Fic: Between Wind and Water [10/10]
Title: Between Wind and Water
Author: luna_plath
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Theon/Arya, Jon/Arya, Jon/Val
Word count: 3,754
Warnings: brother-sister incest, sexuality, dubious consent
Summary: For modbelle’s prompt, “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.
AN: 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. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this/leave a comment.
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
Author: luna_plath
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Theon/Arya, Jon/Arya, Jon/Val
Word count: 3,754
Warnings: brother-sister incest, sexuality, dubious consent
Summary: For modbelle’s prompt, “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.
AN: 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. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this/leave a comment.
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