#nhat

ARYA III

When Jaqen's face had darkened the door of her lodging, she had not flinched. She'd ran forward, no words to spare and expecting none in return, sword raised to his neck. But he'd only stepped back in turn, and raised his hands in surrender, offering his throat, if that is what she wanted, laying his life at her disposal either way. She'd scoffed but, damn her curiosity, she'd let him continue, though she would not rest her blade, for even if he spoke like a man, moved like a man, and told her things that only a man could know, she knew better than to think that she could trust this Jaqen to be her Jaqen, or that hers was any worth accepting in the first place.

It had not been until Jaqen had disappeared entirely that she'd cocked her head and let her Needle fall, not to her side, but turning and trailing down, from the edge at his neck to the tip at his belly.

The face of the Kindly Man had looked more dead than she remembered.

The moment understanding had lit her eyes, a man had raised his hand, and Jaqen had returned before her. He had remained ever since, his face familiar. Somehow both a gesture of peace and a warning.

JON III

There was one place, though, where Jon had been more welcomed than Robb - at Arya’s side. It had been that way the moment she was born and their father had set her in his arms. Brown hair, dark eyes, a small scowl that transformed into a burbling laugh at his touch. From that moment, he had been determined to be so loving a companion, so warm a haven, that if nothing else, she would have no choice but to think him good, to think him hers. The gods had clearly sent her for him, or perhaps put him there for her, after all. She looked his kin more than their brother or her mother both.

And when Lady Catelyn’s nervous fingers had pried her daughter’s fist from his thumb and wrested her from his grasp, he'd reckoned he was not the only one who noticed. She would never speak of it to him if she did, of course, but she did not have to. The dread and jealousy in her eyes screamed without reserve, every time Arya toddled after him or shrieked his name in delight or showered him with kisses, all of which she did for him far more often than she did for any of her full-blooded siblings, or her spiteful Tully mother.

The only person in the family he may ever have come second to in her eyes was their father. But then Jon had given her a gift even Ned would never dared, had loved her in a way that he was too much of a lord and a husband and a grown-up to conceive. He never stopped giving thanks that she had sneaked out of lessons that fateful day, that conversation on the rampart, gazing down at the full-blooded boys clumsily swinging about. Her grousing, her keening envy, had given him that sword, planted it in his brain, and that sword had saved her, delivered her home. Where would she be without it?

ARYA IV

It spread out across her bed like a quilt, black as the night, lined with white fur and fixed with a red garnet clasp. Something tasted strange in the back of Arya’s throat at the sight of it. She furrowed her brow at the dark fabric, and the black ribbons tying off the ends of her braids.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" Arya blinked back innocently, but it was too late.

"You look almost ill." Jeyne ventured as she reached around and threaded the cloak through the gaps between Arya's arms. "Does it not fit right? We had it adjusted just yesterday."

"It fits fine," Arya replied quickly. The other girl looked unconvinced as she closed the clasp at the base of her neck, just under a high collar embroidered with a thick trim of white branches and leaves a burning red. Arya pretended not to notice her, eyes trained on how the bright weirwood colors stood out against the gentle gray, and beside the Braavosi tan that lingered still on the back of her hands.

JON IV

Jon had imagined himself like this when he was a boy: sat at the head of a high table above the room, with lords grandstanding and grovelling before him. Granted, he had not picture two silver-haired conquerors beside him, nor crowns atop any heads, let alone his own. Likely that was why some of those noble heads of houses wore such shakier smiles than he'd pictured, as if they stood before three great beasts, why others were so rigid they almost looked in pain. Perhaps they thought bowing before a bastard king was beneath them, that might be it. But what did it matter? Their knees still bent.

He had gotten used to being in big chairs, in front of the room, as a commander, but those chairs had been wood, and those rooms had been cramped, low ceilings and long rows of tables and benches. He was hardly used to playing prince in a metal-wrought throne, raised up for all to see at the center of a big cavern of brick and tapestry, music lilting and colors flashing across gleaming smooth floors. These walls were not built to retain heat. He was not used to the exposure, to the echoing. It did not seem a place for whispers.

ARYA V

Arya furrowed her brows, reached out to touch his shoulders, nearly as amused by his distress as she was exasperated. "Ser Dayne has promised himself in service of the queen, as a representative of the council. Even if he was in love with me, as you imagine, it would be ill-fated. He'd hardly have the time to court me between his travels across the bloody continent."

Jon scoffed at her assertions. "You are inexperienced in these matters." It was a dark and bitter laugh that escapes him then. "You are - you are borderline naive. Vows may strip you of your past, as may distance and time, but love remains. If ever true, it remains." His voice was hastening, as if he could not stop the words from pouring out. "And what is to stop him from serving the queen and demanding you as repayment for such loyal service?"

"Jon, you've served with the man," she insisted, bewildered. "You know him! He's a good man! You think him capable of such a thing? He would never. Especially if he was in love with me."

And at that, Jon went quiet, cringing back, face turning to stone, as if her words had been an insult, rather than a reassurance. He did not respond right away, steadying his breath.

SANSA II

But Arya was Sansa's sister, too, and she would not be made to quiet so easily, tears rising in her eyes. "You have no idea what you speak of at such length. Day and night, ever since the war ended, my mind has swarmed with worries, for her sake. Spinning with them, so much it feels I've lost my head completely!"

“Oh, well, I know where your head is at. The Sword of the Morning and the Night Wolf, what a song they’d make!" He snarled. "But Arya’s life is not a song, and I will not have you write her into one."

The accusation was as bizarre as it was strangely hurtful, her ears burning and throat closing up. She stammered, hand pressed to her chest in appall, but Jon was hardly pausing, let alone taking the time to justify his needling words.

"Lament as many of your own weddings as you will, whether or not you include the current to the stunted, lumbering beast responsible for much of your own sister's suffering, but I will not let your mistakes and your resentments give her cause to regret her own!"

Sansa's hand was in the air before she could even register her own intentions, but Jon saw her hooked fingers and splayed palm coming in time to step back, leaving his jaw clipped rather than claw marks across his face.

JON V

He bent to make their eyes level, clutching her face between his palms. "Don't listen to her." He growled, nearly into her mouth, then snapped back around to bare his teeth at the trespasser. "You… Get out. Go. Into the night. Disappear, before I deliver your ashes unto your god myself!"

Arya didn't even glance away from her cousin as the woman obeyed, too fixed upon his furious, spitting visage. "Is it true?" A note of hurt slipped in and she scrambled to rein it back. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jon's vision was black at the corners as he turned back to her, as if the world was fading into shadow, sunk into despair, a spotlight on his beloved's paling face and probing gaze. "It was not… You know I would never lie to you." He had not lied. He clung to that fact. He had not lied with his words, only kept to himself what he feared she would not understand, or worse, understand and hold against him.

"But you did not tell me, when you should have," she snaps, hand rising to her temple, as if she could press the turmoil from her head. "Why? Why did you hide it from me?"

"I did not hide it from you!" He insists, grip tightening, voice vacillating between dismissive, desperate, and dangerous. He could not let her speculate further. "I have hid nothing! That woman is trying to drive a wedge between us. The gods know why, but you cannot let her."

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