Chapter Text
“I’ll get us something to eat.”
Face seemingly void of emotion, Jon looked like he was going to say something else, but decided against it. He cleared his throat and walked out the door without sparing her another glance. She could hear his heavy footsteps descending the wooden stairs outside the room. Knowing he was out of earshot, Arya bit her lip and breathed out through her nose. She didn’t know whether she should burst out laughing or feel sorry for him.
What had they gotten themselves into?
After escaping the Boltons from Castle Black, they’ve been traveling by foot for days. Their happy reunion had been brief, and before they can ask each other what happened to their significant lives, they had to run when they heard that Ramsay was hunting them down.
Arya didn't even get around to asking why Bolton was after Jon's neck because she had been so damn happy to see Jon again. For the first time in years, she felt like lady luck was on her side. She couldn't believe that she was finally with family.
With Jon.
And it took a while to recover from the initial shock of seeing him. It took her hours and days to stop staring at him, to stop constantly checking on him so he wouldn't disappear like he did in her dreams. Although their conversations were curt and few (worrying her at times, to be honest), he had never left her side ever since. And with that, Arya knew there was nothing more important in this world but Jon. For some reason, things were finally in her favor. Just like that, she was no longer alone.
To be fair, as much as being with Jon had given her so much joy, it wasn't particularly easy.
Other than the Targaryen rumors she never got around to ask other people about, this Jon wasn’t her Jon anymore. It was in the way he carried himself, the way he talked, the way he breathed. Physically, he was taller, shoulders broader, and his voice was deeper than she remembered. He was almost odd in a sense, but she reminded herself that it was the same reason why he had always been her favorite person. Then again, he was still the typical Jon: broody and beautiful all at the same time. She couldn't decide if he was more broody or more beautiful now, but Arya was never going to admit that she almost freaked out the first time she saw him again.
It was strange, how at the sight of this new Jon, Arya felt the need to press her cold fingers against the burning in her cheeks. She had to mentally scold herself, it's him, it's Jon! What was wrong with her, acting like a love-struck princess in those stupid stories that Sansa used to love? Arya Stark didn’t blush. She had seen so many things that would’ve made maidens like Sansa squirm in their pretty dresses.
What a joke.
At the sight of Jon, all her efforts to be as cold as ice were seemingly in vain. Not that she bothered to fight the onslaught of emotions in her chest—her brother had always been the fire to melt her walls away. This was Jon Snow, the same boy whom she had loved whole-heartedly even before she had learned to speak his name. And he, in return, despite his reputation of being contemplative most of the time, reserved his precious smiles only for her.
And some things never change.
Jon broke character first, his lips in a crooked smirk. Anyone watching him would’ve assumed he was just mocking her—a dirty young girl gaping at him like he was an apparition. But what other people won't notice is the way his dark eyes had brightened when he recognized her. Only Jon can see right through me, Arya thought, and pushed herself forward to throw her arms around him.
“Jon,” she mumbled his name twice in his ear, the second one a little bit louder for herself to hear. It had been strange to say his name like she used to. And Jon had been kind enough to return the favor by cupping her cheek with his gloved hand. She couldn’t recall if she had cried, but she would never forget how it felt to be pressed against him, his heat radiating fiercely from his winter clothes.
“Arya,” he called her, and Arya had never been happier to be herself in that very moment. The sight of Jon made her abandon all duty and thought, and at the same time, he had recognized her beyond her mask. And when he did, by the old gods and the new, she was no one else but Arya. Hearing her name from his lips had drawn all the broken pieces of her heart and soul together, much of those she thought would be too distorted to fix, but he did—with just one mention of her name. She had ceased to be No One.
“Little sister.”
It had been easy up to that point, at least.
Unfortunately, they had to break their sweet get-together and run for their lives. And when the running stopped, that’s when Arya noticed how things have really changed between them. For one, she would feel him staring, studying her. He was equally bewildered by her appearance, Arya surmised then, him probably thinking about how her current physique and the child he had said goodbye to years ago were one and the same person. She was a bit taller, and well, she wasn’t the flat-chested kid she used to be. It was supposed to be funny, but it made Arya feel proud (and a tad bit too happy) that he was struggling with this realization.
Once he had mentioned in passing how she wasn’t a child anymore, but that was it. He refused to say anything else. Arya felt slightly disappointed the he didn’t elaborate—not that she was fishing for compliments, but a part of her wanted a little more (flattery, maybe?). She would’ve preferred if he teased her for still being a horseface or how she had never grown out of her love for breeches, but no. He didn’t break the ice. He wasn’t making any effort to bring them back to how they used to be. Sure, they would share the occasional laugh or mundane story, but it was all small talk. And she couldn’t prod or ask, knowing there were more things that she would rather not talk about during their meals.
Other than his presence and his rare smile, the only thing that anchored Arya was this certain gleam in his eyes. It shimmered a somewhat mysterious conundrum that she has only ever seen in her own reflection. And for now, that similarity was more than enough. He made her hope again. As long as they were together, they could make it through anything.
Even so, it would’ve been so much easier if they hadn’t met at this point in their lives, where talking felt like torture. All their stories were about death and regret, and Arya was unprepared to be thrust in the middle of this complicated affair. Unless the two of them could disintegrate and return to the younger versions of themselves, maybe things wouldn't be this hard.
If only she wanted that to happen.
Why would she want to replace the man that her Jon has become? Gone was her boy of a brother, in his place a warrior, seemingly a heartless dragon reborn with savage wolf blood running through his veins.
Arya could only conclude that her growing attraction to Jon was rather sane and sensible. Perhaps a little too Lannister for her own taste, but it wasn’t as crazy—or wrong, as she thought it would feel. It was as if it was meant to happen all along, like the love that had always been there had simply burned brighter, consuming her until she was one with the flames.
Supposedly, their shared past as siblings should make her recoil, but instead, Arya found herself thinking: Why not? Their history that fate had so desperately tried to erase—all their joint memories, perhaps those would be enough to ignite a passion they thought they’ve long lost. Because despite the people they've turned into, despite the unspeakable things they've done (more for her part than his, Arya was sure), they have still found each other. Like before, it was only Jon who truly understood, and o nly in his arms offered solace and love to be free as the air she breathed. The better question was, h ow could she not?
How could she not admire Jon?
How could she not love him more than she loved him as a brother?
Jon had always been her other half, Arya was sure of it.
Jon had always been the one.
She had staked her claim on him when she had first learned the word "mine".
And she had always been his, hadn't she?
But as wild and strong as she felt for him, Arya had to take things slow. There was still a possibility that she was alone in her thoughts, that she was merely stuck in childlike admiration of Jon Snow in all his self-loathing glory. She had to take things slower for his sake, even if she wanted to throw herself at him, explore their relationship (blood relations be damned), and see if they can love each other’s bodies akin to how their souls had mated since the beginning of time.
Arya kept her usually brutally honest mouth closed because he wasn’t ready.
Kept her damn mouth shut.
Because Jon wasn’t like that.
Even if the rumors were true and he was a Targaryen, Jon would never do anything to sever his bond with his “little sister”.
Maybe her time as No One has corrupted her so? Maybe it had messed up her brain, her heart, her body—for her to think of such immoral and twisted thoughts about her brother like that… You’d think she was part Lannister.
Arya had been willing to tell herself that she was insane, that she had been imagining everything, that she had been reading too much into his intense stares, his quiet sulking—after all, they had much to think about other than this thing between them (and there was probably none to begin with).
And Arya was willing to let herself die an old maiden, forever tread behind him and support him through all of his conquests—just because she could not bare the thought of leaving him now. She would hang on as long as she could. She would hold on until her love ran out (which she doubt ever would).
Resigning to spinsterhood would have been the original plan.
But then there was Jon... Who happened to make the stupidest (and most fascinating) blunder when they entered the old inn.
“I suppose the two of you need a room and a hot bath?”
Arya had been too tired to jest over the old man’s honest observation. They were dirty all over, haven’t had anything decent to eat for days, and the first, long sentence that leaves Jon’s mouth was this:
“Ah yes, one room for me and my wife.”
Arya had wanted to laugh out loud until the innkeeper kicked them out because she was being crazy, but she had feared that a multitude of butterflies would erupt from her mouth because she felt so happy. Her stomach twisted in anticipation. She felt like she was floating.
Giddy.
In love.
A dream came true was rare nowadays, after all. But the way Jon said it made her heart flutter, made her knees weak and the spot right below her bellybutton quench with a hunger she could only call desire.
Jon Snow called her his wife so innocently.
So naturally.
So true it made her ache.
As if he had been thinking about them for days.
For weeks.
For years, even.
And suddenly, all thoughts about carrying on with this unrequited love for years to come had become forgotten—lost and forever gone the moment they stepped in their room and saw the one, single bed in the middle of four walls.
"...me and my wife..."
His sweet words resounded in her head like a soft caress, a sweet promise. Albeit there was a chance that he said that to avoid suspicion, Arya’s gut was telling her it wasn’t a mere, thoughtless lie.
So while Jon was busy getting them dinner, Arya smiled and got up from the bed. She began to strip her clothes, a part of her curious and eager to show her “husband” how she really felt. The tips of her breasts hardened because of the cold, and her ankles felt warm as her breeches pooled by her feet. Thinking about his silly, frightened expression as he ran from her with his tail between his legs, she laughed.
You might be onto something, Jon Snow.
I know I am.