of the little girl she used to be rapidly being replaced by the
strong, capable woman she’d become. The idea that Theon would have a claim over
her life did not sit well with Jon no matter how he tried to think of it. As a
sellsword, wealthy men who treated women far worse had hired him, but the
comparison did nothing to settle his doubts.
He wanted more for his sister than a title and the knowledge that she’d carried
through with their father’s wishes. He wanted Arya to have more than duty to
sustain her. Jon fell asleep slowly, kept awake by the sound of the waves
against the rocky cliff face, as if the sea did not wish for him to be there.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Alanya Harlaw doesn’t exist in canon. She’s an OC that I created.
Theon’s solar was cozy from the fire, a pocket of light and warmth in the
misting rain, but Arya felt none of the heat herself. She felt icier than the
fogged-over panes of glass in the narrow windows. Motionless in her chair, she
listened without letting her anger rise out of her in a sharp coil, reminding
herself that they were man and wife and arguing with her husband would lead to
nothing.
“The Ironborn were great, once,” Theon said, sitting at his father’s writing
table. “But it’s exactly as my uncle said. The crown doesn’t want to see us
powerful again, so they restrain us, they push our heads beneath the water.
They’re afraid.”
Afraid of another Rebellion, Arya thought. She had already offered to go to
King’s Landing on behalf of House Greyjoy to present his proposals to King
Robert, but Theon had cast her idea down with hardly any consideration. He
hated the idea of making a deal with the people who had forced him to be a
hostage. It was not the way of the Ironborn to show weakness and Theon saw
treating with the King as nothing more than begging.
After the Greyjoy Rebellion the crown had imposed harsh sanctions on trade
among the Iron Islands, making it impossible for them to amass enough wealth to
attempt disobedience ever again. But the Rebellion was more than fifteen years
past and the Ironborn still suffered.
“You’ll never get the other Lords to comply without the crown’s approval,” Arya
said, unable to help herself.
“Don’t attempt to lecture me,” he said.
Arya saw no way to convince Theon that he needed her help. He would do as he
wished, and she had no way to sway him on the matter. She closed her eyes for a
moment, collecting her thoughts, before excusing herself to go riding.
“It’s raining,” he said, like she was dull enough not to notice.
Unable to restrain herself any more, she replied quite tersely, “Then I’ll get
wet.”
--
The rain had petered out into a drizzle by the time Arya and Jon set out on
their horses. Fang was steady on the rocky path, unfazed by the weather or the
presence of Ghost and Nymeria. Arya did not say anything until they had ridden
for some time, finding themselves on the beach before she spoke to Jon, her
frustration tempered by the cool air.
“I thought that if I tried to be helpful Theon might grow more fond of me,” she
said, allowing Fang to slow to a walk.
“Not all men take counsel the same way,” Jon said, shrugging. “You may have
meant to give advice, but he took it as criticism.”
Arya supposed he was right. She bit her bottom lip while their wolves chased
each other up and down the shore, thinking of how things had been easier at
home, where people knew her and didn’t question everything she said. Arya
wasn’t used to considering herself a Greyjoy yet, either, and she’d almost
stopped herself when she’d told Theon that she’d go to the capital to represent
their house. It wasn’t that she didn’t think herself capable, it was that she
felt uncomfortable with identifying herself as Lady Greyjoy, as Theon’s wife. A
part of her still clung to the title of Arya Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter, Jon
Snow’s sister, a Northerner.
Did my mother feel this way when she came to Winterfell? Arya wondered, her
horse following Jon’s over the rocky shore.
She thought that she would spend many nights thinking about home, but normally
Arya was too tired for restless thoughts. Theon was very regular in his
physical attentions toward her and she spent much of her time during the day
training with Jon. He was teaching her the style of the Braavosi water dancers,
leaving her winded and sore after every practice.
The Iron Islands were a small, queer place with customs she was still learning.
Arya hardly felt like a real Greyjoy, with the label of greenlander following
her every step. There wasn’t even a Heart Tree on Pyke, just another missing
face in the sea of new people she’d met as Theon’s wife, each a reminder of
what she was leaving behind. Jon was the one thing from her old life that she’d
been allowed to keep. Arya found herself constantly wanting to thank him for
agreeing to go with her to this lonely place, but thanks seemed lacking when
she considered the life he’d given up in Essos.
Arya stroked Fang’s sinewy neck, feeling the warmth under the palfrey’s damp
fur.
“Why did you come home?” she asked, thinking of all the gold Jon had earned as
a sellsword, the adventures he’d surely had and the life he’d known as just
another swordsman, unaffected by his bastard status for the first time in his
life.
“Because you needed me,” Jon said.
She looked up at him and felt her chest swell, like her heart had shivered and
released a torrent of emotions stronger and louder than any sea.
My husband may never love me, Arya thought, but there’s no loss in that.
--
“We’re going to King’s Landing,” Arya said from the corridor. They were
standing over the threshold of his chambers and her hair was falling out of its
braid, like she’d rushed here to tell him.
“Come inside,” Jon said, shutting the heavy door behind her.
“Theon’s asked me to go and you and Asha are coming with me,” she continued,
helping herself to a seat by the fire.
“How did you convince him?”
“I didn’t. I ignored him for five days, then he asked me if all Stark women
were so frigid and he gave me a letter to give to King Robert.”
Arya delivered every word matter-of-factly while scratching Ghost behind the
ears. Jon could already imagine the sullen look on Theon’s face as he handed
over the letter, the same look Theon had worn at Winterfell when the serving
girls made eyes at Robb instead of him, or when Jon would beat him in the
training yard.
“That’s the perfect way to endear your new husband to you,” Jon said dryly.
“When do we leave?”
“In a week’s time,” Arya replied, slowly unwinding her braid.
Jon had only seen King’s Landing from the harbor, he’d never actually been into
the city, let alone the Red Keep. Leaving Pyke would be a welcome distraction
for Arya, he knew. The excitement of her small victory for House Greyjoy would
do little to bridge the distance between Arya and Theon long term, but Jon
hoped that over time, perhaps after a series of small victories, Theon would
begin to see the worth in her.
He took out his whetstone to begin to sharpen his sword, but in the short lapse
in conversation Arya had already begun to drift asleep. Jon picked her up like
a bride, unwilling to throw her over his shoulder—Arya was a woman, not a bail
of hay—before placing her in her own chambers. It reminded him of when they
were children, of carrying her to bed when their Lord father’s bannermen came
to Winterfell and the feasts lasted long into the evening.
He placed her on her bed and slipped out quietly, wondering if there would come
a day when Arya would go to someone else with her dreams and plans, if she
would want to be carried to bed by another man. The thought was painful in the
way that unwanted emotions were painful. Jon went to bed himself, ignoring the
ache in his chest that had all the tenderness of a wound.
--
After may moons on Pyke Jon had grown used to hearing the sea every day, which
made their journey through the Riverlands sound oddly quiet to his ears. Theon
had sent them to King’s Landing with a retinue of guards and traders, along
with Lady Asha and Lady Alanya Harlaw, the only daughter of Lord Harlaw.
Jon was used to traveling and even more accustomed to riding, but the same
could not be said for the Greyjoy men in their party, who were more acquainted
with a deck than a saddle. Due to the inexperience of their riders the party
traveled more slowly than one would expect for a group of their size, but the
pace didn’t bother Jon. He’d rather be on horseback or asleep under the clear
sky than pretending to be interested in the goings-on of the capital.
The Riverlands were full of life, evidenced by the sound of owls in the trees
around their campsite and the frogs that croaked and splashed in the nearby
stream. Ghost left Jon’s company once they stopped to make camp, returning a
few hours later with a faun in his jaws, his white fur streaked with blood
around his muzzle.
Jon sharpened his sword by the fire while Asha stopped to watch his wolf.
“That’s a fearsome beast you have,” Asha said.
“He can be kind when he chooses,” he replied, nodding to the empty stump by the
fire.
She took the seat and began to sharpen her axes. The sound of Ghost cracking
the faun’s bones was loud enough to wake the whole wood, but Asha only glanced
at the wolf before resuming her work with the whetstone.
“Have you ever been to the capital, Lady Asha?” Jon asked.
“I traveled there with my father as a child,” she said. “But after the
rebellion we weren’t particularly welcome in King Robert’s court.”
He nodded, needing no further explanation on the fallout of the Greyjoy
Rebellion.
“Though our standing seems to be changing, thanks to your sister,” Asha
continued.
“They are your brother’s trade proposals.”
Jon could see the disdain in the slant of her mouth. “You don’t believe that
any more than I do, Jon Snow. We would have never left Pyke if this were merely
Theon’s work.”
He forced himself not to laugh at Theon’s expense. It was one thing to talk
freely with Arya, it was quite another to speak so openly with Theon’s sister.
Jon may not have liked Theon Greyjoy, but he served his wife, slept under his
roof, and dinned in his halls. He understood his position with House Greyjoy.
They talked for some time, having been to many of the same cities. Asha asked
him about Winterfell, about Arya and her life before Pyke, about Theon and his
years as a ward. Jon tried to choose his words carefully but Asha Greyjoy was
clever and very different from most highborn women. The hour crept later into
the night and eventually Jon sheathed his sword, standing from the fire.
“I must make leave of you, my Lady,” Jon said, feeling tired from the day’s
ride.
Asha looked him up and down, her dark eyes meeting his in the firelight.
“I hope you don’t find your bed too cold, my Lord,” she said, taking her leave.
For a moment Jon was too surprised to say anything. Asha had left before he
realized that she’d intended for him to follow her, and the realization made
something in his gut clench uncomfortably. He went to the tent he’d set up next
to Arya’s, thinking about Asha’s fierce eyes and her lean body while guilt
curled in his stomach. Jon had no orders stopping him from sleeping with Asha
Greyjoy, but the idea would not settle in his mind, too volatile when mixed
with the task he’d taken on as Arya’s sworn shield.
He had known women in Essos, where honor meant a different thing in every city
and his name placed few limits on whom he could be with. Jon shed his boots and
sword belt, preparing for bed as Ghost curled up in front of the opening to the
tent. The direwolf placed his large head on his paws while Jon crawled beneath
his sleeping furs.
Earlier that day he had raced Arya along the Blue Fork, pushing his courser to
keep pace with her as they ran ahead and doubled back to rejoin the party. Her
hair had fallen out of its braid while they were riding, long and shining in
the afternoon sun.
Jon rolled onto his stomach, pressing his groin against his pallet, his cheeks
heated. What is wrong with me? he thought, knowing that it was thoughts of Arya
that had aroused him, not Asha Greyjoy or her offer of a warm bed. This wasn’t
the only time he’d noticed his sister, but on every other occasion Jon had not
dared to let himself consider it. And yet, he felt no inkling of the wrongness
that brothers were supposed to feel when thinking of their sisters, and there
was no way of knowing if his face was flushed from shame or from arousal.
He slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his trousers and lightly touched
himself, afraid to even breathe loudly. Jon felt like his thoughts were
impossibly loud in the cool night air, so loud that everyone must hear them
despite the pain of biting down on his lower lip while his hand circled his
cock in full strokes.
The Gods will hate me for this, he thought, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.
Jon came at the thought of Arya’s streaming hair and the flushed, triumphant
look she’d worn after their race. He fell asleep quickly after that, too tired
to think on what he had just done.
***** Chapter 4 *****
King’s Landing was not as large as Arya remembered. The last time she had been
to the capital was over five years ago when she was only ten. She remembered
the Queen being golden and distant, while King Robert was loud and often drunk,
though he had been kind when her father introduced them, calling her “little
Lyanna.” That had made Queen Cersei even more frigid, Arya remembered.
Theon had sent word of their journey to the capital but Arya was unsurprised to
see that the King was not available to greet them upon their arrival. Jon
Arryn, her father’s old friend, welcomed them to the Red Keep by providing
lodgings and a chance at an audience on the morrow. To Arya’s surprise,
Princess Myrcella was with him. It was only then that Arya remembered the
whisperings about how Robb might one day marry the Princess. Secretly, she
hoped he married Asha instead.
“It’s good to see you again, Lady Greyjoy,” Myrcella said.
Arya had never enjoyed the duties of being a Lady, but she knew them, and she
knew that being kind and mannerly to the royal family would only help the trade
prospects for the Iron Islands. She felt Nymeria’s head against her hand,
gently nudging her.
“It is a pleasure to see you as well, your Grace,” she replied. Arya introduced
Asha, Alanya Harlaw, and the wealthiest of the merchants who had traveled with
them.
After what felt like hours of dull conversation with the Princess, Arya reached
her chambers where she slumped in a chair and stroked Nymeria’s steely gray
fur. The direwolves had alarmed the servants but Jon Arryn had expected them,
it seemed, for there was a rug on the floor next to her bed, the perfect size
for her wolf. There were a few hours before they would be expected for dinner
but drowsiness swept over Arya as soon as she sat down, making it impossible to
keep her eyes open. Still in her formal clothes, she drifted to sleep in her
chair, trusting Jon to wake her before she had to appear as Lady Greyjoy once
more.
--
Jon Arryn appeared much older than she remembered him, but age had not taken
his perceptiveness, it seemed.
“You’ll have to excuse King Robert, my Lady,” he said, walking with her through
the Red Keep. “He remembers you as Ned’s daughter, he must have forgotten about
your recent marriage.”
When Arya had formally requested an audience to discuss trade between House
Greyjoy and the crown King Robert had greeted her as Arya Stark, drawing the
ire of the Ironborn who had traveled with her. For once, Asha had followed her
advice in wearing a proper gown but it had done little to remind Robert that he
wasn’t just dealing with “little Lyanna,” that she was here on her husband’s
business.
They reached Jon Arryn’s solar and he personally held the door open for her and
Jon Snow. She could tell that her brother was surprised, he was used to being
treated as her guard, not a member of her family.
“I would not intrude on your privacy, my Lord,” Jon Snow said, taking his place
by the door with Ghost.
Jon Arryn nodded to him. “Very well. Come, Lady Arya.”
The room was calming, much like the man who occupied it. Arya took a seat in a
chair that was upholstered in pale blue, noting the fine weave of the fabric
beneath her fingers. A pitcher of iced wine had been left out for them and the
open windows let in a cool breeze from the Blackwater.
He is trying to make up for the King’s disinterest, she thought, accepting the
offer of a drink.
“I understand that you are here to represent your Lord husband,” Jon Arryn
said. “Did he send a letter detailing his requests?”
“Of course,” Arya said, pulling the scroll from her sleeve.
He broke the golden wax seal of House Greyjoy and read the missive Theon had
written. She had helped him compose the letter, making sure to offer her
suggestions carefully so as to not appear over-bearing. Arya had taken Jon
Snow’s advice to heart. She couldn’t speak plainly to Theon on how to persuade
the crown, but she hoped that her counsel would prove useful.
Jon Arryn read the letter with a thick piece of glass that had been set in a
handled frame.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said in reference to the reading glass. “My eyes
are not what they once were.”
“Would you like me to read it for you?” Arya asked.
“No, that’s quite alright.” He rolled up the scroll and carefully placed the
reading glass on the table. “Lord Greyjoy has presented very reasonable
requests. The Iron Islands have existed under punitive sanctions for many
years, and it seems that the time to repeal them is long overdue. You must
understand, my Lady, that we were unsure of the type of Lord your husband meant
to be.”
“You thought he would get revenge for his father.”
Jon Arryn had very pale eyes, like a piece of the clear sky was peering at her.
“That was a concern, yes. But I see no reason to hold that possibility against
him. I will write up an agreement detailing the crown’s support of trade with
House Greyjoy and we will lower the tax to pre-war levels. King Robert is not
one to bear a grudge, you see.”
Arya was pleased. “House Greyjoy is grateful to you, my Lord Hand. I’m sure the
merchants who have traveled with me will be eager to talk business with you
this evening.”
“I’ll be glad to give them an audience,” he said.
--
Arya arranged a ship to return them to the Iron Islands, much to the relief of
her party. Few of them had enjoyed their journey across the Riverlands. Even
though the voyage would take longer by sea it would make it more comfortable
for her companions, with the additional bonus of a stop in Oldtown, a city Arya
had always wanted to visit.
Nymeria disliked sailing, so she spent most of her time on deck with Ghost, who
was unfazed by the constantly changing lodgings and unsteady vessel.
The journey around Dorne was hotter than anything Arya had ever experienced and
she threatened to throw herself off the deck and into the open ocean more than
once. Jon only laughed at her, saying she was so small she’d hardly make a meal
for a fish.
“Would you prefer to swim back to Pyke?” he joked, in a thin tunic and doublet
while she was stuck in her heavy lady’s dresses.
Their stop in Oldtown was brief, lasting only a few days, just enough time to
sell the goods that had been taken on in King’s Landing. While they were in
Oldtown Arya visited the Starry Sept and lit a candle for the warrior, who
looked lean and wolfish in the ancient mural. She went to one of the few
libraries at the Citadel that was open to the public, unintentionally scaring
the novices who were studying with the presence of Ghost and Nymeria.
Arya was sad to leave beneath the breathtakingly high towers that flanked the
city, sure that there were many wonders here that she would never uncover.
--
They would dock sometime the following morning, being very close to Pyke and
its familiar waters. Arya had enjoyed her trip to the capital and the little
adventures they’d had, despite having to properly act as Lady Greyjoy for its
duration, and she was reluctant to return home. She hoped Theon would be
pleased with what she’d accomplished, but Arya felt increasingly uncertain on
that matter.
What if her accomplishments would never be enough for him? Or, worse yet, what
if he resented her for succeeding in the very task he’d ordered her to
complete? In Westeros it was frowned upon for wives to overshadow their
husbands, as she had seen quite literally in King Robert and Queen Cersei, one
of them uninterested in the abundant power at his disposal, the other forced to
remain subservient due to her station. The thought left a bitter taste in
Arya’s mouth.
Theon feasted them upon their return, providing roast boar, Dornish wine, and
the choicest fish from Ironman’s Bay. Her letter from the capital detailing the
arrangement with the crown must have reached him, she thought.
In the Great Hall Theon stood from his chair at the high table, drawing the
attention of the merchants who’d traveled with Arya and the bannermen that had
been called for the celebration. She saw the Botleys, the Stonetrees, the
Goodbrothers of Hammerhorn and Lord Rodrick the reader among many others.
He has won them over, she thought. I only hope he hasn’t forgotten my role in
this.
“My Lords,” Theon said, a glass of wine in his hand. “We are upon a new age in
the Iron Islands. For too long the Seven Kingdoms have turned their back to us.
They have prospered while we have languished, but I say no more, I say the
winds are changing. We will show Westeros what happens when you try to drown
the Ironborn. What is dead may never die, but rises, harder and stronger.”
The men gathered in the hall erupted in a cheer, banging their fists on the
tables and stomping on the stone floor, causing a racket loud enough to raise a
dragon. Arya, along with the others seated at the high table, drank their toast
to Theon’s words.
In the midst of the uproar Theon looked to her, smiling as his men drank to his
name.
--
Jon stood outside the door to Theon’s solar, his jaw clenched so tightly that
it was painful.
“Did the Maester say there was anything wrong with you?” he heard Theon say.
“No. He said that conception is more easy or more difficult depending on the
time of the moon.”
“It takes passion to make a babe. Perhaps if you weren’t so cold between your
legs it would have happened by now.”
If Arya gave a reply Jon didn’t hear it through the wood of the door. He felt
his fist tighten around his sword-hilt, felt the world shrink to the harsh pit
of anger that had sprouted in his chest, a fierce coldness that washed away
everything else.
“Did you ever consider that you’re too small for the task?” Arya said icily. “A
little shrimp spreading his seed over the entirety of the ocean.”
Jon’s mouth curled at that, smiling bitterly as she left Theon’s solar and
began swiftly walking toward her chambers. He remained in step with her the
whole way, neither of them speaking until they had passed her threshold and
locked the door behind them.
He took a few long breaths while Arya began to unbraid her hair, frustration
visible in her tense shoulders and jerky movements.
“Does he always speak to you like—like that?” Jon asked, unable to sit down or
think clearly or take his eyes away from her.
“No, not always,” she said. “Theon is cruelest when he’s frightened. If I don’t
have a child in this first year talk will start. He’ll be mocked. You know how
Theon loves jokes, that is, unless they’re about him.”
He recognized the sense in her words but Jon could not stamp out the wild sound
of blood in his ears. The world appeared before him in sharp focus, one of the
subtle signs that his temper was flaring.
“How can you stand it?” he asked, watching her intently. “I will confront him
now, if you wish, or I’ll write to father, I’ll do whatever you ask.”
Arya shook her head like her mind was already made up. “Don’t bother, Jon.
Theon’s a bully and no amount of letters or threats will change that. I knew
what I was getting into when I agreed to this,” she said solemnly.
Something in her expression made his heart twist, painfully, profoundly, until
all he knew was that Arya deserved so much more than what life had given her.
Jon took a few steps toward her as a smoldering heat arched through his belly,
his skin burning like he was standing too near a fire. He got close enough to
see the flecks of green in her gray eyes, and then he kissed her.
Arya’s mouth was smooth and full beneath his, both of them motionless for what
felt like an eternity. Slowly, her lips parted and her tongue brushed over his,
blood rushing in his ears as she fisted her hands in his doublet, drawing him
closer.
Hands shaking, Jon pulled her flush against him. He had thought of her like
this countless times but the reality was heady and dizzying—Arya touching him,
her arms around his neck, her warm lips pressed against his.
You sick bastard, he thought, his hands tracing her sides, her breasts. His
father had asked him to take care of her and protect her from any threat she
may come across. Jon had sworn to look after her, and he was certain that this
was not what his Lord father had meant when he’d said to remember her
happiness.
He pressed his forehead against hers, exhaling heavily as his fingers circled
her nipples through the fabric of her dress. Arya arched her back against his
touch, her hands gliding over his chest, her fingers tugging at the laces of
his breeches. Jon moaned against her neck as she inched her small hand inside
his trousers and took hold of his aching cock.
The sensation seared him, obscuring whatever oaths he’d sworn to his father. He
kissed her hard on the mouth and pulled at the stays at the back of her dress,
untangling them and yanking the cloth past her shoulders. Arya dragged him by
the front of his doublet to her adjoined bedchamber.
“Get on top of me,” she breathed, laying back on the bed and pushing her skirts
around her waist, her chest bare and her long hair tumbling over the pillow.
Jon laid between her legs, his cock leaking at the tip as he felt inside her
with his fingers. Arya wrapped her arms around him and sighed beautifully when
he sank into her, their hips flush together, both of them breathing heavily.
I knew I could trust you, his father had said. Jon looked into her wide gray
eyes as he thrust into her, too overwhelmed by the feeling of Arya beneath him
to feel any guilt.
***** Chapter 5 *****
After their argument Theon and Arya spent very little time together for several
weeks, but the tension in their marriage was the last thing on Arya’s mind.
Fewer and fewer Greyjoy vassals were left near Pyke, eager as they were to
begin trading under the Crown’s new terms, and with her husband estranged from
her that left one thing to take up Arya’s time.
She held her sword in front of her, breathless from exertion as the waves
rushed over the jagged rock she was standing on. Jon had nearly sent her
practice sword flying, but she’d regained her grip at the last second.
“So close,” he said, surprisingly out of breath himself.
They were barefoot, both of them standing on an outcropping of rock that was
surrounded by shallow pools of water. Jon had explained that balance was one of
the most important elements to learning the water dance, making their current
location an ideal place to train, with its uneven boulders and changing tides.
He relaxed his stance and lowered his wooden sword. “I think we’re done for
today,” he said.
Ayra’s sore muscles agreed. They made a careful path back to the sandy part of
the shore where they’d left their boots and cloaks. The shadow of the castle
fell over them, each of Pyke’s towers like a finger reaching from beneath the
sea. She threw her cloak over her shoulder and picked up her boots, but Arya
wasn’t needed this afternoon, and once she started walking along the beach Jon
fell in step beside her.
Their shoulders brushed each other as they walked and the small contact made
her skin flush. Despite the overcast sky Arya suddenly felt very warm, a
familiar tingling beginning to coil in her belly.
They were walking toward the cliffs at the opposite side of the cove where
there were lots of tidal pools and small caves. Arya loved exploring this part
of Pyke. The coastline was always changing from the fierce pummeling of the
waves, and every time she visited the geography was somewhat altered.
Jon knew the cave she was making for and it took little time to find it. The
boulders at the back of the shelter were smooth from years of wear, and he sat
on one of them while Arya looked at the odd pebbles and shells that had washed
up.
“You’re getting much better,” Jon said, watching her as she picked up a stone
and tried to skip it on the uneven waves.
“At throwing rocks?” she joked, tossing a pebble at him.
Smirking, he caught it with his hand. “At fighting.”
Arya strolled over to him, her stones forgotten. “I’m still not as good as
you.”
“You will be. It just takes practice.”
She stopped just short of his reach, watching his gray eyes sweep over her as
she wriggled out of her breeches.
“Arya,” he said, his voice lower than it’s normal tones. Jon tried to get up
and pull her to him but she pressed him back onto the boulder.
“We should practice this instead,” she said, pulling her tunic over her head.
Arya climbed naked into his lap, straddling him. He kissed her breasts and
pulled at her hips until she felt his hardness against her.
“Beautiful,” he said, kissing her chest while she untied his laces. Jon sucked
her nipples and tried to reach between her legs, but she grabbed his wrists,
holding him back.
“Shh,” Arya whispered, but she couldn’t remain quiet because Jon had freed his
hand. He was circling her clit with his fingers, making her moan and squeeze
her eyes shut from the sensation.
She rocked against his touch, gripping his shoulders in an attempt to ground
herself. He pulled away and kissed her slowly, pulling her lower lip between
his, his tongue brushing against hers while she brushed her wetness over his
cock. Arya gradually slid down around him, inhaling sharply once he was fully
inside her. She never did it like this with Theon, and the angle was completely
new to her, making her squeeze her eyes shut at the intensity of it. Arya
pushed him onto his back, feeling that she was already close and crying out
when he reached upward and rubbed her clit.
The heady rush of her peak came over her quickly, drowning out the sound of the
sea, of all else besides Jon. He held her and kissed her as his hips began to
move more erratically, the muscles in his neck standing out as he came inside
her. Arya stroked his cheek, her fingers brushing through his dark hair, silent
and content as the waves crashed around them.
--
“A letter has arrived from Winterfell,” Theon said.
They were in his solar for their evening meal, neither speaking much to the
other as they picked at their food. Arya wondered how long he’d kept that
information to himself, but she held back that particular question for the
moment.
“What did it say?” she asked.
Surprisingly, he pulled the scroll out of his pocket and handed it to her, the
wax seal already broken.
 
Lord and Lady Greyjoy,
I write to you to extend an invitation to the wedding of Robb Stark and
Margaery Tyrell, which is to take place in one moon’s time. It is a busy time
for all of us, and I understand if either of you are not able to attend, though
I must admit that it is Robb’s sincere wish that you both be present. I am also
extending this invitation to Jon Snow, who will be more than welcome at
Winterfell no matter your travel plans.
I hope you both have been well these past few moons. The castle feels quite
empty with both of you gone, but I’m sure the Tyrells will alleviate that
problem shortly.
My regards,
Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North
 
Theon was watching her closely, but Arya re-read the letter before speaking.
“Margaery Tyrell. But she’s southern,” Arya said, frowning.
He laughed at that, taking a sip from his cup of wine. “Yes, some women are.”
“He should marry Asha instead.”
That made Theon smirk, his perfect teeth gleaming, the ice finally thawed
between them. They spoke more over the course of the evening than they had in
the past four weeks combined, and even though a part of her felt guilty for it,
Arya admitted to herself that life was easier when she wasn’t mad with her
husband.
He deserved much worse than her polite conversation, she knew, but it was plain
that what Theon deserved and what he got were two different things. After their
meal Theon walked her back to her rooms, allowing Jon to take his leave for the
evening. Jon’s face was completely neutral at the development but Arya was no
fool. At one time they had been only brother and sister, but now their
relationship was something so different she scarcely had the words to describe
it, making her situation with Theon all the more difficult.
She could not decide if simple animosity with her husband was better than this
strange mix of loyalties. Undoubtedly, her feelings went to Jon, they always
had and it was likely they always would, but she had promised to do her duty
for her family. Her father had asked her to marry Theon Greyjoy and she had
agreed.
As Theon undid the laces of her gown and pulled it over her head, she thought
of what she’d agreed to do when she came to Pyke. This is part of being
married, she reminded herself. You’ve made your bed, Arya Stark. Now lie in it.
--
Arya hadn’t truly expected to be back at Winterfell so soon. It had been less
than a year since her marriage to Theon, and it was rare for new brides to
spend much time with their own families. In that sense she was grateful for
Robb’s wedding, even if it meant her family would be forever changed by the
addition of Margaery Tyrell.
Jon traveled with them from Pyke, sailing with herself and Theon to the coast
of the North just south of the Stony Shore. There was no true port on the
western side of the North, only fishing villages and the narrow river that
flowed all the way to Torrhen’s Square. They took a much smaller ship for the
journey, sailing past the Rills and the Barrowlands before docking at the end
of the river near the castle that belonged to House Tallhart. Theon purchased
several good riding horses from Lord Helman for their journey to Winterfell.
Arya would have rather brought Fang with her, but in such a small vessel cargo
space was limited and they had to make due with new mounts.
They skirted the edge of the Wolfswood, riding with Lord Tallhart’s party until
they finally reached the King’s Road and the lands of House Cerwyn. The closer
they got to Winterfell the more excited Arya felt. Ghost and Nymeria ran far
ahead of their party during the day, tearing through the forest and fields,
mirroring the anticipation that had been mounting inside her.
After many days of riding they reached the outskirts of her father’s lands. Jon
was the first to see Winterfell in the distance, pointing out its gray form on
the horizon.
She was home.
--
The glass gardens of Winterfell were much hotter than the rest of the castle,
and much greener, Arya noted. She walked arm-in-arm with her lady mother down
the isles of plants, mesmerized by the scents of the few exotic flowers that
grew under great care. The gardens were predominantly used to grow crops to
sustain the castle through the long winters, but there were always a few
flowers for decoration’s sake.
“Look at the roses,” her mother said softly, as if the flowers were sleeping.
“The first bloom.”
The blue winter rose was a rare sight anywhere but the North, and it was prized
for both its beauty and fragrance. She had never seen it bloom so early in the
season, with autumn still upon them and the snows not yet present.
“Will we use it for the wedding?” Arya asked.
Lady Catelyn nodded. “Sansa and I thought it would be a nice gesture to make a
bouquet of them for Lady Margaery. The Tyrells have a golden, southern rose for
their sigil.”
“But now she’ll be a Stark,” Arya said, lightly touching one of the flower’s
stems.
A drop of blood beaded to the surface of her skin. She hadn’t even felt the
prick of the thorn.
Her lady mother shook her head and wrapped her handkerchief around Arya’s
finger.
“You always had to learn in the most tiresome way,” she said, but she was
smiling and there was more than a hint of amusement in her voice.
Arya smiled as well, thinking that she had missed this maybe most of all, these
quiet, everyday moments with her family.
Lady Catelyn continued to hold her hand in hers, a thoughtful expression
crossing her face.
“Your sister will be married soon as well,” she said, as if it took great
strength for her to speak the words.
“To who?”
“She is to marry Prince Joffery.”
A strange mix of emotions came over her at her mother’s words. “Sansa will be
Queen,” Arya observed.
Her mother frowned, lines of worry showing on her comely face. “Yes. I had
wished to speak with you about it before your father and I tell your siblings.”
“She’ll be a good Queen, I know she will,” Arya said.
“I worried that you might not take this news well,” her mother admitted. “I
remember what it was like when Lysa and I both married. It is a difficult thing
to separate two sisters.”
“Don’t worry mother, I’m not jealous. Never in a hundred years would I want to
be Queen,” Arya confessed. “Pyke isn’t so bad, really. There are women there
who dress in men’s clothing and caption ships. The people care less about
appearance and more about strength—I can understand that.”
Lady Catelyn hugged her tightly. Only then did Arya realize that they were now
of the same height.
“You’ve been so brave,” her mother said, tucking a strand of errant hair behind
her ear. “I didn’t want your father to send you away, you know. I told him to
find a match with one of Lord Karstark’s sons or Domeric Bolton, someone closer
to Winterfell. It seems that both you girls will be so far away.”
“I’m right here, and I’ll tell Theon that we’re staying as long as I like,”
Arya said, making her mother laugh.
--
The first group of Tyrell men arrived at Winterfell that morning, including
Lord Mace and his sons Garlan and Loras. Lady Margaery, her mother Lady Alerie,
and her grandmother Lady Olenna would be arriving within a matter of days. They
were delayed because the women had chosen to travel by wheelhouse, which would
certainly lengthen their travel time through the bogs and swamps of the Neck.
Robb and Jon were in the armory, having already met with Lord Mace and his
sons. Robb had been unusually nervous that morning, and Jon had suggested that
they invite Loras and Garlan to the training yard while Lord and Lady Stark
showed Lord Mace the castle. The idea of escaping his future father-in-law
seemed to agree with Robb and the Tyrell brothers had warmed to the idea
instantly.
Tension was obvious in the set of Robb’s sounders. Jon was already clad in his
own armor—a gift from his father before he’d left for Essos, forged by
Mikken—which looked significantly less flashy than the colored, gleaming plate
worn by Ser Loras.
Jon helped his brother with his plate, as Robb had done for him.
“What do you think of the Tyrells?” Jon asked, grabbing two tourney swords from
where they were stored.
“At first I thought Loras was the lady I’m supposed to marry,” Robb said,
making them both chuckle.
Jon handed him a sword as they both picked up their helms. “Then lets hope we
don’t get shown up by these southern women,” he joked.
They both laughed but something else seemed to be on his brother’s mind. Before
they left the armory Robb placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder, looking like he
was about to say something.
“I wanted to talk to you about this now, since we might not get much time by
ourselves once the rest of the Tyrells get here,” he said. “I’ve been talking
with father and I think I’ve found lands for you, if that’s what you’d want.
There’s a keep in the Gift, it’s not far from Last Hearth, but it’s in
disrepair. I told father that I wanted to give it to you and he said that
everything could be ready by late spring. You’d be able to take your own name,
Jon, you’d be a Lord and you wouldn’t have to be called Snow unless you wanted
to be.”
Jon suddenly felt like he was sinking into the ground in his heavy mail and
plate. “I don’t know what to say,” he offered, blindsided by Robb’s proposal.
“I appreciate you thinking of me, I never expected…I can’t leave Arya now
though. She needs someone with her, at least for a while longer.”
Robb seemed to understand. “How are things between Arya and Theon? Does she
talk to you about him much? I’ve hardly seen them together since they got
here.”
Jon swallowed, unsure of how to explain Arya and Theon’s marriage without lying
to Robb. “They tolerate each other,” he answered. “I wouldn’t say they’re
happy, but that could change with time.”
The weight of his words seemed to settle on Robb, any optimism he’d had about
the match between his friend and his sister leaving him. “I’d hoped they would
take to one another.”
“Arya isn’t pregnant yet,” Jon said, shrugging. “That bothers Theon. I’m sure
things will get better once she has a child.”
They were not able to continue their conversation, however, for just then
Garlan and Ser Loras joined them in the armory.
“We’ll talk more later,” Robb whispered, the four of them walking to the
training yard.
--
The Great Hall was fuller than Arya had ever seen it, with the Starks and their
household staff, the Lord and Lady Tyrell and their children, Theon and
herself, and five direwolves. Many of her father’s bannermen had made the
journey to Winterfell, along with various servants and retainers.
As Lord and Lady of the Iron Islands she had been placed with Theon at the high
table. It was unusual for Arya to eat without Jon either by her side or just
outside the door, but she saw that he was seated at one of the tables of honor
with several of the other Lords that were present, including Lord Tallhart,
Lady Hornwood, and Cley Cerwyn.
Lady Margaery had finally arrived that morning, meaning the wedding would take
place in only a matter of days. Robb sat next to his betrothed during dinner
and she could see how nervous he was, though it would have been difficult for
anyone outside their family to tell. But Margaery will be family, she thought,
and I no longer am.
Once much of the food was cleared away couples began to dance. A singer and
musicians had been hired for the wedding festivities, a luxury they rarely had,
but Arya could see that her father wanted to project the strength of House
Stark in such a choice. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew the Tyrells were
rich, but their family held more land than any other in Westeros, which this
wedding would surely remind them.
Sansa took the empty seat next to her, which she found surprising. “Why aren’t
you dancing?” Arya asked.
“There’ll be plenty of dancing once this wedding is over,” Sansa said. “I
wanted a chance to see you. That’s quite a difficult thing with so many people
about.”
Arya agreed. She picked at the plate of food in front of her, wondering if they
were being rude somehow by not spending every minute entertaining the Tyrells.
With a distracted smile on her face, Sansa leaned closer to her, as if she were
just straightening her napkin and not whispering to her sister. “Are you
pregnant?” she asked quietly.
“I missed my moon blood,” Arya said, not looking at her. “How could you tell?”
“Well, your dress is rather tight across the chest, the same thing happened to
mother when she had Bran and Rickon. And you haven’t eaten any of the foods you
normally like. We even had blackberry tart and you didn’t have a bite of it.”
Blackberries were Arya’s favorite. She bit her lip, watching Robb dance with
Margaery while Theon drank with Lord Garlan. Something wet touched her hand and
Arya looked down to see Lady licking her palm, as if she was trying to comfort
her.
“Lady, stop that,” Sansa said, but it didn’t actually bother Arya.
“I’m not very far along. I can’t even tell when I look at myself. I wanted to
be sure that I was truly with child before I told Theon. He wants an heir so
badly and I would hate to disappoint him,” she confessed.
Sansa smiled at her and reached for her hand, squeezing it. “It will all get
better once you have his child. Everyone says so. You may not be close now, but
Theon will love you once he sees the babe you’ve given him.”
Theon. She looked at Jon sitting at the other table with her father’s
bannermen, Ghost at his feet. Arya’s stomach lurched and she suddenly had a
strong desire to leave the busy hall.
If her husband ever knew the truth of what she’d done he would be furious. Her
father would be furious. Jon would be sent away and her babe wouldn’t have a
father of any kind. Arya’s rested her hand on her stomach but felt nothing. She
didn’t know who had fathered her child, and perhaps she never would. Everyone
said that she and Jon looked just alike, but if her son or daughter favored her
it could just as easily be Theon’s. And what if the child did look like Theon?
In some ways that possibility was worse, because she desperately wanted the
babe inside her to belong to Jon Snow.
The drinking and dancing continued into the night, but eventually Arya made her
excuses to her parents and the Tyrells, claiming that she was tired. Nymeria
misliked the noise and crowd even more than she did, so Arya had let her remain
in the Godswood for the evening. As she was leaving Ghost came up to her,
blinking his fierce red eyes at her.
“You’re always there to protect me, aren’t you?” she said, scratching the wolf
under his chin.
Arya looked up to see Jon at her side. “My Lady,” he said, offering her his
arm.
She took it, allowing him to escort her from the activity in the hall.
--
The Godswood was impossibly dark at night, but he’d brought a lantern from
inside the castle to guide them. Nymeria ran up to Arya when they entered the
Godswood but she quickly scampered off with Ghost, their wolves disappearing
between the trees as they followed the well-trodden path to the Heart Tree, his
ears prickling at every sound.
It wasn’t as cold as his memories of winter, but Jon was grateful for the cloak
around his shoulders. The Heart Tree starred back at them under the lantern
light, it’s face looking especially harsh in the darkness, the sap that leaked
from its eyes looking more black than red.
Neither of them had spoken since they entered. Jon turned from the wirewood,
his breath visible in the chilly air. Arya slipped her hands beneath his cloak
to warm them, feeling his chest and his sides, her breath mingling with his
own. He set the lantern by the base of the Heart Tree, knowing that it wouldn’t
be visible from this far inside the wood, at least not to the unfamiliar eye.
Standing on the tips of her toes, Arya kissed him with her warm, sweet mouth.
Jon lifted his hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek
as her tongue traced his lower lip. He kissed her again and again, slowly,
savoring the taste and feel of her.
Jon put his arms around her, just breathing and holding her close. It was so
quiet that he could hardly tell a castle besieged by Tyrells surrounded them.
He fell to his knees, holding her hips beneath his hands, his forehead pressed
to the soft fabric of her gown. Jon offered his hand to Arya, laying her on the
frozen ground before lifting the hem of her dress. She wore stockings and
smallclothes and a shift, but he pulled her stockings down her legs and then
moved to kiss her naked thigh.
Arya gave an audible sigh when he kissed her sex through the fabric of her
smallclothes, her hands fisting in his hair. Jon pulled them past her hips,
removing them completely. He licked the wet folds of her sex before softly
brushing her clit with his tongue, drawing it out until she was canting her
hips to meet his touch, making soft keening sounds as he slipped his fingers
inside her.
Jon sucked on her clit until she began to contract around his fingers, her
hands shaking as she tugged on his hair. It only took a few moments for him to
unlace his breeches and slip inside her. The feeling of Arya coming around him
was nearly enough to finish him there, but he remained perfectly still until he
regained control of himself. Jon thrust into her roughly, her soft cries
ringing in his ears as he fucked her amid the fallen leaves, shivering at her
cool hands on his skin. Arya pressed her lips firmly against his and arched her
hips to meet him. It didn’t take long for her to come again, her muscles
fluttering around him, and this time Jon could do nothing but spill himself
inside her.
He felt dazed from the intensity of his peak, his whole body limp and boneless.
Eventually he moved so he wouldn’t be laying so heavily on Arya, but she held
on to his shoulders, keeping him still inside her until he began to soften.
Once his pulse had slowed he sat up, pulling her with him. Jon held her and
kissed her cheek, running his fingers through her hair, smiling as he pulled a
leaf from her disheveled braid.
At the end of the night he did walk her back to her rooms, but the castle
sounded much less lively by then, late as it was. For an instant he was
reminded of the countless times he’d walked her to her bedchamber when they
were children, but Jon knew they would never be mere siblings again.
--
A fire had been made in her bedchamber but it was nearly burnt out by the time
she changed for bed. Arya stoked the flames, only distantly aware of their
heat.
She thought of Theon in his rooms next to hers but she did not feel compelled
to go to him. Arya lay down in bed and pulled the furs up to her chin, her hand
over her stomach, every part of her hoping that Jon had fathered her babe. They
had lain together frequently since the first time, and while she had only been
with her husband a handful of times in the past two moons she couldn’t help but
worry over the possibility that the child belonged to Theon.
In the first months of their marriage he had been very attentive in his visits
to her, but ever since she’d returned from King’s Landing things had been
different. The novelty had worn off, she supposed, or he was distracted by the
new business ventures that had taken over daily life at Pyke.
Arya rubbed her hands over her stomach, wondering if her child could hear what
she was thinking. No matter who fathered you, you’re still mine, she thought,
falling asleep to the sound of the crackling flames.
***** Chapter 6 *****
The rope walkways at Pyke never bothered Arya until she was pregnant. She could
still navigate them just fine, but the thought occurred to her one morning when
she was walking from one tower to another that her child could easily fall from
such a great height, that others had died in much the same way. Arya’s blood
ran cold from the notion, but Theon had laughed at her, told her that their
child would be a Greyjoy and that they were born to rule the seas, that nothing
as tame as a rope bridge would kill one of his sons.
It seemed she finally understood what it must have been like to raise a child
such as herself. Arya remembered many lectures on the safety of climbing castle
walls, or jumping off of horses, or hanging from the torch-holders. She had
only a few more weeks before the babe would be due, or so Maester Rollum had
said, but she couldn’t imagine growing any larger than she already was.
Arya took Jon’s arm as they neared her chambers, feeling slightly dizzy from
the long climb. There were many stairs between her rooms and the Hall where she
had broken her fast.
“You should lie down for a while,” Jon suggested, opening the door and ushering
her inside.
“I spend all my time lying down, while you are perfectly fit to walk and run as
you please,” she said.
He chuckled and kneaded the small of her back with his hands, rubbing the tired
muscles there until she felt the knots beneath her skin begin to subside.
“I’ll lay with you, if you’d like.”
Arya relented, allowing herself to be escorted to bed, knowing that for anyone
but Jon she would have been far less compliant. She lay on her side and he
settled in behind her, pulling her long hair away from her neck, rubbing his
hands over her shoulders until she felt significantly more relaxed.
“You’re just trying to make me sleepy,” Arya said, but there was no tone of
argument to her words
It was pleasant to feel him beside her, his fingers lightly stoking her hair.
She reached for his hand and placed it over her stomach, over the child that
would stir soon and enter the world on its own whether it belonged to Jon or
not. The thought gnawed at her at times but Arya had long since accepted that
she must wait for the truth. Either the child would obviously be Theon’s, or it
wouldn’t be, and neither outcome would give her what she wanted.
Jon kissed her neck, just a soft press of his lips, hot against her cool skin.
It was enough to make her chest ache, gripping his hand all the more firmly in
her own.
--
Arya gave birth two weeks early, waking in the early morning from the pain of
contractions. No matter what Jon said Maester Rollum would not let him into the
birthing room, insisting that swords and direwolves would be of no use in this
matter, which is how he found himself sitting outside of his sister’s chambers
for hours as she went through labor.
Alone, he reminded himself. When I am here to protect her.
The wolves sat with him, with Nymeria pacing the hallway and softly whining,
her huge amber eyes pleading with him.
“I can’t let you in,” Jon said, but the wolf was just as stubborn as her
master, choosing to scratch at the door with one of her great paws.
He nearly stood up to stop her but Ghost padded over to his littermate, nipping
her on the scruff of the neck. That quieted her, but Jon couldn’t bear to be
still himself, choosing to stand and peer out one of the narrow windows that
served as arrow-slits. The sky was a harsh gray with strong winds, and the
whitecaps that crested over the shore looked especially rough. Stark colors,
Jon thought.
After many hours the door to Arya’s rooms opened and both the wolves stood at
the commotion. Maester Rollum was framed by the doorway, looking much more
careworn than when he’d gone in.
“You may see your sister, my Lord.”
On any other occasion Jon would have taken the time to remind the Maester that
he was no Lord, just a bastard sellsword, but he was far more interested in
Arya’s condition than in polite conversation.
Nymeria scrambled after him despite the resigned look of disapproval from
Maester Rollum. Jon sat on the bed next to his sister, his eyes fixed on the
pink babe that was squirming in Arya’s arms.
“A boy,” she said quietly, wiping his small body clean of afterbirth.
“And a lively one, too,” Rollum said, excusing himself find a messenger to
deliver the news to Theon.
Jon looked at the dark-haired child that she held, his breath frozen in his
chest, seeing the babe’s slate gray eyes for the first time.
“He has your eyes.”
“Yes, yes he does,” she said, her voice wavering on the last word. Arya’s small
shoulders began to shake silently, her breath coming in unsteady gasps as she
cried.
He didn’t know the words to tell her in that moment, so Jon did the only thing
he could. He put his arm around her and memorized the face of Arya’s son.
--
In the hours after the birth the Maester instructed her to sleep, saying that
she needed to regain her strength after such a long labor. Arya didn’t think
her labor had been particularly long, she’d heard of women taking as long as a
day and a night to give birth, but she saw no point in arguing with Maester
Rollum when he had been so kind to her during the process.
Arya lay down with her son in his cradle. She’d only given birth mere hours
ago, but it felt like a fortnight had passed in that time. The Maester hadn’t
let Jon stay for very long but he would consent to allow Theon in to see her,
after having one of the servants fetch him from the other towers.
Laney, the wetnurse, was dozing next to her son’s cradle, right there in case
any need arose, yet Arya felt wrong for taking her rest. What if her child
needed her? She’d fed him earlier but it wasn’t unusual for babes to wake in
the night, she knew. However, the exhaustion from the birth began to overcome
her and Arya’s eyes began to close, her body easing into sleep.
Distantly, Arya heard the door to her bedchamber open. Was that the Maester?
No, she remembered, Theon was coming to see the babe.
She forced her eyes open and tried to sit up but Theon was there, the smirking
expression he usually wore notably absent.
“You don’t have to get up,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I just
wanted to see him.”
He looked at Haldon in the cradle, his back to Arya, and she wondered what
Theon was thinking. Was there some feature in the babe that her husband
recognized? Was he a Greyjoy after all? She wasn’t good with distinguishing
babes, or even small children, for that matter, and the only features she’d
noted were Hal’s gray eyes and dark hair so like her own. Maybe her husband saw
something different.
Theon stood there for a long time. Arya found herself unable to keep her eyes
open, but she listened hard to make sure that she didn’t miss one of Hal’s
cries.
Before leaving, her husband brushed a piece of her hair out of her face.
“Thank you,” he whispered, but Arya knew she must look like she was asleep.
Theon had never touched her like that before, gently, like he cared for her.
Their coupling was not unpleasant, Theon was a young man, and handsome, but
Arya wouldn’t describe their relationship as intimate.
The thought made her feel strangely empty. She had just given birth to this
child who would grow up with the Greyjoy name, who would think of himself
Theon’s son, yet a simple touch from him felt practically foreign. Arya fell
asleep, dreaming of her son out at sea with his cradle as a tiny vessel on the
waves.
--
Haldon Greyjoy would never be considered a quiet babe, but he settled down
easily enough once he was given to his mother. Jon had watched as, over the
months, Arya’s bond with her son continued to grow, yet something nagged at
him, preventing him from forming any type of closeness with the boy.
The babe slept in Arya’s arms as they sat by the fire. It was evening, time for
her to give care of Hal over to Laney, but Arya seemed reluctant to rise and
wake the child. Jon watched Hal’s tiny form as he slept, wondering if it were
his son or his nephew that she held.
“No one would question your affection for him,” Arya said, as if he’d been
thinking too loudly.
“You can’t know that,” he said, but in that moment the thought of seeing Hal
grow older, of teaching the boy to hold a sword or sit a horse felt very
tempting indeed.
He wanted Hal to be his son, of that much Jon was certain, but the possibility
of being the boy’s uncle instead of his father made his stomach turn at the
thought.
“He’s your family either way,” she said softly, her gray eyes piercing.
Jon understood, then, what she meant. No matter his paternity, Haldon was her
child, and he knew that the boy would always have a part of Arya inside him,
the one person he loved above all others.
He’d always loved Arya best. Her son would be no different.
--
With a healthy heir already fathered Theon began to travel more regularly. In
some ways it was a blessing, for Jon would never become accustomed to the
thought of Theon Greyjoy laying with Arya, but it was even more painful when
Theon would return after many moons abroad to spend time with his wife and son,
the two people Jon held closest in his heart.
He never goaded Theon or spoke a discourteous word in his presence, and to his
credit Theon politely ignored him, but that did not mean Jon’s thoughts were
equally kind. He hated seeing Arya with her husband, and it was just as painful
to hear Theon talk of his son Haldon, the child who looked just like Arya
without a hint of his supposed Greyjoy heritage.
With each trading journey Theon would return to the Iron Islands all the
richer, and the ironborn had taken a great liking to their “golden lord,” as
they called him. It was an old jealousy, Jon’s desire to be a lord in his own
right, but he began to have the same poisonous thoughts he’d entertained for
years in Winterfell, when he and Robb and Theon had been boys. It reminded him
of why he’d gone to Essos, but there were no far-flung continents for him to
escape to now, not when Arya needed him at Pyke.
Jon resolved to spend more time in the training yard when Theon was in the
castle, putting some distance between them to clear his thoughts. Robb had
already offered him lands and a lordship, but at a steep price: to be Lord of
the Gift he would have to leave Arya and the child she’d borne, with little
chance of seeing her again.
It seemed that he must choose between the two things he’d always wanted: a true
name, not the bastard one he’d endured for so long, and a family with the woman
he loved.
--
By Haldon’s second name day Arya was with child again. This time, Jon was more
certain that the babe she carried was his, even though she had lain with her
husband, simply because Theon had been at Pyke less often. There were several
times when he and Arya could have been more careful in their coupling, though
there was no undoing what had already happened. Hal was excited that he would
have a new brother or sister in a matter of moons, but Jon was not able to
share in the boy’s happiness, for there were serious matters occurring off the
shores of the Iron Islands.
A letter from Robb had arrived, not addressed to Lord and Lady Greyjoy, but to
him. Jon had exchanged frequent letters with his brother since he’d become
Arya’s sword shield, however, the missive he received was much shorter than
their usual letters, a quality he at first found strange.
 
Jon,
Father and I need you to return to Winterfell. There is a conflict with the
wildlings, something we normally would be able to handle, but Margaery is
pregnant with our first child and one of us must escort Sansa to the capital
for her wedding to Prince Joffery. The Wall is overrun with wildlings in some
places. They are raiding south of the Shadow Tower, but the northernmost lords
are unwilling to send out too many men lest their castles be left undefended.
Father has taken an arrow to his shoulder, the result from a skirmish in the
Woolfswood from a small band of wildlings fleeing south, and Maester Luwin has
forbidden him to travel with the injury. House Stark must defend its people and
do our duty for the Watch. I would be forever grateful to you if you would sail
home on the first ship out of Pyke.
Your brother,
Robb.
 
There was nothing Jon could do but obey his brother’s words. He wrote a quick
letter to let Robb know he was coming and began packing his things. Jon sent a
messenger to book passage on a small vessel that would be making its way along
the Northern shore and he arranged for a good riding horse to be awaiting him
in Torrhen’s Square, all the while thinking on how he would bear being away
from Arya, Hal, and the babe she carried.
On the night before his departure he made love to Arya in her chambers, a risk
they rarely took. Seeing her completely bare before him, he felt a sweet,
pointed sadness, fiercely wanting to hold on to her while dread overtook him
like a wave. Jon kissed her and held her against him, wondering if this would
be the last time he’d feel her naked skin against his or hear the playful chime
of her laughter. He wondered if he would ever meet the child growing inside
her.
Jon Snow left for Winterfell a week after Haldon’s second name day. Ghost was
sad during their entire voyage, uninterested in the goings-on aboard the ship,
spending most of his time asleep instead of staring out at the choppy waters.
They made it to Northern shores in rapid time, but he had never been less
excited to be going home.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     I apologize for the long wait on this fic, but I do intend to finish
     it. I promise that this story will end on a happy note. Thank you to
     everyone who has continued to read : )
The Great Hall in Winterfell was tense despite the early hour, with many bent
heads and dark looks from the men seated at the long tables. Jon took a seat at
the dais beside Bran. They were the only members of the Stark family awake at
this hour, but it seemed that Bran had already finished his breakfast of
porridge, though he had yet to leave the table.
“Morning,” Jon said.
The light in the Great Hall was silvery and pale, reminding Jon of the frigid
winter mornings of his boyhood. Bran smiled at him and turned an empty goblet
in his hand, thinking.
“Morning, brother.”
Once Jon had made a dent in his breakfast, he looked at Bran more closely,
setting his dagger aside.
“Tell me the full story of how father took an arrow to the shoulder,” Jon said
quietly, so that no eavesdroppers would pick up on the conversation.
Bran glanced from left to right and waited for a serving girl to walk past
their table. “A group of wildings had been spotted in the Wolfswood. Father and
I rode out with Jory and some others, but not too many. We didn’t want to be so
large a number that they would hear us before we intended. Since we were there
to just take a look around and not to apprehend them we weren’t flying any
banners, I don’t think the wildlings even realized that they’d hit the Lord of
Winterfell. It’s not like they knew what father looked like, is it? But we
stumbled upon their trail and he took an arrow as they were retreating into the
woods.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
Bran shook his head. “They just wanted to slow us down, not kill us.”
The last time Jon had been in Winterfell had been for Robb’s wedding. His uncle
Benjen had been there, and he’d told Jon of how bold the wildlings had grown in
recent years. “They fear the coming winter,” Benjen had explained. Their last
winter had been harsh but brief, and this winter was approaching more quickly
than any of them had expected. Robb and Margaery’s wedding seemed such a long
time ago in his mind, but it amounted to just a few years, the first chill of
autumn.
The timing of the trouble with the wildlings was unfortunate for Robb and
Sansa. With their father hurt it would fall to others to deal with the threat
to their North and Lady Margaery was pregnant with Robb’s first child. Sansa
and Lady Catelyn would be departing soon for King’s Landing and Sansa’s wedding
to the Prince, where Robb would be expected to attend, meaning that Bran, Jon
and Rickon would be left with more responsibilities than ever.
“Rickon wants to fight beyond the Wall,” Bran said, shaking his head.
“Absolutely not,” Jon said, though belatedly he realized he had no authority to
forbid his younger brother from doing so.
“That’s what father said. He’s too young, and if Mance Rayder found out that he
was the son of the Lord of Winterfell he’d be taken prisoner for sure.”
“Someone will have to though,” Jon replied. “Fight beyond the Wall, that is.
Father said the Night’s Watch is too overstretched to offer much protection.”
“Probably,” Bran agreed. “Otherwise we’d have to fight them in the open,
without the strategic advantage the Wall provides. We’d loose twice as many
men.”
With all the talk of battles and death Jon felt increasingly less hungry. He
stood from the table, his breakfast unfinished, and walked with Bran out of the
Great Hall, thinking on the circumstances that had so aged the young man beside
him.
--
Bran and Jon joined the others in their Lord father’s solar to discuss the
coming assault on Mance Rayder and his wildling army. Robb, Ser Rodrik, and
even Rickon were there, seated around a map of the North, the Wall, and the
lands beyond it.
Lord Eddard looked drawn and restless, like he had been up late into the night.
The bandage around his shoulder was visible beneath his tunic. Once they were
all seated they turned to Lord Eddard, waiting for him to share his plans.
Looking at Robb, Lord Stark said, “You will have to go to the capital with your
sister.”
Robb frowned, his mouth drawn into a sloping line. Lord Eddard held up his hand
for silence before his oldest son could protest.
“The Lannisters will take great offense if both you and I are not there. The
Maester has forbidden me from extensive travel, but the court will not be so
understanding of your absence. King Robert does not understand wildlings or the
threat they pose. You must go, Robb.”
It seemed that Robb wanted to say something, but he thought better of it. “Yes,
my Lord.”
“We will keep a watchful eye on Lady Margaery while you are away, and I will
send a raven as soon as we have information to share.”
Rickon fidgeted in his seat. Jon wondered if his younger brother intended to
make a case for himself. The boy had just had his name day and at three an ten
he thought himself a man; Jon remembered feeling the same desire to prove
himself at that age, and hoped that his father would protect Rickon from his
own wishes.
“Ser Rodrik, how many men have responded to our messages?”
“Around six hundred, my Lord, but more will be arriving from Hornwood and
Deepwood Motte in the coming days.”
“We will have to split our forces. Our men will be greatly outnumbered, but
with plate and on horseback we shouldn’t have too much trouble. I am loath to
call for more fighters when my bannermen must defend their keeps.”
It was decided that three hundred men would travel beyond the Wall with
whatever rangers the Night’s Watch had to send with them, while five hundred
would be needed south of the Shadow Tower. Lord Eddard planned to have the
smaller force take Mance’s army by surprise, since he would be more likely to
have his fiercest fighters in the front.
“We will need someone from Winterfell to go with the men beyond the Wall, and
someone to join the men going to the Shadow Tower.”
“I’ll go, father,” Rickon said, trying to appear serious for all his thirteen
years.
Lord Eddard did not miss a beat before responding, “You will not. Three and ten
is too young to lead men into battle in unknown lands. Rickon, you and Bran
will stay and assist me here.”
“I’ll go beyond the Wall,” Jon said.
Everyone seated at the table turned to look at Jon, with Bran looking the least
surprised at his decision. His Lord father’s face was solemn but he nodded
approvingly.
“I will arrange for you to meet with the Lords who will be under your
direction. Lord Hornwood is sending his son Daryn in his stead, but Lord
Ryswell and Lord Tallhart will be journeying with you.”
It was decided that Ser Rodrik would lead the company of five hundred men that
would ride for the Shadow Tower. Their forces were made up of men under the
command of Lord Glover, Lord Karstark, and Lord Umber, with a large portion of
the men belonging to the Karstarks, who were far enough east that they could
spare the fighters.
Jon listened as his father laid out his design to take Mance from the rear and
capture any warlords, hoping that the lessons he’d learned in Essos and from
his father would prove useful. He’d fought in many fierce battles in Myr
against the Tyrosh, but those had been on the coast of the Narrow Sea in the
blistering heat, a far cry from the conditions beyond the Wall.
There was also the matter of leading other Lords that troubled Jon. Leading
sellswords was one thing, the men he’d commanded were more concerned with
fighting ability than names, but noble Lords were another matter entirely. Jon
knew that certain men would take great insult at being lead by a bastard son,
even if that bastard belonged to their liege Lord. Daryn Hornwood wouldn’t
mind, Jon thought, he had a bastard brother that he was very close to, but Jon
knew he would have to tread carefully with Lords Tallhart and Ryswell. The
smaller houses could be prickly when it came to their station.
The six of them discussed plans for the better part of the morning, only taking
a quick break for the midday meal. Jon could tell that Rickon was glad to be
included, even if he wasn’t allowed to join the fighting. Being the youngest of
three sons was a bit like being a bastard, Jon thought. There was no stigma in
the position, to be sure, but there were many expectations to live up to. And
what will we do with you? people seemed to think. It was that attitude that had
sparked ambition in Jon, and he was certain that Rickon was trying just as hard
to find a place for himself, to prove that he was worth the family he’d been
born into.
I know, little brother, Jon thought, watching the downward slant of Rickon’s
mouth. You’ll get your chance.
--
Jon and his three hundred men departed from Winterfell in a matter of days.
Jory Cassel traveled with them, and Jon was more than grateful to have a
familiar, trusted face amid so many strangers. He knew Lord Tallhart and Lord
Ryswell, but only as his father’s bannermen, not as companions.
Father wouldn’t send me on such a mission with disloyal men, he thought. More
than once Jon had to reassure himself that he had done this before, sneaking
into battles had been his life for five years, the only difference being that
this time he was fighting a wildling army.
“Wildings don’t even have proper steal,” Daryn Hornwood said, riding alongside
Jon on the King’s Road. “Or armor. Aren’t they afraid of fighting an army
that’s better-equipped?”
“They’re desperate,” Jon said. “Winter is almost here, and it’s going to be
harsh and long, which means they can freeze to death or they can die fighting.
Which would you choose?”
Daryn looked at him grimly but gave no reply. He was younger than Jon, but his
father had been ill as long as Jon could remember. Daryn had done his best to
look after his Lord father and help his Lady mother maintain their lands, a
difficult job for a boy of eighteen. Jon wondered what it would be like for
Lady Hornwood if something happened to Daryn during the march.
What would it be like for Hal and Arya if you were to die instead? Jon tried
not to ponder that question too closely.
It took them longer than expected to reach Castle Black, but that was due to a
fit of snow one afternoon that was so thick Jon couldn’t see past his horse’s
nose. The squall was gone by the following day, but Jon feared it was only a
sampling of the weather they were bound to encounter beyond the Wall. When they
made camp that night Jon slept next to Ghost, his furs tugged up to his neck,
fondly remembering the warmth of sleeping next to Arya and getting her hair
tangled in his face.
Seeing the Wall in person was something he had always wanted to do, and the
weather when they arrived at Castle Black was blustery but clear, showing an
impossibly blue sky above the tremendous height of the Wall.
Several men in black were waiting for them, their cloaks easy to pick out
against the white snow and pale ice. Out of the crowd Jon picked out a man he
half-recognized, noting the brawny shoulders and thick beard. A Mormont if he’d
even seen one. Ghost stayed at Jon’s side, shadowing him as he dismounted.
“Greetings, my Lord. You must be Jon Snow,” the stout man said.
“It is good to meet you, Commander Mormont, but I am no Lord. Please call me
Jon.”
They made brief introductions with the men who had traveled with Jon, and
Commander Mormont had some of the men in the Night’s Watch show their forces
where they would stay for the evening and where they would take their meals.
Jon quickly found Jory, Daryn, and Lords Ryswell and Tallhart. He meant to
discuss his battle plans with the Lord Commander and Jon knew the other Lords
would offer good council.
The news from the Commander Mormont was grim. Their best rangers had died
beyond the Wall, experienced men who were capable fighters, and word had it
that it wasn’t wildlings that had killed them, but the cold.
“I don’t know what to believe, myself,” Mormont said. “No one knows cold better
than the men of the Night’s Watch, and I’d call it a lie if a few hadn’t
returned with the frozen bodies.”
It’s not even winter yet. They were all thinking it, including Jon.
“I’ll speak to my father about finding more men for the Watch,” Jon promised,
but he knew it would take much more to restore the Night’s Watch to what it
used to be. He’d noticed that half the buildings at Castle Black were
unoccupied, and those that were occupied were certainly worse for wear.
“I appreciate that more than you can know,” the Lord Commander said solemnly.
Their forces departed the following day with the few rangers the Watch could
spare. Jon hoped that they knew what they were doing, but he’d taken a map with
him of the lands north of the Wall just in case.
Lord Ryswell rode beside him as they exited the gate, his mount one of the
finest horses Jon had ever seen. Lord Eddard had warned his Lords not to bring
heavy warhorses on this trip, and Rodrik Ryswell had generously brought as many
garrons as he could muster, knowing that they would be of better use in such
terrain.
Normally Ghost would run far ahead of the column in search of game, but today
he stuck close to Jon’s side, his red eyes narrowed.
“Your wolf mislikes this place,” Lord Ryswell said. His horse was afraid of
Ghost, Jon could see, but Rodrik Ryswell calmed it with a steady hand.
“He’s listening,” Jon said, watching Ghost’s ears twitch.
“Lets hope your wolf hears Mance Rayder before he hears us.”
Jon nodded in agreement, thinking on the other details Commander Mormont had
given them about Mance Rayder and his wildling army. As far as the Watch knew,
Mance was in the Frostfangs, and the men from the Shadow Tower were faced with
reoccurring waves of fighters. Warlords and their men crossed the river that
fed out from the Gorge into the Bay of Ice on narrow rafts, taking refuge in
the hills before advancing north to the Shadow Tower. There had been huge
losses for the Watch, and Jon hoped that Ser Rodrik would get there soon and
turn the tides of the assaults.
They had a narrow window of time when the wildlings would be focused on
fighting Ser Rodrik’s men, before they saw their fate and began to retreat.
That was when Jon and his three hundred men had to strike. There would be women
and children and the elderly, Mormont had warned them, but they need only
concern themselves with Mance and his warlords. His Lord father wanted them
captured and brought to Winterfell for justice.
Jon felt the weight of his task the entire time they rode, wondering if he
would ever feel the warmth of Arya next to him or Hal in his lap, or if he
would perish in this frozen place.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm going to try and have the next chapter up relatively soon. This
     story will only be ten chapters, so we are getting very close to the
     end. Thank you to everyone who has read and left kudos/comments--they
     are greatly appreciated.
The campaign north of the Wall journeyed for many days before their scouts
found any wildlings. With most of the free folk following Mance Rayder to the
Shadow Tower it left the Haunted Forest unusually deserted. Their company of
three-hundred men made an awful racket to Jon's ears, but at night, when the
men were mostly asleep, he could hear the cries of wolves in the trees.
"Direwolves?" Lord Ryswell asked, listening hard.
Jon shook his head. "No, but I'm sure they're out there."
Ghost left most nights to hunt, slinking back to his tent some hours later with
a kill, but in the meantime Jon lay by himself on the cold ground. He thought
of the countless nights he'd spent with Arya, tucked against her warm little
body as they both fell asleep, or how before bed Hal always wanted a story
about the Titan of Braavos or the giants who helped build Winterfell.
He wondered if Arya's other child would be much the same, and if her children
would ever hear stories about their uncle Jon and his journey to capture the
wildling king. He wondered if he would get the chance to tell them himself.
--
A light flickered in the corner of Jon’s vision, not from their camp, he was
certain, for he had forbidden any fires or torches being lit this evening. The
light was so small that he could hardly see it at the base of a lower ridge,
but the longer Jon watched the bright pinprick in the darkness the more certain
he was of what he saw.
Jory Cassel agreed that he saw something in the same location, and Jon decided
to find one of the rangers to climb down and investigate. Ghost descended ahead
of them, his white coat blending in with the frozen ridges of the Frostfangs.
There was no path through the rocky tiers of the mountain, so they moved
slowly, testing each foothold before taking another step. The night darkened
even further during the climb, slowly making the light of a campfire more
visible.
Jon loosened his sword in its scabbard, his eyes straining to see any moving
forms in the dim light, but before he could close his hand around its hilt he
felt something collide with him, nearly throwing him from his narrow foothold.
He felt the brush of cold steel against his cheek but Jon was able to wrestle
his attacker to the ground while Jory and the ranger entered the main camp.
It wasn’t until the attacker’s body was crushed beneath his that he realized it
was a woman. His hand closed around her wrist, wrenching away the knife she’d
surprised him with. Ghost pinned the struggling woman with one of his massive
paws and her eyes grew round and fearful at the sight of the direwolf.
Jon drew his sword and climbed down after the others, only to find another
woman with a bundle in her arms.
“We’re just two women and a babe, there’s no use in killing us,” the woman
said, eyeing the swords they carried.
“What sort of wildling woman wraps her babe in a cloak patched with red silk?”
Jory asked suspiciously.
Recognition dawned on the ranger’s face. “The mother to Mance Rayder’s child.”
He moved to grab the woman’s arm, but an unseen man charged into the camp,
hitting Jory in the back of the head with an axe. Jon dove at him with his
sword, blocking a stroke from his opponent's weapon and cutting at the man's
side with the sharp edge of his blade.
The wilding man wore no armor, and the blow, while not deadly, surely hurt.
Jory had rolled over on his side, clutching his head while the ranger
questioned Mance Rayder's wife about other guards.
Jon took the axe from the wounded man and bound his hands together. The edge on
his opponent's weapon was so dull that it hadn't broken Jory's skin, but it
would leave a fearsome bruise.
"Can you stand?" Jon asked, bringing his arm around Jory.
"I'll be alright, but keep an eye on that one," he said, nodding to the
bleeding wildling.
They allowed Mance's wife to carry her babe, but Jon made sure the bonds were
secure on the man he'd fought before climbing back to the spot where Ghost
stood over the first woman.
"Ghost," Jon said, "to me."
The direwolf retreated, his red eyes pinned on the woman in the snow.
"I suppose you're going to take us captive," she said. "Though you don't look
like any crow that I've ever seen."
"I'm not in the Nights Watch," Jon said. "My name is Jon Snow, and you are
being held hostage by order of the Lord of Winterfell."
--
Their return to camp was slow with hostages in tow, but they were met with
great interest once they neared the line of sentinels.
"Lord Snow has returned with captives," the guards called, and Jon had to stop
himself from correcting them. I'm no lord, he thought,
but I'll let these wildlings think it all the same.
In the following week Jon pushed his men in their journey through the
Frostfangs. They were forced to take longer, more inconvenient paths through
the highlands, but he refused to let that delay their party. It was clear that
a large host had come through the same passes shortly before them, assuring Jon
that they were on the right path to take Mance's forces from the rear.
The closer they got to the Shadow Tower the more restless the men became. Their
sentinels captured any man who wandered too close to their camp, and those
numbers increased by the day as they drew closer to the Wall. Jon forbid any
fires from being lit for fear that they'd draw attention to themselves.
They drew as close to Mance's forces as they dared, but they didn't have to
wait in hiding for long. A fierce battle erupted at the Shadow Tower, with
Northern forces fighting from the heights of the Wall.
With his host armed and ready, Jon gave the order for his men to charge the
wildlings. Their numbers cut through the disorganized band of fighters, but
there was no avoiding the countless women, children, and elderly who had
followed Mance in hopes of crossing into the Seven Kingdoms.
The battle wore on, with the Northern forces making short work of their
opponents. Jon fought until his arms felt leadened at his sides. Ghost tore out
the throat of a man who wore a shirt of bones, terrifying the wildlings with
his red eyes and muzzle dripping with blood. He saw Daryn Hornwood take a cut
to the temple before ramming the attacker through with his sword. Jon fought a
man in bronze armor whose men called him "Magnar," the two of them locked in
combat for what felt like an eternity to Jon's tired muscles. The fighting was
nearly over, he could see Ser Rodrik and his men approaching them, but it
mattered little to Jon's opponent.
"Yield and your men will be sparred," Jon said, pressing the edge of his blade
along the wildling's neck.
The smell of blood and death was overpowering. Women screamed as their men were
cut down and those who were less brave ran, only to be pinned by Jon's forces.
Any organization that had been in the wildling army was lost.
The Magnar yielded only once Jon's boot was pressed over his throat, a wound
visible in a weak juncture of his bronze armor.
"Yield," he said. The frostbitten hole where his ear should have been was
bleeding profusely, staining the snow around them a vivid red.
Jon called to some of his men and had the Magnar of Thenn bound and led away. A
few pockets of fighting remained, but most of the wildlings had surrendered
when they saw that the battle was lost. Ser Rodrik rode over to him, assuring
Jon that Mance Rayder had been captured.
"Your Lord father made the journey with us," Ser Rodrik said. "He'll be glad to
see that you're unharmed."
Jon looked at the bloody mess they had made just at the base of the wall, with
the snow stained red in many places. He’d dismounted from his horse sometime
during combat, but the wiry garron his father had given him had not strayed
far, loping back to Jon and Ghost as he discussed strategy with Ser Rodrik. The
North had pushed the wildlings back and restored order to the Shadow Tower,
though Jon could not help but wonder what would become of the wildlings who had
followed Mance Rayder on the promise of a warmer, safer home. Many of them had
lost fathers, brothers, or husbands, and with an early winter coming they were
sure to suffer for it.
“Lord Stark wants to see you as soon as possible,” Ser Rodrik said.
“I’ll meet with him as soon as I’ve talked with the men.”
Jon knew his father would understand. He could not let his men think he was
deserting them just after some had given their lives to protect the North.
The process of collecting the dead had already begun. Those who were mostly
unharmed gathered the bodies for a pyre; the frost was too complete for
burials. Others tended the wounded, dressing injuries or dispensing food and
drink.
Jon had only received a few small wounds during the fighting, but the same
could not be said for many of his men. The wildlings were fierce but
outnumbered, making them desperate foes and resulting in more casualties than
he'd hoped for. His body felt sore from fatigue and his skin was half-frozen,
but Jon had duties to complete. His father was waiting.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     I promise there will be a Jon/Arya reunion before this story is
     finished. It's hard to believe there's only one chapter left.
Lord Stark's solar was one of the few quiet places in the castle, with a softly
crackling fire and snow falling steadily outside the window. Lady Margaery was
due to give birth any day, and the castle was in a flurry of activity to
prepare for the babe, with everyone wondering if Robb and Lady Catelyn would be
back from the Capitol in time for the birth. Lord Manderly had sent word of
their arrival in White Harbor, but with the snow falling so thickly they could
easily be delayed on the road.
Jon stroked Ghost behind the ears while his father read a letter with the
golden seal of House Greyjoy.
"Arya has had her second child," his father said, handing the letter to Jon. "A
little girl named Eira."
Jon tried to hide the trembling in his hands. The letter was written in Arya's
script and the shape of the letters sent a rush of familiarity through him, his
heart stopping at the words
a little girl that looks just like Haldon, with dark hair and gray eyes.
"Eira, a perfect name for these times," his father said, chuckling. "It means
'snow' in the old tongue."
--
The thought that he could have a daughter many miles away that he might never
see was painful for Jon. At the very least, he’d spent two years with Hal,
coming to love the little boy who looked so like Arya with his dark hair and
his long, serious face. Jon could not help but feel jealous when, on the very
night that Lady Margaery went into labor, Robb arrived in time for the birth of
his firstborn child. The whole castle stayed awake for news of the delivery,
and when it was announced that the lady had given birth to a healthy baby girl
many casks of ale were opened and drinks were served.
Jon was seated next to Jory in the Great Hall, but Jory’s head was still
injured and Maestor Luwin had given him orders not to partake in the drinking
that evening. Bran sat on the other side of Jon, Summer resting his head on
Bran’s leg.
“They’ve named the babe Lyra. First Arya has children, and now Robb,” Bran
said, not touching his drink.
“Soon you’ll be married as well,” Jon said, teasing his younger brother.
“Me? What about you? Why haven’t you gotten married yet?”
Jon nearly choked on his ale. “You sound like Sansa. Perhaps I’ll marry some
day, but I have no plans to do so right now.”
Jory chuckled, saying, “The wildling princess is watching you, Jon Snow.”
Jon said nothing, choosing to down his cup of ale instead.
“You should go talk to her.”
He suspected that Val, sister to Mance Rayder’s wife Dalla, would be the last
person to want to speak with him. She’d tried to attack him in the Frostfangs,
only for his men to capture her, her sister, and Mance’s only son. Lord Stark
had handed Mance Rayder over to the Watch to be put to death for desertion
while the Starks held the rest of his family.
Jon stood from his seat, his cup empty, wondering just how badly this
conversation could go.
She was seated only a few tables away, one of the guardsman watching her from a
polite distance. Val was not allowed to roam the castle on her own, not after
she tried to escape and nearly gutted one of Lord Stark’s men, but she was
permitted to spend her time in the company of her sister and the babe, at the
very least.
“My lady,” Jon said. He inclined his head toward the open seat across from her,
and she gestured for him to sit down. Despite her beauty, none of his father’s
men would approach Val after she’d nearly killed a grown man, but Jon saw no
hostility in her light blue eyes.
“Lord Snow, I have been hoping to speak with you for some time.”
“What can I do for you, Lady Val?”
“You can marry me. You stole me in the Frostfangs, and among my people that
means I’m your wife, whether your father’s laws recognize it or not.”
Jon almost asked Val to repeat herself, in shock as he was.
“I didn’t know.”
She shrugged. “If you kill a man by accident that doesn’t make him any less
dead.”
Shoulders tense, Jon stood up from his seat, unnoticed among the revelry and
celebration in the Great Hall.
“I’ll talk with you about this later. I must go,” Jon said, leaving Val in
search of his father.
--
A little girl that looks just like Haldon, with dark hair and gray eyes.
Jon sat with Robb and Lord Stark in his father’s solar, his mind far away from
the predicament they’d met to discuss. He had two children that might never
learn he was their father, and he’d somehow married a woman while taking her
captive—the Gods had not blessed him with a simple life, Jon thought.
“Perhaps we should consider this differently, not as a mistake, but as a
solution,” Lord Stark said. “Mance Rayder may be dead, but if we do not bridge
the gap between us our efforts will have been for nothing.”
“The wildlings will find a new king,” Robb said. “But if we let them settle
here, in the Gift, or among the mountain clans, then we might find peace.”
“I’ll marry her, if that’s what you wish.”
Jon thought about Arya, married to Theon and many leagues away. Had he really
thought that he could just go back to the Iron Islands? That things would ever
be the same again?
He could not help that he loved his sister, but he would do his duty. As a boy
Jon had wanted nothing more than to be a Lord like his father, with a wife and
children and lands to call his own, and he’d wanted those children to have a
proper name, something to go by besides Snow. Jon never thought he would get
all that he wished for.
--
The snowstorm had broken by the time of Jon’s wedding to Val. It was so cold
that the leaves of the Heart Tree were frozen to their branches, with icicles
hanging like crystals and clouds of steam rising from the hot pools.
Lord Stark had invited all the bannermen with lands bordering the Gift to
witness the ceremony, and while Jon understood what pains they had undergone to
arrive at Winterfell, he felt immensely sad that he wouldn’t be able to see
Arya one last time before marrying another woman. He wanted a chance to explain
to her that he was just doing his duty, but the rivers were frozen to travel
and a journey of that distance would be dangerous for a new mother.
Do I apologize to Arya for marrying another woman, or do I apologize to my
future wife for getting children on my own sister? Jon thought. The Heart Tree
dripped a few beads of thick, blood red sap from the face carved into its bark,
but no answer was forthcoming.
Lord Stark escorted Val through the gathering of people. She was dressed in all
white, with her pale blonde hair unbraided and left loose around her shoulders.
Val looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her, like she was the daughter of
the snow and the cold. Jon took her hand and they said their vows in front of
the Heart Tree, his fingers entwined with hers.
He removed her pure white cloak and brought his around her shoulders, draping
her in pale gray with a white direwolf stitched on the back. Val was now his
wife by her customs and his own. Jon kissed her. The air was frigid and his
hands were numb, but Val’s lips were warm against his, and when he pulled away
she smiled before taking his arm.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
A raven from Winterfell arrived in late spring, with the familiar wax seal and
handwriting that Arya recognized as Robb’s. Theon’s solar had, over the years,
become just as much her own, and she didn’t hesitate to use his chair when the
words in front of her proved so shocking.
Father has died from a wound to his shoulder, the same shoulder that took an
injury from a wildling arrow. It became infected too quickly for Maestor Luwin
to save him. Uncle Benjen has come down from the Wall and Sansa is journeying
all the way from the capital to return home. Jon will be bringing his family to
Winterfell and Bran and Rickon will be coming as well. We have missed you,
Arya, mother especially so. It would greatly please me for Theon and the
children to come with you, it has been too long since we have hosted you at
Winterfell.
Arya felt her shoulders shake as tears rolled down her face. Nymeria was curled
up by her feet, but once Arya turned to her the massive gray wolf put her head
in her master’s lap, licking at the salty tears on her face. Arya wrapped her
arm’s around Nymeria’s neck, placing her face in the wolf’s pewter fur.
As overcome as she was, Arya did not hear the door open until the voice of her
eldest son startled her.
“Mother?” Hal said, cautiously coming around the desk to comfort her.
Arya wiped at her face and tried to calm her breathing, but simply thinking
about the words she had to tell her son made the tears run thickly yet again.
Mother would have never let you see her like this, she thought, reminding
herself that she must be strong for her children, no matter how much pain she
felt at her father’s death.
Taking a few deep breaths of air, Arya steeled her nerves and looked her son in
the eye. At that moment, with his clear, undivided attention, she was struck by
how much he looked like Jon.
“Your lord grandfather has died,” she said, placing the letter from Robb in his
hand. “Your father is due back from the Shield Islands any day now, and once he
arrives we will journey to Winterfell.”
Hal put his arm around her shoulders, his frame reminding her of a colt that
had not fully come into itself yet. At that moment Arya realized that her son
was now almost a head taller than her and soon approaching the age she had been
when she first came to the Iron Islands.
She stroked Nymeria’s smoky gray fur, her head sore from crying.
“It will be good for you and your sisters to see your family,” Arya said. “My
sister will be there, as well as the princess Cassana.”
With their newfound wealth the Greyjoy family had risen in prestige. Over the
years Theon had become a much more skilled negotiator, and when Sansa confided
to Arya that the crown was deeply in debt Theon seized on the opportunity,
arranging a betrothal between Haldon and the princess in exchange for relieving
any debt owed to them by the royal family. Theon, Arya and their children had
been to King’s Landing before, but Hal had been only eight years old at the
time and Cassana had been a girl of five.
Standing from her chair, Arya said, “I must go speak with your sisters.”
Hal walked with her down the corridor, his strides longer than her own, another
reminder that her son had grown past boyhood.
“You won’t find Eira at her lessons, I’m afraid,” Hal said, one side of his
mouth turning upward in a crooked smile. “She’s down in the training yard with
her dancing instructor.”
Looking down the corridor and back, Arya said, “Good. Just don’t tell your
father.”
--
A layer of snow still covered the lands surrounding Winterfell, but the arrival
of spring was still apparent to those who were from the north. Jon wore one of
his lighter cloaks and, judging by the gait of his horse, the blanket of snow
that covered the north for years at a time during winter was beginning to
lessen.
His youngest son Rodrik sat up in his saddle, trying to see around the copse of
trees ahead of them.
“Father, when will we be there?” he asked.
A boy of seven, Rodrik had his mother’s bright blue eyes and heart-shaped face.
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, the boy always looked forward to their
trips to Winterfell. Robb’s son Edwyn was of an age with Rodrik and the two
boys were fast friends—Jon had even considered having Rodrik fostered there in
a year or two, though Val hated the idea of parting with a child so young.
“A few more hours, no more than that,” Jon assured him. He’d made this trip
from the Gift to Winterfell enough to know it blindfolded.
When they neared the walls of the castle Val rode up beside him, with their
four children and a few men in service to House Wolf keeping pace behind them.
Until now Ghost had been prowling the woods for game, but as soon as they
neared Winterfell he fell in step beside Val’s horse, as was his pattern. Jon’s
wolf normally made a wide circle around their party as they traveled.
The castle gates opened and a party of four riders rode out to greet them.
Among them was Robb, his red hair clearly visible among the white and gray
landscape.
Wearing a black cloak and doublet, his brother looked unusually pale, like he
had not slept in far too long.
“As Lord of Winterfell I welcome you to my home,” Robb said, his tone unusually
devoid of all cheerfulness.
“I thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” Jon said. Their party followed
Robb and his men into the castle through the north gate, passing the crypts and
the Broken Tower where they met stable-hands to take over care of their horses.
Lady Margaery was waiting for them, along with her children Lyra and Edwyn.
Being only a few years older than Jon’s daughter Enid, Lyra looked pleased to
see them, her chestnut brown hair woven into one of the complicated southron
styles her mother favored. Jon took Margaery’s gloved hand and kissed it in
greeting.
“My lady,” he said. “I hope that you are well.”
“As well as one can be at this time,” she said tactfully.
Margaery wasn’t northern in the slightest, but she had always been especially
courteous to Val despite their vastly different upbringings. Jon heard what
many said about his wife: that she was no true lady and had no place being
married to a lord, that any children from their marriage would certainly prove
barbaric and dangerous. He was proud to note that Val could be as mannerly as
any noble woman and that their children, while mischievous at times, knew the
appropriate courtesies.
Margaery and Val departed for the Great Keep while the younger children ran
toward the godswood, with Lyra, Enid, and his eldest son Benjen following them.
Looking to his brother, Jon asked, “May I see him?”
“Of course.”
After a moment Robb said hoarsely, “I’m glad you’re here, Jon. It’s been hard.
My mother hasn’t taken it well, she doesn’t rise from bed most days. Joffrey is
furious that Sansa has chosen to come all this way, our father’s death seems to
be inconvenient for our king—“
Placing a hand on Robb’s shoulder, Jon said, “It’s alright. I’ll help you in
any way I can. Ignore what Joffrey says, Sansa obviously has. She’s coming,
isn’t she?”
Robb nodded, the pair of them opening the door to the crypts.
“Rickon should be here the day after tomorrow. It will take Bran a little
longer to arrive, the Neck can be dangerous traveling this time of year.”
“And Arya?” Jon asked, hoping that he didn’t sound over-eager to see his
sister.
“Arya and Sansa will be here in a week’s time.”
As they passed the statues of previous lords and King’s of Winter Jon’s stomach
sank lower. By the time they reached his uncle Brandon and aunt Lyanna Jon was
clenching his jaw to keep from crying, his hands curled into fists. The
likeness of his father stared back at them, his expression icy, his demeanor
that of a lord, not a father.
Tears streamed down his face. Jon couldn’t look anymore, he closed his eyes and
tried to calm himself but just thinking about where they were made it start all
over again, feeling like someone had beaten his chest until it was sore and
tender.
“I know,” Robb said, pulling him into a hug.
Outside he was Lord Wolf, a husband and a father, a source of strength for his
family, but with Robb he was just Jon Snow, the bastard boy who had lost the
one person he’d always looked up to most of all.
His voice cracking, Robb said, “Sometimes I’ll go to his solar to speak with
him, only he won’t be there, and then I’ll remember…”
Tears stained his brother’s cheeks. Jon wiped at his eyes and put his hand on
Robb’s shoulder.
“We must get through this together,” he said.
--
Within a week’s time all of his brothers and sisters were present at
Winterfell. It had been ages since Jon had seen the castle so crowded, with
Robb’s family, his own family, Rickon, Bran and his wife Meera Reed, Sansa and
her three children, as well as Arya, Theon and their three children. There was
much spoken of the fact that King Joffrey could not be bothered to travel with
his wife to the north, but Sansa hardly seemed bothered by that fact, nor were
her sons and daughter.
It was strange to see so many men and women within the castle dressed in black.
Normally there would be a feast to honor Queen Sansa’s visit, but considering
the solemnity of the occasion one was not held, only a dinner with toasts to
Lord Eddard’s memory.
Jon sat by his wife during the dinner, purposefully trying to keep his eyes
from straying to Arya too often. They hadn’t had a chance to speak privately
and he thought over what he would say over and over again. As an older man he
looked back on his time with Arya as bittersweet—it had been the one time in
their lives when they had been closest, but every moment of it had required
some kind of lie from the two of them. He had cuckolded Theon while sleeping
under the man’s roof, for god’s sake. Once he saw Hal there was no doubt in
Jon’s mind that the boy had always been his, and the same could be said for
Eira, though Ashton was clearly Theon’s daughter.
As a young man he had made the decision to lay with his sister and now, more
than ten years later, his choices had grown to look him in the eye. Seeing Arya
further down the table, Jon thought that he would always have feelings for her
that extended beyond fraternal love.
You are married, he reminded himself, but Arya had been married when their
affair started and he had cared little about that. The difference, Jon thought,
was that he’d grown to care for Val. His father had arranged their match to
encourage trust between their peoples. Betraying his marriage vows now, when
his father was newly dead, seemed particularly disrespectful to his father’s
memory no matter the nature of his feelings for Arya.
After dinner everyone retired to their chambers. Jon found himself feeling
tired but unable to sleep, waiting until Val’s breathing fell in even, steady
exhales before he slipped out of bed. He changed into his clothes from earlier
that evening, slipping into his boots and fastening his cloak over his doublet
before leaving the Great Keep. The yard was deserted at this time of night and
his breath condensed into vapor from the cold, thought it was still warmer than
the Gift.
As he was walking he spotted a small-framed figure dressed in dark blue. The
sound of his footsteps drew nearer and the person turned around, pulling their
hood away to reveal Arya, her hair woven into a long braid that was tucked
inside her cloak.
“Jon,” she said, glancing around the deserted yard before hurrying toward him.
He stepped forward and hugged her, feeling her immediately wind her arms around
his neck, her cheek pressed against the fur on his collar.
“It’s alright,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No
one’s awake. Lets get out of the cold, shall we?”
Arya took his arm and entered the Great Hall at his side. At this time of night
there were only a few fires burning, just enough to keep the large hall lit and
passably warm. They settled in front of one of the hearths and Jon added logs
to the flames before he fetched them a cast-iron pot, a flagon of wine, and the
usual mulling spices. Arya added in small pinches of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg,
and allspice, the fragrance of the wine as strong as the scent of wood smoke.
Once the brew was ready they each took a ladle-full of wine before sitting on
one of the benches together, her hand finding his on the tabletop. Jon laced
his fingers with hers, looking down at her pink cheeks and the stain of wine on
her lips. Arya must have read his desire plainly on his features because at
that moment she turned her face upward and kissed him, the heady taste of
spices on her tongue. One of his hands found her hip, the other cupped her
cheek, her skin reminding him of the tender surface of a summer peach.
“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he said, sighing gratefully when she climbed into his
lap.
Jon reached forward and pulled at the simple gray ribbon that kept her braid in
place. He tugged on it until the knot loosened, pulling it from her hair and
running his fingers through the strands until it fell past her shoulders, free
and unbound.
“I’ve missed you as well,” she confessed, her arms around his neck. “Hal looks
so much like you that it pains me sometimes.”
Brushing his forehead to hers, Jon said, “I can believe it. And Eira, too.
There’ll never be a chance for me to know them, not as their father.”
Arya bumped her nose against his own like they were children once again. He
pressed his lips to the crown of her head, simply holding her close to him for
the first time in years, feeling like he had regained his closest friend, all
the while knowing that theirs was no true friendship.
“You have a wife,” she said, her fingers walking up the front of his black
doublet.
“Yes.”
Jon took her hand, holding it between them and lacing her fingers with his own.
“It was father’s wish that I marry her.”
Cupping his cheek, Arya said, “You did your duty, just like me.”
Their faces were within inches of one other once more and Jon wasn’t sure that
he could pull away, or even that he wanted to. For several long, agonizing
moments their lips were a hair’s breath from each other, like they were each
waiting for the other to step away, to raise some argument against what was
about to happen. But none came.
Jon pressed a firm, open-mouthed kiss to her lips, both of his hands wrapped
around her waist. She dug her hands into the front of his shirt, pulling their
bodies closer, her nails pressing into his skin like she wanted to climb inside
him. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped his mouth when Arya moved her legs
to either side of his hips, straddling him on the bench within the vast, empty
hall, the feeling of her hot breath against his skin driving him mad.
Arya pulled at the laces of his breeches and rearranged her heavy skirts,
moving her smallclothes to the side and brushing her center against him. Jon
buried his face in her breasts, pulling at the neckline of her gown until her
chest was exposed, laving the incredibly soft skin there with his tongue while
she rocked her hips against his own.
“Somehow I always do the dishonorable thing when it comes to you,” Jon said,
panting.
Arya covered his mouth in a kiss, her tongue swiping across his own, quick and
delicious, before she pulled away.
“Is there not something pure in doing as you truly wish?” she said, holding
herself up for a moment before sinking down around him.
Jon squeezed his eyes closed and moaned into her neck, snapping his hips upward
as Arya sat atop him, her arms around his neck, her nails brushing his scalp
and tangling in his hair. He covered her mouth with his own to ensure her
silence—the last thing they needed was a curious servant hearing them together.
Jon guided her hips and held her close, inhaling the clean scent of her skin, a
fierce burning spreading through his limbs. Arya circled her hips, drawing a
low groan from him as a shudder curled its way up his spine.
How many times had he dreamt of having her again like this? Or of putting an
end to it once and for all? Jon was too weak to let go of her forever, it
seemed, for as soon as they had finished he was already thinking of how they
could see each other again before their visit was over. Once they were ready to
depart the Great Hall Arya put a gloved hand on his arm, her pupils blown wide
in the dim light with only a thin line of gray around the edge.
“Meet me in the godswood tomorrow,” she instructed.
Jon kissed her cheek one last time and they left, taking care not to hold hands
once they exited the hall, even if they seemed to be the only ones awake in the
castle. He crawled back into bed beside Val, taking care to move quietly and
not disturb her. Jon stared at the ceiling above the bed, thinking of all the
promises he’d made for the good of his family—that he would protect Arya for
his father, that he would leave Hal and his unborn child to fight the
wildlings, that he would marry Val when his heart belonged to another.
What good is a promise that’s agony to keep? he wondered.
--
Jon stood in the Godswood within Winterfell, sitting on one of the large,
smooth boulders near the heart tree. There was a layer of snow still upon the
ground but it was less dense under the protection of the wood. His cloak
knotted tightly to keep in warmth, Jon looked at the ancient face of the heart
tree, noting the deep red sap that dripped from its eyes.
At the sound of footsteps in the snow he looked up, expecting to see Arya, but
Val stood before him, her pale blonde hair loose and falling about her
shoulders.
“Have I disturbed you?” she asked, taking the space next to him on the boulder.
“Of course not.”
Val reached over and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. She gave a
little sigh and looked straight ahead, facing the grove of trees in front of
them.
“Did you father Arya’s children?”
Jon was so unprepared for her question that he hardly got a sound out before
she turned to face him, placidly taking his hands in her own.
“You do not have to lie to me,” Val said, her tone mild. “I see the way you
look at them, Hal especially. He is your firstborn, is he not?”
Jon had not confided in anyone over the past ten years, choosing to keep his
feelings for Arya and the identity of their children a secret from everyone he
knew, even his wife.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“How many years have we been married now?” Val drawled. “I know you, Jon. And I
know how much you love our children. Every time you look at Eira or Haldon I
see it too.”
He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose just below his brow. “You
must think me the worst sort of man.”
“I know better,” she said simply. “You may be Starks, but you aren’t the first
brother and sister to have…affection for one another. Beyond the Wall, it
wasn’t unheard of in villages in the far north.”
“I don’t know why it happened,” Jon confessed. “We were always close, closer
than any of the others, and once Arya married Theon it became impossible not
to.”
He felt hugely relieved to speak these words aloud, to share the truth with his
wife instead of lying to her yet again. Val stood from her place next to him,
leaving the side where she’d sat and exposing him to the cold and the wind, his
body already missing her warmth.
“You must settle this business, Jon,” she said. “You will never get to claim
her children as your own, they may go their whole lives without knowing that
you’re their father, but you have four children that love you more than
anything and they need you. Do not forget them.”
Her blue eyes pierced him, her expression one of surety. Jon gave her a nod in
acknowledgement, knowing that Val was right, that he would never be able to
give Arya or Hal or Eira what they deserved, but that he had been given a
second chance with his family. He walked closer to the heart tree and knelt
beneath its branches, thinking of his newly dead father and wondering what
Eddard Stark would say to him if he knew the truth of his actions.
“Can you forgive me?” Jon asked, looking at the fierce, unchanging face.
He heard no answer except the wind lifting the limbs of the tree, causing a
blood red, heart shaped leaf to fall on the ground in front of him. Jon picked
it up with his gloved hand. In the distance he heard the sound of footsteps,
sure this time that Arya had come to speak with him.
Jon knew what he had to say.
Fin
Chapter End Notes
     It's so weird that this is the last chapter. Jon and Arya's story has
     been with me for a very long time and I will miss writing it. I hope
     this ending is satisfying for everyone. It's meant to be bittersweet,
     there is still a lot of love between them but the characters learn
     that they must change if they want their lives to be better. Thank
     you to everyone who took the time to read this/give kudos/leave a
     comment.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!