daily jonrya fics

hi everyone 🧡

so with a recession hitting my country, my job salary’s been slashed to a point where I’m in a tight spot financially. since I work full-time and the market’s rough, looking for a second job isn’t much of an option at the moment, so I’m turning to something I love to help me out a little and to give something back at the same time.

I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t need to and I’m very conscious that I’m more fortunate than most because I’ve got a roof over my head, so I’m quite keen on offering something in return for any help. this is all going towards things like making bill and rent payments less painful and life a little less stressful.

you can find my writing under kaleidokai on ao3 or snippets here on tumblr.

I’ve mostly written for the asoiaf fandom, but I’m open to anything and everything! in the immortal words of burger king: have it your way 🧡 similarly, if you have any ocs or special preferences, I’ll be happy to craft you your very own custom-made banquet - just the way you like it (...unless it’s a really uncomfortable request, in which case, I might have to recommend another place to eat. sorry.) but do shoot me a message and I’ll see what I can do!

pricing:

$5 for 500 words

$10 for 1000 words

$15 for 1500 words

$20 for 2000 words

cheers for reading this far! if y’all could please share this, I’d be really really grateful 🧡🧡 thank you!

Here it is! 

A few notes to situate y’all: More ASOIAF ‘verse. Age up the characters obviously; I always assume a five year gap in the timeline happened. Also, this would be before Jon’s parentage reveal. I think that should cover it.

Her fingers dig into his flesh further with every thrust,and surely her nails will draw blood from his thigh before they are through.The tent smells of sex, thick and heady. His grip on her hips is bruising, butshe welcomes it, encourages it.

Arya will not let him treat her like a noble lady whosehusband is only there to do his duty. Though her mother had tried to groom herfor such a life, the ladies of Braavos had taught her much and more of love. Shewants and lusts and yearns for histouch; he has spent too long afield, away from her and their bed. Arya thinksto remind him why they should not be parted. With her lips, with her breasts,with her cunt. Without him, she burns hot. She needs him to temper her, toquash the flames licking her from the inside.

Each time he enters her, she answers with Jon whether as a gasp or a low moan.It’s as sweet as a maiden’s song, a melody that brings his mouth to hershoulders. He presses frantic kisses there and whispers his love against hersweat-slicked skin. If asked, he will take his teeth to her flesh, marking herin pain. But it is sweet too because they are pack, and Arya long ago neverthought to see him again.

“Arya,” he moans as she twists her hips. “Arya, I—“

She shakes her head, her dark hair falling over her face.“Not yet.”

She feels it coming, the way she twitches around himtelling it true. He has brought her to pleasure twice tonight, her generousking. And he will again before he finds it himself. His fingers fumble aroundher hip, trembling for want of release. He slips between her folds, seeking outthose places that drive her half-mad. Though it takes him a moment, he findsher, and Arya sucks in a breath, her thighs quaking. She feels it cut throughher belly—a feather-light sensation, almost a tickle, that sends her body tobreath-taking spams.

Arya buries her face in the pillow, moaning loudly intothe fabrics so that they might not draw unwanted attention. As she fights tohold onto the lingering sensations pooling between her thighs, Jon pushes intoher with little grace. Arya smiles, a smile that only grows wider when shehears his gasp and feels him spilling his seed inside her.

As he comes back to himself, Jon withdraws from her,kissing her thrice on her back before lying at her side on his camp bed. His eyesshut slowly and breaths even out; he has found contentment. Usually, she curlsup against him, burying them beneath furs for a few hours’ sleep before she muststeal away into the night back to her chambers. Though the men might thinklittle of her sharing Jon’s tent for her own safety in the camp this night,Arya cannot rest. Jon tries to pull her to him, but Arya quickly escapes hisarms.

She stands, naked as her nameday, and takes a few stepsto the flagon of wine still left from supper. It’s only after she’s drainedhalf her glass that she turns back to Jon, watching him watch her with awide-eyed curiosity.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voicerough.

Arya follows his line of sight back to her body, to hermiddle that has begun to softly curve outward since the last moon. She bringsher hands there, shielding or cradling she cannot say.

She has not been ableto say her will since her moon’s blood stopped several turns ago after Jon hadlast left Winterfell to treat with Southron lords. In that time she has bothtried to acknowledge it and ignore it, neither quite satisfying her. And hersilence does not seem to satisfy Jon,she realizes, as he sits up in their bed, his eyes filled with worry.

“I had not planned to,” she admits. “Not yet. I haven’tdecided…”

“Arya.”

It’s sounds half an admonishment. The other half shecannot quite place. Pity, perhaps. Or disappointment. She knows she must decidesoon. Her belly continues to swell as she thinks of the choices to be made, andsoon the decision will be made for her as she takes to the birthing bed. Thoughtorn, Arya knows it must not come to that.

She chances a look at his face, to see if she shouldtruly be ashamed. His expression is soft—kind.He does not hate her then. He does not want her to put on her clothes and leavehis tent. And any doubt Arya may have had is removed when he reaches for her.

Arya allows him to pull her to him as if she were a doll.She stands before him, feeling more exposed than ever as he tries to look ather, only for his eyes to drop to her belly. His proximity makes her skinprickly as if under the midday sun, and there is a twinge between her legsagain. In her new condition, she finds herself burning hot at the thought ofJon, as if she carries a fire in her womb instead of a babe.

When his fingertips find her skin, Arya wants again. Judging from his looksnow—some fear, some reverence—she does not think she can sit in his lap and endthis conversation for better things. He will want to discuss this, whateverthere is to discuss. For all that shethinks there may be options, deep within her Arya knows better. She knows intruth that this only ends with her squatting and bleeding alone in some forest,a bitter taste lingering on her tongue.

Jon allows himself to splay his hand across her belly,pausing and searing her, before withdrawing.

“We can’t—“

“I know,” she says.

Arya settles next to him, her own hands finding hermiddle. Perhaps for the first time—fool that she is, now of all times—she allows herself to feel like any woman might inher position. Maybe it is safer now—now that she knows what must be done—to allowherself to properly feel what’s happening, to her swelling breasts and newlystretching skin. To the roundness of her middle. To her womb filled with Jon’sgrowing babe. Her babe. Hers and Jon’s.

In another life perhaps this changing body of hers wouldnot be so bad. She could bear it, she thinks, for a little one with the looksof the North. For the weighty-feel of a babe mewling in her arms for herbreast. It is a strange thought—her as a mother. Once, at a crossroads longago, it might have been a happy strangeness. But she is on another path now,and motherhood ill suits her, she is certain.

“I will not have a bastard, Arya,” Jon says, though itclearly pains him. “I can’t.”

Despite knowing better, Arya thinks of a little boy withdark curls and gray eyes, his cheeks chubby and sweet. Or a girl, swaddled infurs and sleeping soundly in her father’s arms. It is not the first time shehas thought of them. Long ago, as a little girl herself, she knew she would bemade to marry and have children. Back then she had thought, I will have Jon’s children. Everyone hadtold her it was impossible, that brothers and sisters don’t wed or havechildren. Arya had not understood then why it couldn’t be so. In her heart, sheis not so certain she understands any better now.

“It would not live as you did. You are a king. It’s inyour power to legitimize bastard children.”

The words slip past her lips intentionally, as if shemust hear them voiced herself to know them false. Of course Jon had the powerto do so if he wished, but there was so much more to it than that. There wasWinter, and war, and the dead walking Beyond the Wall. Jon fights on valiantly,but they both know that man is poorly equipped to defeat the undead. Though shecarries within her the heir to the North, a prince or princess of Winterfell,it would only be an heir to ruin.

“This is not any bastard. We are brother and sister,” heanswers her.

Arya’s head swims with thoughts of Targaryens and Lannisters,of families who have thought themselves above the laws of nature. Though herstomach churns violently, Arya for a moment admires the strength it must havetaken to remain steadfast in love and find comfort when others looked on withdisgust.  But she and Jon are different. They are Starks. Winter is Coming—ishere. They cannot give into desire so easily when her father’s people dependon them both if they are all to survive this. Robb had, and he had paid thegreatest price.

Reaching out, she takes his hand into her own, meetinghis gaze. His eyes are filled with worry, with fear, with want. Despite explainingwhy she cannot go through with this pregnancy, Arya can tell he’s found no joyin such a position. Since she was old enough to understand, Arya has known thatJon wants to belong. His childhoodhad been a lonely one despite having five siblings. Together, she and he, theyhad found something akin to their own pack; they belonged to one another. Inanother life perhaps, they could have looked upon her growing belly withhappiness.

But, she knows, so deeply that it terrifies her, not inthis one.

“I’ll see to it. On the morrow.”

Jon’s sigh is not one of relief. Perhaps because she’shad more time with this, Arya feels an empty sort of resignation. But Jon. His eyes tell tales of one and ahundred emotions brewing in light of this decision. He brings his warm hand toher jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek tenderly.

“I’m sorry,Arya.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be stupid.”

But, sometimes Jon can be so very stupid. He’s a fool tolie back in their bed, to pull her to him so that she’s nestled against him,back to front. He buries his nose in her hair, breathing deeply, and Arya findssome sort of peace in that. But then he does something very foolish, so foolish that she wants to bite her lip in sadnessor in fury. He places his hand against her belly, rubbing soft circles into herskin. And perhaps she could have survived that still had he not begun to hum alullaby from their childhood against her skin.

I loved a maid aswhite as winter, with snowflakes in her hair.

Endnotes: 

Yes I know the official lyrics to “Seasons of My Love” from ASOIAF is “I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair,” but fuck me if Leonard Snow’s version isn’t perfect:

I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunrise in her hairThere lived no other in the world could in my heart compareHer eyes were stars of midnight bliss, her laugh a meadow breezeI would have done all that she asked, so quick was I to please

I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hairEmbraced in velvet lullabies, such sweetness did we shareWe were all we ever had but we were wild and freeAnd in the lands you would not find a soul as lark as me

I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hairThe seasons of our love had both a beauty and despairTwo hearts that beat as one were we, our song was meant to beAnd in the skies you would not find a dove as spry as she

        It take’s snappingthe buttons of his jeans, and slipping on his black tee shirt to realize that he’sroyally and completely fucked everything up. Jon knows he could blame alcohol, the bottlesof beer littering the nightstand, but it’s not a good enough excuse for thissituation he has put himself in.

             “Jon?”

           A small voice spoke from the bed, thevery same voice he’s confided in for the last ten years of his life. He looksat her, and he’s smiling because she’s truly a sight. Her hair is framed aroundher face in thousands of tiny knots, and she has some make up smeared beneathher eyes from the night before.

             “Shh, goback to sleep.” He whispers, crouching down to cup her cheek and rub his thumbalong the contours. She closes her eyes, moving into his touch, and he breathesdeeply because it’s sentiment he’s done hundreds of times, but now it bearsmore weight, more meaning.

        It take’s snappingthe buttons of his jeans, and slipping on his black tee shirt to realize that he’sroyally and completely fucked everything up. Jon knows he could blame alcohol, the bottlesof beer littering the nightstand, but it’s not a good enough excuse for thissituation he has put himself in.

             “Jon?”

           A small voice spoke from the bed, thevery same voice he’s confided in for the last ten years of his life. He looksat her, and he’s smiling because she’s truly a sight. Her hair is framed aroundher face in thousands of tiny knots, and she has some make up smeared beneathher eyes from the night before.

             “Shh, goback to sleep.” He whispers, crouching down to cup her cheek and rub his thumbalong the contours. She closes her eyes, moving into his touch, and he breathesdeeply because it’s sentiment he’s done hundreds of times, but now it bearsmore weight, more meaning.

I hope this is close to what you wanted to see, Nonny. Or at least a satisfying substitute

They’re all going to die.

It’d been a realization that crept in like cold to thebone and had lingered for a sennight—a heavy, foreboding, silencing fogstopping up the lungs, but offering the mind a certain clarity. They were allgoing to die. This winter would be an eternal one. The White Walkers would win,and if they were lucky they might be put to fire before the dead called them torise again.

Jon doesn’t know how it had happened, or when, only thatit had. The heaviness that had spread through the camp had eased only a little,but enough for this to start. Drunkenrevelry, laughter, easy smiles—things that had no place in camps during war.But, Jon reminds himself, this is no war.This is not Aegon’s Conquest, not the War of the Five Penny Kings. Not Robert’sRebellion, nor the Greyjoy. A certain death makes men to queer things, likecelebrate and feast on what little was left of their stores, and Jon hadn’t theheart to deny them when he was leading them into doom.

It’s troubled Jon. It troubleshim now. He was not designed forlordship, let alone a crown. Yet here he is—King in the North, Crown Prince ofthe South—around a campfire, staring longingly at the flame like it was a lover’sface while his men told bawdy jokes, slapping one another on the back andremembering times that were warmer and kinder.

One laugh—loud and feminine—pulls him from his ownthoughts. It’s a balm to his pained heart, her laugh. And familiar—beautifully,wonderfully, impossibly familiar. He lifts his head to search for her, findingher at the next fire over with a group of wildlings and Northerners alike. She’stelling a tale, her arms gesticulating wildly, and it has them in tears it isso amusing.

He can’t help but smile, though it has nothing to do withwhat she is saying and everything to do with her. Arya has returned to him, his little sister, safe and soundand grown. The years do not troublehim as much as what they’ve done to her. He fears the truth of what hadhappened to her, of course. But what makes him even more afraid is the womanshe has become.

She is a beauty.

Oh, Arya has always been beautiful to him. He can’trecall how many boys he had hit in his youth who had called Arya ugly in hispresence. He had seen it when she wasbarely walking. When she had fallen in mud puddles near the stables. When shehad stood next to Sansa, whose beauty eclipsed even those great ladies in thesongs.

But Arya.

The woman she is now is someone even he could never have dreamed of. And it both makes him proud thatfinally people see her for what he has always known her to be, yet hurts hisheart to think that this newly found admiration for her is because she is sovery sweet to look upon. People can now see what has always been there.

And it makes Jon angry.With protectiveness. With fear. With jealousy.Because Arya is his, and he is hers. It’s been that way since they werechildren, and it is not fair that things between them have become socomplicated when they finally have one another back. Briefly, Jon wonders if it’she who has made it complicated with these feelings he knows, but does not wantto name. A smile, a touch on the arm, any little form of acknowledgment and hestirs for her.

Jon tries to ignore it. Instead, he focuses on the facesin the firelight that look up at her. She has no shortage of male admirers,some more forward than others. With a few, he has considered sending them awayto Tormund’s command, but so far Jon has not made the order. Perhaps it’sbetter that there’s someone—or plenty men, he supposes—that stand between themso that he does not act on his urges. And she deserves to be admired, to belooked upon as they look upon her now—like she is the cleverest, fiercest, mostbeautiful woman in all of Westeros. Like she is loved. Even if she cannot see it for herself—and she can’t, notwith the way she dismisses his concerns—she deserves all of it and more,especially now.

When she lifts herself up on her toes and stretches herneck to make eye contact with him from across the fires, Jon realizes he musthave been staring at her a little too long. The joy alight on her face makeshis heart skip a beat and soon he feels his shame acutely. He offers her a patheticlittle wave in return, and Arya seems like she might move to join him.

Stay, Jonthinks. Stay and enjoy how they worshipyou, little sister. I have nothingbut dishonor to gift you now.

streetsofme prompted: 

JONRYA REUNION following what’s happening rn in the show <3

I hope you like it! Obviously I’m mostly drawing from GOT, but a line or two from ASOIAF slips in there as well. Feel free to inbox me prompts of these two.

She wakes covered in a sheen of sweat. The chill in her room—once so familiar, now penetrating bone deep—nips at her damp flesh, and Arya shivers. Her hand slips beneath her pillow, fingers folding around the hilt of a Valyrian steel dagger. Eyes shut, and her breath comes out as a shudder. Worlds collide—Braavos and Winterfell—where waifs chase her through dark crypts as she runs towards her father’s voice.

At the sound of horse hooves, of men’s shouts from the yard announcing the arrival of the king, the cold seizes Arya’s heart, nearly stopping it. Numb legs take her to the window of her room that looks below to the yard. The torches light the grounds, and Arya watches one man among several dismount. She feels a pull in her belly, a force drawing her to him, and her nerves begin to fray.

Jon.

He is a man grown now. From what she can see of him, he looks every inch a king. He is her brother, the very reason she is at Winterfell; she had longed for him. Yet as the moment of their reunion draws nearer, she feels the years between them acutely, like the prick of a dagger on her breast.

Jon will want me, even if no one else does.

She remembers thinking that so long ago.

When he sees you his heart will probably stop.

Arya fears it all. What if she had been wrong? What if Sansa had been wrong? What if too much time had passed and Jon no longer thought of his wild little sister—his deadly little sister? What if he couldn’t forgive her the blood on her hands? The mud and the breeches?

What if he no longer wanted her?

The thought brings pressure beneath her eyes, into her nose, and Arya feels the tell-tale prickle of tears coming on. Sansa and Bran had received her warmly, yes. But they were not Jon, who was so often her life’s blood as a child. His arms had tried her tears. His smile set her heart alight. She felt a beauty beneath his warm eyes. Jon mattered in ways she could not explain.

Arya watches him join an older man, their shoulders near touching and heads bent as if deep in conversation. Her legs are as heavy as stone, and she is not ready. But she is struck so suddenly by need, despite her terror, that her feet move as if of their own volition. Arya does not bother with a cloak nor with shoes; she simply runs.

The corridors are blurs to her as she weaves her way through Winterfell. Her frantic heart beats. She knows not where he intends to go, and she can hear nothing over her pulse racing in her ears. But she trusts. Winterfell is their place; she has always been able to find him here. Arya hopes against all that time has not changed that too.

And it has not. She stops short of where two corridors meet when her eyes catch sight of him and the other man. There is a deep pang within her chest, and she is frozen there. She catches pieces of his conversation, about Northern lords and going Beyond the Wall. Arya opens her mouth to call to him, but there is only silence from her. She feels as if she might split in half if he does not stop for her now because surely it is a sign from the Old Gods and the New that they are not what they once were. Arya holds her breath.

He sees her.

He must catch her from the corner of his eye because he is slow to turn towards her. There is curiosity on his face first, and then Arya watches as his expression falls and his eyes widen as if in wonder. Jon stops as she had, and they are mere yards from one another. His lips part, and she swallows hard. It is bitter cold in only her socks and shift here in the North at the beginning of Winter, yet warmth pools in her belly. He tilts his face just so. His shoulders sag, and he looks so very vulnerable.

“Arya?”

It’s a hoarse whisper, one that barely reaches her. It causes her to frown with heavy emotion. He remembers. He has not forgotten her. Arya tries to fight off the tears she feels welling in her eyes because she is not a little girl any longer, but Jon looks half overcome himself and she simply can’t.

Jon is the first to move, but Arya is quick to run to him. She jumps into his arms, and his winds them around her so tightly that the lives they’ve lived apart from one another seem no longer insurmountable. Arya buries her nose into his neck, takes in the smell of his sweat and horse and stink. He cups her neck. She wishes she could somehow be closer because it is not enough. Arya presses her lips to his warm skin. It is a long kiss, tender and hidden from others’ eyes by his hair. Jon turns his head, and she feels him smile against her cheek. That, and the snot and salty wetness from his poorly held off tears.

“I’ve missed you,” she says against his skin.

“Welcome home, little sister.”

Jon watches the men below loading dragonglass into the boats that will take them North. Soon, he thinks. He has spent too long on Dragonstone, though each day had brought them closer to a fighting chance in this war. His heart aches for home. For Sansa and Bran. For Arya. There is much and more he must do before he can see them again, and that knowledge is another knife to the heart. Jon tells himself he does this for them. He mislikes this crown of his—the Seven know he did not want this—and longs for the day when he might cast it off for his trueborn brother, Robb’s rightful heir.

Somewhere along the Gift there is an abandoned home that waits for him when his watch and reign have ended. Something small and inconspicuous where he might live out the rest of his days as his own man. Briefly, his thoughts wander to Arya; he would ask her to join him in that house. He would make sure Bran would not deny her that before he relinquished his control of the North. Though many years had separated them, Jon does not think Arya would appreciate a royal life. He would buy her freedom with his crown. After everything, Arya deserved to be her own woman too.

“Your Grace?”

He turns to find Gendry approaching, the boy who had named himself Robert Baratheon’s bastard not hours before. Jon thinks it strange that he would cross paths with King Robert’s bastard now, that he would fight side-by-side with him as their fathers had years before—the bastard sons of great men trying to save Westeros together. The singers would find poetry in that.

“Gendry.”

Something about the way the young man holds himself gives Jon pause. He watches at Gendry squints a bit as if mulling something over. Gendry opens his mouth, shuts it again, and hesitates. It comes as a surprise to Jon; Gendry had been unabashed and forthcoming only a while ago. That he struggled to find himself now when he so clearly had something to say to Jon puzzled Jon to no end.

“You’re welcome to speak freely,” Jon adds.

“I don’t know how to say this, m’lord—your grace—I don’t know what’s happened since…” Gendry exhales deeply. “I knew your sister.”

“Sansa?”

“No, Arya.”

As soon as Gendry speaks of her, his heart falters and insides twist up enough to sicken him. Jon feels the time and distance between them acutely and wants nothing more than to reunite with her. To hug her. To hold her. To call her little sister. That Gendry had spent time with her during that void makes Jon feel something akin to jealousy. It was foolish—that a person could steal time away from another—but he recognizes it for what it is all the same.

“We met on the road north to join the Night’s Watch after your lord father died. Eventually we split up. I don’t know what’s happened to her. We was friends though, and I thought…well, I thought you ought to know she made it out of King’s Landing alive.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“If anyone can survive out there, it’s Arya.”

Jon smiles softly. He knows little of Gendry, but if Gendry understands what a fighter Arya is then they must have been close on their journey together. It troubles him, yes. Because he could not be there for her. Because this man had to protect her in his stead. Jon wonders what their bond may have been. Gendry is a comely young man; perhaps Arya had admired him. Mayhaps Gendry had been able to see her beauty beneath the dirt just as well as he had years before. But Jon does not linger long over the thought, perhaps only because he can’t quite bear the idea of Arya admiring someone other than himself.

“I’ve just received a raven. She’s recently returned to Winterfell.”

Gendry seems relieved to hear it, his eyes widening briefly and nodding proudly. Jon recognizes that pride because he had felt it too, that and so much more when he’d received word of her safe return. Arya always had a way about her, making friends of the most unlikely people. She had touched Gendry’s life somehow, and it’s evidence of the great debt Jon realizes he owes Gendry.

“A friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine,” Jon says, clapping Gendry on the shoulder. “I know nothing of your travels, but I thank you for looking out for her. I owe you a great deal for that, and I’m afraid I may never be able to return the favor. But you will always have friends in Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Thing is, she more often looked after me.”

“Aye, that she does,” Jon says, small grin on his lips.

57.  things you said when no one else was around. 

He has practiced the speech a total of twenty three times alone in the study. He has even said it in front an old, cracked looking glass eight of those twenty three times, just to be sure his face wasn’t doing something stupid. 

His face was always doing something stupid, he’d decided, after the eighth time, and hid the looking glass away. 

He takes a deep breath, and practices for a twenty fourth. 

“Arya,” is how it begins. It always begins with her name. 

“Arya, little sister,” he’d debated leaving that out. Did it make it better or worse? He’d voted in, because she’d understand, he knew she would. 

“Arya, little sister, I need you to make me a promise.” 

It sounded needy, it sounded desperate, but he was, wasn’t he? He was needy and desperate, and determined. 

“I need you to promise me that you’ll stay here, at Winterfell, with me.” 

Was it too desperate? He saw the way the smith looked at her, smitten and warm. He saw the broad smiles she’d give him in return. He’d been granted a place at Storm’s End, by the legitimized half-brother he hadn’t known he had. He was terrified Arya would leave with him. 

Was it blackmail to ask her to stay? 

“I need you to promise me that you’ll stay here, at Winterfell, with me, because, Arya… It’s not home without you.” 

It was the truth, simply stated. Winterfell wasn’t home, not for him. Arya was home. 

“I need you here with me, because I’m terrified of letting you out of my sight again.” 

He was. Terrified. He checked on her in her sleep, just to be sure that she was still there, still safe again. 

“I’m terrified of losing you again. Even if you promise to write, and even if it’s just a few miles, I’m terrified of being apart from you. The last time we were apart…” 

I died for you. He can’t say that. Not to her. He can’t put that burden onto her. 

“You died for me,” comes a voice from behind him, and he whirls around to find Arya there, tears on her face, finishing his sentences as always. 

“Arya, you weren’t meant to hear–” 

She runs to him, cuts him off by jumping on him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He wraps his arms around her waist in turn. 

She’s not as light as she once was, and she is taller, her legs much closer to the floor than they used to be, last he held her like this. 

“I could never leave you, Jon,” she says through her tears, and relief floods his entire body. 

“You’re my home, too, Jon Snow,” she tells him, and leans forward to press her forehead against his. 

He can feel her every breath, and for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, he feels like he can breathe. 

“I’m not what you think I am,” was all he said.

Arya didn’t know what it was about. She’d only just returned. She had thought him dead but he wasn’t and now the way people looked at him… he was her brother. She stepped through the crowd to stand with him, to shield him.

“You leave Jon alone,” she told them fiercely.

Father and Lady Stark are speaking in whispers over breakfast. The Karstarks departed at first light this morning, and Lady Stark hasn’t smiled since. 

You know what they’re after, she hisses to Father when she thinks none of the children are listening, and Jon exchanges a quick look with Robb. 

It’s the first time in a fortnight that he sits at the table with his brothers and sister. In some ways, he is grateful to be able to be close enough to exchange looks with Robb again. 

In some ways, he misses being far away enough to avoid Lady Stark. 

Father mumbles something back that Jon doesn’t quite catch, but Arya, from her perch next to him, does. 

“What’s marriage?” She asks, loudly, oblivious to her mother’s grimace. 

“Arya,” Sansa says with a huff. “Mother and Father were having a private conversation. It’s rude to listen in.” 

Lady Stark beams at her red-haired daughter, but Arya, ever the spitfire rolls her eyes. 

“How can it be private if we’re right here?”

She looks up at Father with her big gray eyes. 

“What’s marriage?” Arya repeats, and though it is clear he is trying not to smile, Jon can see the beginning of Father’s grin. 

“It’s when a man and a woman join their houses,” Father tells her. 

Arya squints up at him. 

“Sounds stupid,” she says, and this time Father doesn’t try to hide his laughter, and even Lady Stark smiles. 

“It’s not stupid!” Sansa says hotly. “It’s romantic, like in the songs, right Mother?” 

“People will have different opinions,” Lady Stark says. “But every lord and lady weds eventually.” 

“Why?” Arya asks, around a mouthful of bacon. 

“Because it joins great houses to make alliances,” Sansa answers, and Jon thinks she must be repeating the Septa word for word. “And to start families of their own.” 

“Sounds stupid,” Arya says again, and this time Robb and Jon join father in laughter. 

“You wouldn’t be here if Father and Mother didn’t get married,” Sansa tells her, and Jon grins at the way Arya’s eyebrows furrow and the way she chews her lower lip as she considers this information. 

“I’m going to marry the Prince,” Sansa declares, as Arya chews away. “I’ll live in a castle in the south and be a Princess, just like in the songs.” 

Lady Stark gives her a smile, but Father frowns. It’s only for a moment, but Jon sees it. 

“You have to move away when you get married?” Arya asks incredulously, looking wide-eyed at her mother. 

“Ladies do,” her mother admits. “They move to their husband’s lands. I left Riverrun to come to Winterfell to be with your Father. Someday, a lady will leave her home to come here to be with Robb.” 

Arya chews her lip again, Jon can see the gears working in her mind. 

“I’ll marry Jon then,” Arya says after a fashion, popping another piece of bacon in her mouth. 

Lady Stark sputters, and Sansa frowns deeply, but Father laughs loud and clear, and Jon grins at her. 

“Why’s that, little girl?” He asks her, and she grins at him. 

“I won’t have to leave Winterfell. And I like Jon,” Arya says, returning his smile. “He’s my favorite.”

“And I’m not?” Robb interjects. He’s grinning at Arya fondly too. 

“You snore,” Arya retorts to Robb, and Father laughs again, pulling Arya onto his lap.

“Your Aunt Lyanna once decided she’d rather marry me over Uncle Brandon or Uncle Benjen for that same reason,” Father says. He’s smiling, but his eyes are sad and far away. 

“It’s good to love your brothers so much,” he tells her. “But you cannot marry one of them.”

“That’s stupid,” Arya says again, and this time Jon is the first to laugh. Father looks at him and for a second looks as though he might cry. Then, Father laughs, and kisses the side of Arya’s head.