
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1162981.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Arya_Stark
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Arya_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Experimentation, Awkward_Sexual_Situations, Half-Sibling_Incest,
      Pre-Canon, Sexual_Inexperience, Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, Cunnilingus,
      Frottage, Intercrural_Sex, Guilty_Pleasures, Mutual_Masturbation, Oral
      Sex, Comeplay
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-01 Words: 23450
****** Everyone has a summer ******
by bluetilo
Summary
     Arya sneaks up on Jon, leading them to inescapable changes.
Notes
     Title came from a song called "Everyone has a summer" by Lovage. The
     line that partially inspired this story was, "Everyone has a summer
     they want to remember." Feel free to age up the characters in your
     head (as I certainly did). I didn't want to impose by writing
     specific numbers, so imagine whatever age works for you. Jon and Arya
     are as old as you want them to be.
     Unbetaed. Con-crit is always welcome.
See the end of the work for more notes
For a brief moment, Jon supposed he should feel guilty that he had never been
to the godswood with a godly purpose. It always happened like this, so early in
the morning that his lord father, Lady Stark, his brothers and sisters hadn’t
even assembled to break their fast, all of them still fast asleep in their
bedchambers. Even the castle’s grounds were mostly deserted when he headed to
woods, looking to spend some time alone in the small pool next to the heart
tree.
He should do this somewhere else, he mused as he pulled his shirt over his
head, unlacing his breeches afterwards. In fact, he often did—in his own bed in
the middle of the night, his hand moving fast beneath the furs, while his
brothers slept soundly next to him. But those times were hardly the same as
being in the woods; doing it in his chambers meant he could never fully give in
to the feeling, always too jittery trying to keep an ear out to any sound that
meant one of his brothers had awakened. An overall hasty affair that he just
tried to get over with as quickly and silently as possible. It was no surprise
the lone woods had started to look so appealing.
He made sure not to visit the pond too often, never more than thrice a week,
lest anyone get suspicious. By now, he already knew the handful of servants
most likely to be up at this hour, and which routes to take in order to avoid
them. Getting to enjoy himself alone in the pool was worth the trouble, though.
Reaching his peak with warm water all around him made it feel like his entire
body was being engulfed by pleasure, and he even got to swim after he was
spent—so much better than accidentally smearing his blankets and having to
worry whether anyone would notice the white stain before he could take care of
it.
With water now up to his thighs, Jon cupped his balls with his left hand, while
the right stroked his length unhurriedly. He wasn’t hard yet—had just started
to swell up, actually, as he tried to conjure up a mental image arousing enough
to get him into the mood. Not that it was particularly difficult getting him in
the mood, considering how often he had to deal with stiffening in his breeches
in the most inconvenient times, leaving him mortified every time it happened.
Focusing on a vivid description of a whore’s cunt, courtesy of Greyjoy and his
constant bragging, Jon had just gotten fully hard when he heard Arya’s voice.
“What are you doing alone out here?”
A surprised gasp escaped his throat as he turned around to face her; a
ridiculous sound, fit for a startled little maid, not an almost grown man such
as him—even if she hadgiven him quite a startle sneaking up on him like that,
when the sun wasn’t even up yet.
“Arya!” he cried out in a whisper to her, as if someone might hear them in the
lone woods. “What are you doing here?” He took a few steps back, submerging
into the pond until water reached his waist.
But hiding didn’t ease his embarrassment. He’d heard nothing until she spoke to
him—she might have been right behind him, looking over his shoulder even, while
he had his bloody cock on his hand, thinking of Theon’s stupid tales.
“How long have you been there?” He gave voice to his worry.
“Not long. Got here a little after you. I was going to kitchens, too hungry to
wait for mother and father to break my fast, but then I saw you sneaking out,
so I decided to see where you were headed.” She gave him a bored little shrug.
“Why were you sneaking out?”
“I wasn’t sneaking out,” he said, too sudden, too defensive. “How much did you
see after you got here?”
“What is there to see besides you naked in the pool?” she said, like his
nakedness was nothing of importance, which offended him some, no matter how
irrational that might be.
Of course his nakedness didn’t matter—he was her brother and she was too young
to care about naked boys.
His prick had gone entirely soft by now.
“You’re right, there is naught to see here, Arya, so go back,” he told her, but
she paid him no heed.
“You should have told me you were coming to the pool, so I could come with you.
You never tell me anything anymore. Robb doesn’t either.” She crossed her arms
in front of her chest, pouting. “The both of you are always having secret talks
I’m not supposed to hear with Theon Greyjoy now, like he is your new best
friend—”
“Weren’t you hungry?”
“—well, I’m your sister, and you should be spending time with me,” she said,
neglecting the fact Robb was his brother, too. “I wish we could go to the river
to swim and play games, like we were used to when we were littler. It was fun
back then.”
Noticing she wasn’t angry, just hurt and a little jealous, actually made feel
him feel guilty that they hadn't been spending that much time together anymore.
“We can play stick fight after breaking our fast, what do you say?”
“Yeah, that too, but now I’m going into the pond with you,” she said, already
kicking her shoes off. “The last time I went to the river, Septa Mordane gave
me a truly awfulscolding, said it wasn’t proper for a little lady to ‘wander
about’ without clothes. Well, I wasn’t wandering about. I was swimming!”
“Arya, don’t!”
But she had already lifted her gown, getting it stuck on her neck for a moment
before managing to pull it over her head, revealing the bodice and smallclothes
she wore underneath. Her breasts were budding, still so small a simple shift
would have sufficed. But Arya was highborn and not wearing a bodice would make
her look like a commoner; smallfolk girls didn’t wear bodices, Jon knew as
much—Theon had told him so.
But, no matter how small her breasts were, they were there, and he almost
couldn’t tear his gaze from them long enough to say, “Septa Mordane was right.
It’s improper.”
She scowled at him. “But I don’t care about being a lady. You used to know
that.”
The anger was plain in her face; she must be thinking he was treating her just
like everyone else did. But how could he make her see? How could he make her
understand? In the end, there was no time for words. She donned her gown faster
than she had taken it off and stormed out of the godswood with heavy steps.
===============================================================================
It was Theon Greyjoy who got him to change his mind.
He had spent an entire morning going on about his latest visit to the brothel
in Winter Town, teasing Robb about his Stark morality and how it kept him from
enjoying life at all. Jon then made the mistake of standing up for his
brother’s honor, arguing there was no shame in decency.
“Everyone always says bastards are hotblooded and stupid like beasts, conceived
out of sin and whatnot. Even maesters say that,” Theon had taunted him. “I used
to think you were always so boring and proper because you'd got something to
prove, like you wanted the entire North to know you could be every bit as
tedious as a Stark, but now I see I was wrong. You may be a bastard, Snow, but
you’re still as prudish as a wrinkled, gray septa.”
Ser Rodrik had them training with maces shortly after and there was no more
talk of brothels or whores that morning. Still, the provocation stuck with Jon.
He had been reminiscing over his chance encounter with Arya by the pond ever
since it happened, and Greyjoy’s remarks made him even more confused.
When Arya reacted so casually to seeing him naked, Jon had reasoned that her
response was as it should’ve been—brothers and sisters often saw each other
naked and it didn’t mean anything because, well, they were siblings. But if
being naked didn’t mean anything, why had he gotten so flustered when she tried
to swim with him? He’d acted just like the prude Greyjoy said he was, and made
Arya feel rejected on top of it. Jon hated thinking that anything Greyjoy
thought of him might be true, but that was nothing compared to how guilty he
was feeling for having hurt Arya. He tried to think of a single reason not to
swim with her that didn’t boil down to him being a prude, but came up with
nothing. It’d been stupid of him to tell her no.
So, when ran into her on the way to his bedchambers before supper, he stopped
her long enough to ask, “Do you still want go swimming with me?”
He noticed she was putting a lot of effort in still looking mad at him, but as
soon as the words were out of his mouth, a wide grin took over her face and she
nodded vigorously.
“So meet me by the pond tonight, after everyone goes to sleep,” he said,
wishing immediately he could take his words back, and suggest instead that they
meet in the morrow or after midday.
Sneaking out in the dead of the night made it seem like they were bound to no
good.
But now he’d already said it and she’d already agreed; going back on his word
right now would only make things between them awkward again, and the whole
point of swimming with her was so things would stopfeeling strange.
After tonight, things would go back to the way they should be.
===============================================================================
Jon considered leaving godswood yet again. By the time he’d arrived, the moon
was barely out, hanging low in the sky. Now it had risen a fair amount and its
light had gone from yellowish to milky white. It'd been way too long; Arya
probably wasn’t coming at all. Maybe it was for the best—it had been a foolish
idea in the first place.
The worst part of waiting was not knowing what to do with himself. What should
he do now that he was supposed to have company? Did she expect to find him
already naked and in the pool? Were they even going to be naked? Perhaps she
had intended for them so swim in their smallclothes all along and he’d
misunderstood everything. Aye, that was probably what she had meant, but now it
was too late: Jon had been stupid and hadn't brought any spare of clothes.
Well, in hindsight, it’d been a good call not to go into the pond alone—his
fingertips would be awfully pruned by now. Still, he felt pretty stupid just
sitting there, doing nothing.
Things were always so simple when he was alone.
He thought of giving up and going back to his chambers again, but he couldn't
bring himself to do it. What if she got there and he’d already left? She might
think he’d stood her up on purpose and would feel even more cross at him.
The sound of footsteps reached him at last.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Arya said as soon as she laid eyes on him. “Stupid
Sansa wouldn’t stop practicing her stupid needlework. Had to wait forever until
she went to sleep.”
“You’re here now,” he said, smiling.
She stared at him, but he couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a heartbeat. He
cast his eyes down briefly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“How do you… how should we do this?” he asked, fidgeting with the hem of the
linen shirt he’d chosen to wear. Luckily, the night was pleasantly warm.
“Just like you were doing the other day.”
She pulled her gown over her head before he could dwell on the meaning of her
words. Jon unclasped the fastenings of his cloak and let it fall on the ground,
but only went so far as removing his shirt. He'd do better to wait and see how
far she meant for them to undress rather than make a fool of himself by rushing
into things.
But her hands didn’t linger the way his did; her fingers were nimble as they
unlaced her bodice, loosening the strings just enough so she could slide the
garment down and off her body. She bent to remove her socks and made quick work
of her smallclothes, too, unlacing them and letting them slide down her hips,
standing bare naked in front of him.
Jon had seen her undressed before, when they were children and Septa Mordane
didn’t think it was improper for Arya to swim naked in a river with her
siblings. Arya hadn’t changed thatmuch from what he remembered—she hadn’t grown
an extra limb or anything like that—but somethings had changed and they made
her entirely different. She was still a short girl—quite shorter than him—but
he’d wager she’d be so her whole life. She was skinny, almost bony, with
slightly broad shoulders and a slim waist. Her light nipples were perfectly
round and they looked wide on her small, pert breasts. But before he could get
an eyeful of what he was truly curious about, she turned his back on him and
jumped inside the pool, giggling.
Jon shook himself out of his paralysis and managed to get his breeches, shoes
and socks off, but when he was down to his smallclothes, he simply couldn’t
untie the bloody strings. Did all men act like oafs  the first time they
undressed in front of a girl?
Arya waited for him in the pool, water not quite covering her breasts.
“What are you waiting for? Are you shy?” she taunted him.
His frowned at the slight, but at least he was finally rid of the impossible
knot.
“I am almost a man grown. I have no reason to be shy,” he stated, but the words
made him feel even more of a boy. So he dropped his smallclothes down and
stepped out of them, hoping his sense of manhood would return to him rather
than escape him even more.
Her eyes were set on him, unwavering, and he tensed up under her gaze. He was
self-conscious of everything about himself—every place on his body where he had
and didn't have hair, the slight curve of his legs that he had never liked, and
even the unflattering shape of his navel—but most of all, he was too self-aware
of his cock. It felt awkward having it there hanging between his legs, too big
and not in a way that made him proud. He was a man, and men had cocks, nothing
out of sorts there, but her eyes were too scrutinizing. So he rushed into the
pool, trying to make it seem he wasn't in a hurry to cover himself, though it
was exactly that.
“You’re not grown now, that’s for sure,” she said, with a short laugh.
“What do you mean by that?” he said, feeling more defensive with each moment.
“I mean I’ve seen you—I’ve seen itgrown before.” She hesitated for a moment,
like she didn’t know the words to what she meant. “You know, when it’s standing
up. And that’s not how it looked now.”
Jon was frozen on the spot, unblinking, while Arya swayed her arms in circles,
enjoying herself in the pond.
“You—when did that happen?” He wanted to sound indignant but his voice was
small in the back of his throat.
“Several times. Today wasn’t the first time I saw you here. I’ve sneaked up on
you before.” She tried to float on her back and the moonlight shone bright on
the droplets of water all over her breasts.
Jon was already plenty humiliated by the fact she'd watched him Gods knew how
many times, yet it seemed his need to embarrass himself knew no boundaries—of
course he’d add insult to injury by continuing to stare at her breasts.
“I always watch you when you're here. Sometimes you’re sitting by the pool and
sometimes you’re in the water, but you're always holding it and it's always
big.” She leaned her head back into the water for a moment, getting her hair
wet. “When I saw you this morning, I wanted to ask you what’s so fun in shaking
your thing like that. It looks so silly to me. You always make such funny
noises when you're at it.”
Jon wanted to close his eyes, sink into the water and never come back up again.
He had never felt so ashamed in his life; his face was on fire with
embarrassment and it was nobody’s fault but his own, yet he couldn’t help a
mild anger towards her. Such mockery was uncalled for; coming here had been a
terrible mistake. He turned his back ready to leave the pond, but she held him
by the elbow.
“Don’t go,” she pleaded gently.
He looked at her over his shoulder, still uncomfortable and wary, but stayed
nonetheless.
“I was only teasing you.” Her apologetic tone sounded sincere, at least. “You
know, like when I tease Sansa and it’s fun because she gets so angry. But I
don’t want you to be angry. Not truly.”
He still felt compelled to leave, but was powerless to her pleading look, so he
eased back into the pond instead. Arya gave him a crooked little smile and
threw a small wave of water at him with her palms, urging him into one of the
little wars they used to play at when they were children. He splashed water
back against her face, and she responded with a large wave this time. But he
was a lot bigger than her with hands to match, so he had her cornered against a
margin of the pool in no time, splashing her with water from all sides. In the
midst of her laughs and shrieks, his embarrassment was momentarily forgotten.
He ended with his arms around her tiny frame, holding her close to him as they
both caught their breaths after the game.
But then, with her body pressed this tight against him, that vague sense of
wrong-doing came back anew and he lowered his head, blushing.
“I was just curious,” she said, noticing his mood had gone somber again.
“About what?” He wanted to yell at her to just stay away from his private
moments, but he knew she would just argue he shouldn’t have them in the middle
of the woods if he didn’t want her to intrude, then.
“About… everything. About boy parts and why they grow. If all boys have hair
down there like you do. Why do you make the funny noises when you shake your
thing like that. Why watching you do it makes this weird feeling... sort of
unfurl in my belly, and why do I get so slick between my legs every time it—”
“You get slick… there?” He remembered Greyjoy mentioning wet, slick cunts in
their previous conversations, but for some reason, Jon had assumed that only
happened to whores. But now his little sister was telling him she got wet…from
watching him. It sent a flutter of arousal down his belly.
“See? You get curious, too.”
Men were supposed to know everything there was to know about these things, they
were supposed to guide, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling Arya was the one
leading the way.
Having a conversation eye to eye was hard with both of them standing when she
was so much shorter than him; the way she was constantly looking up made it
seem she was expecting him to tell her something—the right thing. Only he
didn’t what that the right thing to say was.
“We wouldn’t be so curious if we could… you know. Talk about it more and… and
actually look,” she said tentatively, trying to anticipate a reaction each time
she uttered a word.
“See, I’ll even go first,” she prompted, her self-confidence too sudden to be
entirely honest as she hoisted herself off the pond and stood up on the margin,
naked and dripping water.
Now he was looking up at her, taking in all the details he didn’t have a chance
to see moments ago. Once again, he wished he’d asked her to meet him in the
morning—with the sun high up in the sky, instead of tonight’s opaque moonlight,
he would be able to see every inch of her body with clarity.
Looking up between her legs, all Jon could see was a thin cleft and a fleshy
mound, covered by thin dark hair that didn’t hide much. Greyjoy always picked
words so strange when talking of women’s cunts that Jon had already caught
himself wondering how girls went from what he remembered seeing as a child to
Greyjoy’s colorful descriptions. Only then it occurred to him that Greyjoy
might not be the best source of advice relating to these things—or anything at
all.
It was amazing how the mere sight of her had gotten him rock hard in a
heartbeat. He stared at her, slack-jawed, and would have remained that way for
a long time had she not spoken to him.
“Come out the pool. Let me see you, too.”
“I—I can’t.” Both his hands clenched into fists. He was blushing so warm and
his cock was so hard, it was as if all the blood in his body was either up his
face or in his prick.
“Why?” At first, Arya seemed to really not know, but as his silence stretched
on, understanding dawned on her face. “Is it happening now? Is it big now?”
“Yeah, it’s hard.”
“How hard?” she asked, excited, as if she had grounds for comparison.
“Very.” It was the best answer she’d get from him.
“Let me see it,” she asked, kneeling by the pond in front of him, eyes gleaming
with curiosity.
Jon would have to leave the pool at somepoint, so he might as well do it now.
Trying to look bold, he stepped outside the pond with his chest puffed out, but
the way his cock bobbed made him feel a bit silly. Arya stayed on her knees, so
his hips were of a height with her eyes. She was so close to him that he could
feel her warm breath against his skin. Looking down at her, he could see her
inspecting his body as thoroughly as she could using just her eyes. Jon
realized her scrutiny no longer made him so uncomfortable; actually, it was
sort of arousing to have her studying him that way.
“What makes it stand up like that?” She sounded intent on knowing, like his
cock was a very important subject she to wanted learn about. She was using the
same tone she did when making inquiries on swordfighting and marksmanship.
“I don’t know,” he lied. Pretty girls. The mattress pressed against him when he
slept on his stomach. Theon’s stories. Boredom. “Lots of reasons.”
Oddly, she was satisfied with that vague answer—because now she had decided to
touch it, grabbing him by the shaft. His cock twitched and he let out that
strange kind of whispered yell again, “Arya! You said nothing about touching.”
“But I want to see better!” she argued, her hand still on him. “Touching helps
me see. It’s like… seeing with my fingers.”
Despite his protest, she kept touching him, fingers moving so slow it was
maddening, pulling his foreskin down and exposing the head of his cock.
“You wouldn’t let me look at you with my hands,” he said, only grasping at the
meaning of what he had implicitly proposed after uttering the words.
The sight of her on her knees holding his cock was breath-taking.
“Yes, I would.” Arya wasn’t the type to back away from a challenge—not that
it'd been his intention to challenge her.
“Fine,” he said, barely believing he was actually agreeing. “You can touch it—”
as if she weren’t already “—but you have to stop the moment I say so.” And what
was he, now? A maiden protecting her virtue?
She wasn’t even looking at him anymore—not at his face, at least—but she nodded
absentmindedly, holding his foreskin down and keeping him exposed. She traced
the outline of the head with a fingertip, rubbing on the underside, then
pressing on his slit. Jon threw his head back when hot and cold ran at the same
time down his spine.
Then she ran her finger through the dark hair at the base, tugging softly on
it. He’d never done that to himself, but it felt nice in a unexpected way. But
when her hand moved down to his balls, he tensed up again.
“Be gentle,” he warned. One careless movement and he’d be down on the ground,
howling at the moon as he cupped himself. Not that the punishment wouldn’t be
fitting to his crime.
“I know. Men always cry when we hit them between the legs. I’ve noticed it.”
She touched his left ball, then the right and finally both together, holding
them lightly. “I just want to know how it feels.” Her middle finger scraped
against the skin between his balls and his arsehole, and there was that cold
heat on his spine again.
“Tell me how to do it.” She didn’t need to spell out what she meant.
“Place your hand closer to the tip,” he instructed and she obeyed promptly.
“You can hold it firmer than that.”
She tried to do it as he said, but her grip was still too loose.
“Like this,” he said, covering her hand with his own, adjusting the pressure to
exactly how much he liked it. His own palm felt warm over hers.
At first, their hands moved together. His hips were moving, too, thrusting
softly into the movement. She had always been a fast learner, and soon he
barely had to guide her. A low groan escaped his mouth. She smirked at him; it
took him a moment to realize these were the funny noisesshe’d mentioned.
“You’re drooling.”
Frowning, he rubbed one hand over his mouth and chin, but his palm came back
dry.
“No, I meant here,” she said, touching a fingertip on the slit of his cock
where liquid was oozing. She gave him a little squeeze from root to tip, and
more clear fluid got on her finger, which she then brought to her mouth,
sucking it inside. “It’s salty.”
His heart went hammering up his throat; he pushed her hand away at once, afraid
he might spill then and there if she touched him another moment longer.
“What?”
“I, um, I think it’s your turn.” He had to clear his throat before the words
came out.
She rose to her feet and put some distance between them. Jon was just wondering
if she had changed her mind and whether he should back away, when he noticed
she had just walked as far as where his cloak was spread on the ground. She lay
down on top of it, bent knees parted, waiting.
Swallowing hard, he first tried kneeling between her legs, but then settled for
lying on his stomach. It wasn’t particularly comfortable with his hard cock
pressed on grass like that, but this way he could see it better, closer, and
that made it worth it.
With the way her knees were parted, her cleft revealed a bit more, too—wrinkled
folds glistening with wetness. She had gotten wet just from beating his cock.
The thought spread goosebumps all over his skin. He was dying to touch her,
spread her open with his fingers, see if she felt as soft as she looked, but he
couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.
She propped herself up onto her elbows, and said, brave enough for the both of
them, “Aren’t you going to look with your hands? I did.”
He answered by gently prying her open with his thumbs, taking a long look
inside. He had no clue what his hands should be doing now, but he definitely
wanted to do something.Instinct had him sucking his fingers into his mouth
before he touched her. Stroking himself felt better if his skin was slicker and
mayhaps the same thing would work for her. You had to stick things inside a
girl to break her maidenhead, that much he knew, so he settled for touching her
on the outside, trying to stay away from the slit at the bottom. He didn’t know
how much he could touch her and still keep her intact, so he just traced the
outline of her folds like she had done with the head of his cock. Gods, he
wanted to make her feel as good as she made him feel, but he was clueless.
“You can do it.” It was the first time that night that she sounded anxious. Up
until now, Jon had felt like he was always trying to catch up. But now, lying
between her legs, cock trapped under his weight, he felt strangely powerful.
He tried cupping her, mound and all, the heel of his palm pressing lightly on
top of her, while his middle finger grazed on her cleft. The small gasp she let
out suggested she’d enjoyed that, so he did it again, with more pressure. Soon,
guided by her breathing and the way her hips quivered, he learned it wasn’t
about pressure, but speed and rhythm. He was doing the best the best he could,
as difficult as it was getting a decent angle, but as much as she seemed to be
enjoying herself, she also looked impatient. He wished he could just ask her
how to do it.
Sighing in a kind of aroused exasperation, he pried her open with his thumbs
once again. Maybe if he took another look, things would make more sense. Girls
were so different than boys. Almost everything he did to himself felt good,
while giving her pleasure was bloody difficult. This time, he noticed a little
nub right where her folds came together on the top of her. Jon hoped he wasn’t
getting her annoyed with his clumsy explorations. Or worse, bored. He sucked
his thumb back into his mouth and rubbed it on her nub when it was slick with
spit.
Her reaction was explosive. She might have hit him in the nose with the way her
hips bucked up. She gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth, trying to
smother the sound as soon as it came out. Jon tried to fight the proud smile
that wanted to steal his lips. It would do him no good being too proud of
himself, but he knew he had gotten something right, so he did it again. And
again. And again. He kept doing it until his thumb went dry against her nub,
but this time he didn’t use spit anymore, using her own wetness to slick his
finger. She was so wet it must be running down her arse cheeks from the
position she was in. When his thumb returned back to her nub, her hips moved in
time with the friction if his finger, as she pressed herself harder on him. She
was so close to his face he could smell her, the scent of her arousal
mouthwatering.
He was almost desperate to reach for his cock and stroke himself hard and fast
until he spilled white seed on the dark grass, but he wanted her to feel it
first. Jon wanted Arya too feel that same all-consuming pleasure that
threatened to choke him every time he spent himself. He placed her knees over
his shoulders, and being able to feel the quivering of her thighs only added to
his pleasure. A wild thought ran through his mind—what would she feel like if
he did with his tongue all the things he was doing with his thumb. Arya didn’t
get to see the blush on his face because her eyes were closed and her head was
thrown back, as she gasped and whimpered, digging her heels on his back.
Then it happened. She must have felt it, the wave of pleasure washing down over
her. He marveled at her—her sweaty skin, the spasms on her thighs, how the
erratic breathing made her small breasts bounce—and thought back to the way her
moans had gone in a crescendo for the past minute, and wondered if that was how
he looked and sounded when he experienced pleasure like that.
He assumed she would be tired and uninterested in their explorations once she’d
reached her peak. It was how it happened to him—sometimes, touching himself was
the only thing that helped him fall asleep, with the soft lull that came after
finding his pleasure. So he pulled back, unable to decide if he should sit next
to her, or get up and dress so they could leave. In the end, he just stayed
there, kneeling in front of her, as her breathing relaxed. His cock had
softened a little, but it was still hard when she opened her eyes and sat up
again. They stared at each other for a moment, but Jon could feel his cheeks
growing hot, so he looked away.
“Can I see you do it until you finish? I could never see it right when I
was hiding behind the trees.”
His mouth was dry when she crawled next to him, sitting down as he knelt in
front of her. She had her thighs spread, so he could still get a good look at
how wet her cunt was. He, Jon Snow, had got her that wet. This time, she seemed
satisfied with just watching him stroke himself.
It was so weird doing it with someone else watching. Her gaze got him nervous
and self-conscious—of how his cock looked, of the sounds he made, of how he
smelled—but it also made him so aroused he didn’t need to picture anything in
his mind. Looking at her was enough—her small breasts, her agape mouth, her
long face, her delicious and intimidating cunt. His fingers probably smelled of
her—Jon wanted to sniff on them, to suck on them. He needed to know what she
tasted like. But he wouldn’t dare stop touching himself—it felt too good and he
was to close now to let anything get in the way.
His eyes stayed open when he spilled, but he scarcely saw anything in front of
him. Blinking to clear the fog that took over his sight, he noticed that not
only his hand was all covered in white but a couple of drops of his seed had
gotten on Arya’s neck and collarbone as well.
She grabbed his wrist, inspecting the fluid on his palm, oblivious to the fact
it was also on her skin. She scraped everything she could with her index finger
and rolled it against her thumb. Seeing her dip her fingers into his seed was
enough make him want to touch himself again, if only he could get hard again so
soon.
“It feels like snot,” Arya said, all of a sudden.
Jon was baffled—how could anyone compare a man’s seed to snot? Did she mean to
call him disgusting? But then she thrust the tip of her finger into her mouth,
like food one tried expecting to hate it only to find out it wasn't thatawful
after all.
“Well, it sure doesn’t taste like snot,” she said, eyebrows furrowed, and
rubbed her hand on the grass, cleaning herself from his seed, but getting her
hand dark with dirt.
“Here, wash your hands in the pond,” he instructed her as he did the same. One
of his wet hands came to her collarbone and neck, cleaning off the drops that
were starting to cool on her skin.
Getting dressed was a bit of a relief. Now that his mind wasn’t hazed with
arousal as it had been moments before, he was starting to feel a guilty weight
on his shoulders. There were grass leaves all over his body from when he had
lay on the ground, but he figured he could take a proper bath later.
He finished getting dressed first, and then helped Arya with the laces on her
bodice, one hand just grazing her breast. It made her smile at him. Jon
suddenly wanted to hug her and bury his face on the curve of her neck, kiss her
there. But then she pulled her gown over her head and the moment was gone.
There were still a few hours left until dawn when Jon was safe in his
bedchamber again, but sleep didn’t come to him that night.
===============================================================================
Jon slid one of his hands down his belly, feeling the muscles under the skin.
It was late at night and all he could hear were the even snores of his
brothers. His other hand found his right nipple, pinching it for a second,
releasing it, then pinching again. Was this a normal, regular thing—being a man
and getting aroused by touching his nipples? No one ever talked about that. The
nasty stories he’d heard were always about thrusting your cock somewhere, but
never about the rest of a man’s body. Maybe it was another of the many abnormal
things about Jon. It didn’t make him stop teasing his nipple, though, and when
the right one felt too sensitive from the abuse, he moved to the left while his
other hand kept stroking his own stomach. If he teased himself long enough
before actually touching his cock, only reaching for it when his balls felt
tight against his body, he usually came faster, and right now fast was good.
As usual, his mind roamed in search of provocative thoughts. He tried imagining
one of Greyjoy’s stories about having his way with a whore, but it only
mitigated his excitement—those dirty tales had lost the power to stir him.
Then, Jon tried thinking of Merry, one of the kitchen servants who always wore
gowns far too small for the size of her teats, but there was no spark either.
Finally, as a last resort, he focused on the filthiest thing he could ever
remember hearing: Ysmay, the most popular whore in Winter Town. Jon had heard
men talking about her one day during a hunt—saying they had taken her up the
arse. So Jon imagined that with as many details as he could—Ysmay on all fours,
a commoner rutting behind her like a beast, taking her arse and not her cunt.
But even that failed to motivate him, and the hardness he’d achieved by teasing
his nipples was softening fast.
Jon had heard stories about men whose manhoods had withered, men who couldn’t
perform their duties on their wives’ beds and couldn’t put heirs in the wives’
wombs, but those stories were of much older men, not young, strong boys like
himself. Maybe it was godly punishment for all his wicked thoughts—but there
weren’t just thoughts anymore, were there? Mayhaps the gods were finally
punishing for his misdeeds—for all the things he and Arya had done in the
godswoord.
What they had done in the godswood— Arya’s legs spread open with Jon between
them, his fingers rubbing on that spot as he got drunk on her smell, her moans
ringing in his ears, his own cock trapped under his weight, with nature as
their only witness. Arya tasting his seed just like he’d wanted to taste her
slick. The memories flooded his mind and he was iron hard in a heartbeat,
fisting his cock, pleasure building up so fast it made him lightheaded. Then
his toes were curling and the muscles in his stomach clenched tight as he shot
hot and sticky into his cupped hand. His heart was pounding.
Once the aftershocks quieted down, he cleaned himself with a rag he kept under
his mattress and rubbed his eyes, sighing.
For the past two days, he’d stayed away from Arya—he couldn’t bear to face
after that night in the godswood. But how could he go on avoiding her when he
was powerless to ignore her even in his own mind?
===============================================================================
Jon didn’t know what to do with himself. Most times, he felt guilty. Older
brothers always knew better; they looked after their little sisters, not preyed
on them. But he didn’t like a predator, not truly. As absurd as it might sound,
sometimes Jon felt… cornered by Arya, like she was the one pursuing him. But
Arya was younger than him and a girl—girls didn’t make advances on boys, did
they?
He couldn’t stop thinking of how good all of it had felt; not even anything his
imagination was able to compare. Mayhaps there was where his guilt truly
resided—blaming himself for how much he’d loved, for thinking about it all the
time, for wanting it to happen again. But it couldn’t happen again; he couldn’t
trick himself anymore into thinking he and Arya were just brother and sister
spending time together. They’d crossed that line the moment they touched each
other by the pool, or perhaps even before that. Jon couldn’t say.
Jon was confused, weak, and he didn’t trust himself, so he went on avoiding
Arya. She might not understand it now and she might even hate him for it, but
she’d thank him in the future. Arya was a lady and his half-sister; she had no
business being around a bastard like him. Jon could look out for her from afar,
where was safe.
Staying away from her was no easy task, though. Everywhere he went, he seemed
to find Arya there. He might be sparring with Robb or Greyjoy, training with
Ser Rodrik, even studying with Maester Luwin—it didn’t matter. She was always
close, always around, constantly looking for an opportunity to talk, but Jon
kept doing his best to thwart her attempts. During meals, he looked only at his
plate and he excused himself whenever she walked into a room. But the more he
ignored her, the harder she went after him—she’d even taken to sneaking out of
her own classes, to Lady Stark’s and Septa Mordane’s dismay.
Jon, on the other hand, had begun following Robb and Greyjoy around like their
shadow—surely, she wouldn’t say anything untoward in front of them. It worked
for a few days, but the strategy was short-lived.
“What is the matter, Snow?” Greyjoy confronted him. “The last time I had
someone stalking me like this was when I tolg Merry I’d let her be my salt wife
if she sucked my cock. She must not even know what a salt wife is. Probably
thought I wanted to wed her. Is that why you’re stalking, Snow? Because you
want to be my salt wife?”
Deeply humiliated, Jon had to back off and swallow the insult. Theon Greyjoy
might be a hostage, but he was still highborn while Jon was nothing but a
bastard. Mayhaps that was the root of all evil. Greyjoy had been wrong: Jon was
no prude—prudes didn’t do what he’d done, didn’t think the things he thought.
He was born of corruption, like all baseborns. No true Stark would ever have a
mind as vile as Jon’s.
Arya was bound to catch him eventually; it was getting harder to hide and he
couldn’t keep this up forever.
At last, it happened on an early evening before supper, and after he’d spent
the afternoon lashing out with his sword on a training dummy. He was sweaty and
out of breath, which was probably why Arya caught him out of guard so easily.
It was only fitting—after all, they were only in this mess because of how good
she was at sneaking up on him.
“Go to your room, Arya,” he said, eyes downcast, sweat running in rivers down
his back.
“You trained all afternoon. You must be tired and sore.” She was using a voice
that didn’t belong to her, all sweet and gentle. He’d only seen her speak like
that in two occasions—apologizing to their lord father after misbehaving, and
when mocking Sansa. And now to him. “I bet the hot pools in the godswood would
make you feel much better.”
“I bet they would,” Jon said, putting away his sword and buckle.
“Then we should go swimming together,” she suggested with a proud grin, like
she had come to a surprising yet irrefutable conclusion.
“You want more than swimming,” he said, hoping to sound serious and grave, but
it just came out as mean. He shouldn’t have said that. It had sounded
accusatory, and gods knew it wasn’t his place to point fingers.
“You’re saying I want more than swimming because you want more than swimming,”
she cried out, soft tone abandoned.
Jon looked around wide-eyed, afraid someone might have heard them. Arya caught
on his fear and looked around them as well. They waited a moment to see if
anyone was coming. Jon was flushed from practice, his neck and face already
pretty warm and red, but he was certain that the redness was at least partially
from shame. She was right. He wanted more than swimming, so he assumed she did
as well.
When no one came, she whispered at him, “We don’t have to look at each other if
you really don’t want to.” She spoke as if she was haggling with him. “We could
just swim. We don’t have to look, I swer.” She looked down for a second before
adding, “But I would really like it if we did.”
Had Arya thought about it as much as he had? Had she liked it as much? She must
have. Otherwise, why would she keep insisting like that?
Jon could feel his resistance start to crumble.
“Hasn’t your lady mother ever told you anything about boys wanting put their
hands on you?” He tried to resist for the last time, nearly exasperated.
“Yes, but she never said anything about me wanting their hands on me.”
“How could I ever defy your reasoning?” Jon could almost hear the defeat in his
voice. He had neared the edge; Arya only needed to say the right words to tip
him over.
She must have noticed how close he was, considering how pleased she looked with
herself. “Besides,” she said, “you’re not a boy. You’re my brother.”
Those had not been the right words. It had been awful words, in fact. She had
said them as if being brother and sister made everything all right, instead of
despicable. It made him wonder if she even understood what they had done at the
pool. He didn’t know what was worse—if she did understand, but was unfazed by
their blood ties, or if she did not understand, but was lead on by his
malicious subterfuge.
“I’m a man, Arya!” he screamed at her, before fleeing the armory in haste.
===============================================================================
Jon had trouble sleeping for the third night in a row. The room had been pitch
black to his eyes after he’d blown out the candles, but his eyes grew used to
the darkness and he could see the ceiling quite well now. Everything felt
wrong. It was too warm under the furs and it made him sweat, but sleeping
without covers was too uncomfortable. He felt alert, not sleepy. Even when he
tried to keep his eyes closed, his body refused to relax with the chaos in his
mind.
It wounded him that Arya didn’t see him like a man. It made him angry and sad
at the same time. Why should it matter to him if Arya saw him like a man or a
eunuch? They still had the same father—it would change anything even if she
ever saw him as anything more than her bastard brother. Siblings couldn’t get
married, they weren’t like other men and women. It was just how things were.
But the Targaryens had always married brothers to their sisters. Why had it
been acceptable for them but an abomination for anyone else? Then again, the
Targaryens were all dead. Perhaps the gods had punished their immoral behavior
after all. Would the gods punish him, too? Worse—would they punish Arya?
===============================================================================
 
Jon listened to the high pitched sound of the blade against the whetstone; he
used to like how loud it was. It filled a room easily, allowed him to focus on
that sound and that sound alone. Sharpening swords usually got his mind
peacefully blank. But right now he was finding it particularly hard to focus on
the task at hand. Actually, the sound was beginning to annoy him. Maybe he
ought to be striking the sword on a dummy, not sharpening it.
“Hi, Jon,” Arya said next to him.
Jon wasn’t surprised in the least to see her there. “Little sister,” he said
with his eyes on the blade.
But she said nothing, just stood there, watching him work. It didn’t look like
she was going to leave anytime soon, so he put the sharpening stone on the
floor and looked at her with an expectant glare. Whatever she had to say, let
him deal with it sooner rather than later.
“I’m sorry I said you weren’t a boy,” she apologized. “And that your stuff
looked like snot. It doesn’t, it has nothing to do with snot, I swear.”
She thought he was mad about that? Some silly comment he didn’t even remember
until she brought it up? He wished he could just go back to when things weren’t
so confusing, to when he didn’t lie awake at night thinking about things he
shouldn’t, back when he knew his place. He wished he didn’t want the things he
wanted.
“Now that I apologized,” she resumed, “will you stop being mad at me?”
“I was never mad at you, Arya,” he said, shoulders slacking.
She continued tentatively. “Since you’re not mad at me… why can’t we do that
again? It felt so nice when we did it. Don’t you think?”
Jon wanted to say Yes, Arya, nothing ever feltsogood and It’s the only thing
I’ve thioughtabout, but what came out was, “You’ve got hands! Why don’t you go
look at yourself with your own bloody fingers?”
He hadn’t meant to curse at her, but he was getting tired of her chasing him,
of saying no when he wanted to say yes.
“I tried to last night after Sansa fell asleep,” she admitted with a shrug.
“But it felt nicer when you did it. I wished it was you there.”
He hadn’t expected her to answer like that. His mind was flooded by thoughts of
Arya in bed in the dark, nightgown hiked up to her waist, trying to be quiet
not to wake Sansa as she touched her own cunt, rubbed that special place, got
wet all over wishing Jon was with her. Something was simmering inside him. He
felt so…hungry.
Arya had tipped him over the edge.
“All right.” He swallowed with his dry mouth. “We’ll do it. Just this time.” He
regretted his words the moment they left his mouth He could have avoided the
blow to his pride when Arya won his defenses yet another time and they did it a
third time.
“After everyone falls asleep, we can meet in the guest’s chamber in the Great
Keep, the old one.” She sounded so sure of herself it was as if she had
everything already planned in her head. Then she ran away, leaving the armory
in haste.
Jon wondered if she was afraid he might change his mind had she lingered.
===============================================================================
Jon looked around the room. Compared to the rest of the keep, it looked more
like a cell than a proper bedchamber. There was a simple bed with a pillow and
sleeping furs, a wooden nightstand, and a couple chests. The room was small,
lacked a fireplace, a desk and had no privy, so his lord father usually offered
better rooms to his visitors, usually in the Guest House, unless the party was
too big and he had to make use of all available accommodations, which wasn’t
the case then. He arrived there before Arya did. The boys fell asleep quickly,
and he sneaked out soon after that. There was a soft breeze that night, so he
left the window open, hoping Arya might like it that way. A tall candle burned
on the nightstand. He was barefoot, dressed in smallclothes and breeches,
shirtless.
Jon tried to make himself wait lying on the bed, but couldn’t. He went to the
window and looked outside, breeze feeling cold on his skin. The grounds were
deserted from what he could see. Then he walked to the door, unbarred it and
peeked outside, but saw no one in the corridor. He barred the door again and
sat on the bed, drying his sweaty palms on his breeches. After a moment, he
looked outside the window again, as if he could find some kind of answer out
there.
As far as questions went, the only Jon could come up with was, by the old gods,
what was he doing?
There was a soft knock on the door. In a heartbeat, Jon was there, unbarring it
and urging Arya in.
“I’m sorry, I should have left it open,” he told her in hushed voice. “What if
someone heard you knocking?”
“It was a knock on the door, not a battering ram.”
He said nothing and just stared at her. He didn’t know what else to do. He
wouldn’t risk saying anything and sounding too eager. For all he knew, she
might have come there just to tell him it had been a mistake. He should be
telling her it was a mistake. Then again, he wouldn’t seem very serious saying
that with the way his breeches were bulging. Anticipation had made him half
hard.
Jon crossed his arms in front of his bare chest, tucking his hands under his
armpits. Arya just stared at him, scrutinizing him from head to toe.
He opened and closed his mouth a couple times before forcing words out of it.
“So, do you want us to...? How?”
“Can I go first?” she asked, like the question had been on the tip of her
tongue all along.
“All right,” Jon said, pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one eager about
it. He unbuttoned his breeches and let them pool around his ankles.
Arya pulled her nightgown over her head and her smallclothes down her hips. She
was as skinny as he remembered from the night at the pool. She lay down on the
bed, head on the pillow, the soles of her feet planted on the furs with her
knees spread, a similar position to how she had lain over his cloak back in the
godswood. She looked at him expectantly. He thought her face was going red, but
he couldn’t be sure in the candlelight. It took him a few moments to realize he
probably shouldn’t be standing there, doing nothing, his mouth hanging open
like an idiot. So he unlaced his smallclothes and got as naked as she was. He
was way past half hard, his cock standing upward, only inches away from grazing
his lower belly. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or proud of being
iron hard like that without having been touched at all.
He almost forgot to step out of his clothes, still pooled around his ankles. He
stumbled on his way to the bed, but pulled himself free quickly enough before
he tripped and fell on his arse, or something horrible like that. He stood by
the bed, not knowing exactly how to position himself to give Arya better access
to touch him. Back at the pool, he wasn’t thinking quite straight. Then again,
he didn’t think he was now, either.
But Arya made no motion toward him, so he asked her, “Is this all right? Do you
want me to stand, or would you rather have me lie down next to you?”
“Can’t you just do it like you did in the woods? With your fingers on that
spot?”
This was confusing. By “go first”, he’d thought she had asked to touch him
first, but apparently she meant the other way around. He hoped his confusion
wasn’t too obvious. He nodded and considered lying between her legs again, but
this bed wasn’t big enough.
“Can you get your—” arse, he thought “—hips—” he said instead “—on the edge of
the bed? So I can kneel between your legs?”
She obeyed, squirming down the mattress, and he sank to his knees, hard floor
on his skin. He spat on his fingers, like he did the first time and parted her
open. Her nub was still there, her folds were still exactly how he remembered,
and yet deliciously better. After the godswood, Jon had already resigned with
the fact what they’d done had been a one-time thing, something that should
never take place again. Yet here they were, in a room together, naked as their
name day.
Her smell was strong, nothing like he had smelled before and—arousing. How
could a smell be arousing? Somehow he knew this was how a woman was supposed to
smell, and the simple fact he was kneeling between a woman’s legs close enough
to smell her scent made his lust more intense.
He rubbed a slick thumb in a circle over her, repeating the motion he had done
the other time. She let out a soft little gasp when his finger touched her
directly at that place, but nothing more. His finger ran dry quickly, so he
spat on it again and insisted. He was doing everything exactly how he
remembered doing before, yet something was not happening for Arya. He could
sense her frustration as he rubbed her, or at least he imagined he could. He
tried doing it slower, faster, in different patterns, and with more or less
pressure, but to no avail. He didn’t dare look at Arya—he feared seeing
disappointment there—but from the way she was moving, or not moving, he could
tell that it wasn’t feeling good enough.
That night in the godswood—had it been the first time Arya reached her peak?
Had she been able to get there alone with her own hands after that? Was it even
worth getting her to come once if she could never show her such pleasure again?
What an absurd thing to wonder, considering he wasn’t supposed to have done it
even the first time, let alone a second.
And now it was going to be the last. But not because Jon was too ashamed to say
yes, but because Arya wouldn’t want him anywhere near her cunt again after the
disaster he was making of himself. The fear it would be his last chance, the
intoxicating smell of her, all of it made him launch himself between her legs,
clumsily burying his mouth there.
All the times this had happened in his head, it was slow and gentle. In his
imagination, he first kissed her inner thighs then looked over her body at her
face, as if asking permission. Their eyes would connect and she would nod at
him, and only then he would taste her, licking at her like a cat drank milk.
But what was happening in reality wasn’t like that at all. It was wanton and
clumsy. He was feasting on her. Something was dripping down his chin; for a
moment, he thought it might be her wetness, but it was probably just his own
spit. No woman got that wet, surely. His nose was close to her mound, and he
couldn’t get inhale much air through his nostrils at once, but her salty taste
kept him going, sucking, and drawing smaller and faster patterns on her nub
with his tongue.
Having his mouth on her was so distracting, he had only just noticed her knees
were over his shoulders like the night at the pool, her hips lifting from the
mattress a palm high as she buried her fingers in his hair, pulling at the
strands. Her hips were shaking and her free hand was over her mouth, smothering
the sounds she was making.
For the first time in what had felt like forever, he let go of her and looked
up. Her brow was furrowed and she looked as taut as a bowstring. Oh gods, what
had he done.
“Are you well, little sister?” But how well could she be, when he had put his
mouth on her like an animal?
She was a little out of breath when she spoke. “This—is the best game we ever
played.”
Shame once again clouded his brain. Not that the clouds ever left. Did she not
know what they were doing? Or she did know but was afraid of acknowledging it
the same way he was?
“Come here,” she said, urging him to get on the bed with her.
He lay awkwardly beside her, face flushed, cock hard. Both of them were on
their sides, resting their heads on the same pillow, mere inches away from each
other. Her eyes were locked on his as she reached out for him, touching his
hardness, her grip firm like he had taught her not four days ago. She began to
pump him, her fist moving more up than down. Having his mouth on her cunt,
feeling her trembling on his tongue, had aroused him so that she only had to
stroke him a few times before he spilled on her hand, with a soft sigh.
They put their clothes back in silence after cleaning themselves. Jon unbarred
the door and opened it, peering on the outside. The hallway was quiet and
lifeless. When they left the guest’s chamber, Jon lead the way holding the
candle in the dark corridor, with Arya on his heels. The girls slept in a
bedchamber across the boys’ own, so they had the same path to follow.
Right before they parted, Arya stood on the tip of her toes and leaned against
him, aiming to whisper on his ear, but barely reaching the base of his neck.
Her words were low, but very clear. “I’ll meet you back there tomorrow, same
time.”
No, he thought. But his mouth said yes, and he nodded.
She slid back into her room, smiling.
An unexpected gush of wind blew out Jon’s candle and darkness feel over him.
===============================================================================
Jon and Arya lay on the bed together, on their sides, facing each other. They
were in the guest chamber again, in the dead of the night. He didn’t want to
think of what would happen if someone woke up and found either of their beds
empty.
This time, they were partially naked. Jon was only in smallclothes—unlaced and
hanging low enough to expose the dark hair on his groin. Arya was in
smallclothes too, small breasts bare and hanging toward the bed. This meeting
was different from the previous ones. For once, it was unhurried, and Jon was
starting to feel more comfortable being naked with her. His eyes went from her
face to her teats, to her belly, and back up, as he slowly slid one hand
through her hair. It was dark, like his own, and Jon liked it—that they looked
so much like each other. The Stark look, rather than the Tully eyes and Tully
hair their siblings had.
Arya was looking at him, too. First, she mimicked his movements and ran her
fingers through his curls. Her touch felt so soft and good. But then her
fingers decided to explore the hair under his armpits and he felt a little
ticklish. He tried to squirm away from her hand, a little smile trying to curve
the corners of his mouth.
“I like the hair on your body,” Arya broke the silence. Her voice was barely
above a whisper. Their faces were inches apart and there was no need to talk
any louder. “I don’t think I would have liked it if you were too hairy. Hullen
has all over his body, even on his neck, and you can see tuffs of it coming out
of the back of his shirt. But yours is different. I like it on your armpits,”
she said, touching him there for reassurance, “and I like it here.” Her hand
descended to his groin, tugging weakly on the coarse hair.
Jon liked this slow exploration of their bodies. He liked to know Arya saw him
and wanted him just like he wanted her. Swallowing, he brought a hand to one of
her breasts, cupping it. He had never touched a girl’s breast before, having it
full on his hand like that. Her flesh felt soft, but a bit more consistent in
the middle.
“When I touch myself,” he began, but his voice sounded hoarse and his throat
felt dry, so he swallowed a couple times before going on, “it feels nice when I
touch myself here,” he said, giving her nipple a light pinch. “It’s odd,
because I feel it here,” he gently rolled her nipple between his thumb and
forefinger, “but I also feel it down there.”
Her nipples stiffened, even the one he wasn’t touching.
“Aye, I can feel it,” she said, pressing her thighs together a little.
Jon let go of her breast and adjusted his cock in his smallclothes, feeling
more comfortable with it pointed up his navel. He then ran his hand down the
small of her back. Her hand was on his nape, and they held each other a bit
closer, but still keeping space between their bodies. That night, they didn’t
have a candle. They figured they knew the castle well enough to find the way
back to their chambers even in the darkness, and having a candle wasn’t safe in
case someone woke up and saw light coming from a room that was supposed to be
empty. The moon was still bright enough in the sky that with the window open,
and with their eyes accustomed to the darkness, they could see each other well.
Arya closed the distance and kissed him. It shouldn’t have surprised him—after
all they had done, a kiss should feel minor in comparison. But it still made
his heart race, mayhaps even more than when she had touched him for the first
time. Her lips brushed his and lingered for a moment before she pulled back,
staring at him, hesitant. A thousand things went through his mind—she was his
sister, he ought to protect her; if they kissed, there was no going back, they
could no more pretend this was nothing but silly and innocent exploration. But
even pretending was a futile effort. Neither of them believed that folly
anymore. He didn’t, and he was certain Arya didn’t either, but pretending had
seemed so important until then. Like that façade was the only thing hanging
between admitting something terrible yet inescapable, and staying behind a
safety line where what they had was just child play gotten out of hand. But he
also loved her more than he would love anyone in his life. Why couldn’t his
kisses be an expression of that?
In the end, Jon was tired of resisting, of denying themselves. He reached out
and kissed her again, pressing his lips to hers, not letting go. Arya parted
his mouth and he felt her breath against his skin. They both tried to lick each
other’s lips at the same time, so their tongues touched and Jon liked the
feeling. He kissed her again, his tongue in her mouth, but she also tired to
get her tongue in his mouth, so their kiss was a little gawky at first. Jon
dragged her closer, her body now flush against his, breasts against his chest,
their stomachs pressed together, his half-hard cock growing completely stiff
against her mound.
She embraced him like he embraced her, kissing him, pressing herself against
him so hard it was as if she wanted to melt her flesh with his. He felt one of
her hands come to his shoulder, pushing him on the bed, laying him flat on his
back, as she crawled on top of him, straddling him. Her cunt lips parted along
with her thighs and he could feel his shaft fit perfectly between them with
only the thin layers of their undergarments keeping them apart. Arya bent down
over him, capturing his mouth again.
She grabbed his shoulders for support and rubbed herself on his hardness, hips
dragging forward and back, and forward again. She moved just like she did when
riding horses, but her saddle was Jon’s lap. She seemed to be really enjoying
herself. Her mouth was still over his, but she had stopped kissing him moments
ago, riding him faster and faster, just breathing against his lips. Having her
on top of him, commanding the pace, made Jon feel she was using him for her
pleasure. He felt like a toy in her hands, with the sole purpose of getting her
wet, of helping her find release. The thought made him squirm with arousal.
He freed himself from her lips and reached for her breasts, sucking a nipple
inside his mouth. He heard her gasp beside his ear. The tip of his tongue
circled her nipple before he let go and moved to her other breast. When he
didn’t have his mouth on them, he was pinching or squeezing them softly, cock
thick between her legs as she rubbed herself on him.
He had yet to learn how to read her body well enough to notice every time she
came. When she slowed down, panting next to him, he let go of her breasts and
kissed her on the mouth, but didn’t truly know if she had stopped because she
had come or because it simply wouldn’t happen that way. He flipped her on the
bed, crawling on top of her, supporting his weight on his knees and left arm so
as not to crush her. He palmed her through her smallclothes and noticed she was
wet enough to soak the cloth. Jon pulled out his cock and stroked himself fast,
taking in the sight of her underneath him—her nipples were shining with his
spit—and captured her mouth in another kiss. For the briefest moment, he closed
his eyes and allowed himself to pretend they were wed and this was the night of
their bedding. The thought aroused him, elated him and saddened him all at
once.
He shot part on her belly and part on her smallclothes. Forgetting himself, he
smeared his seed across her skin afterward, rubbing it all over her tummy. He
admired her for a while, watching his spend cooling on her, drying on her skin
and on the cloth of her undergarments. Then his mind seemed to catch up with
what he’d done, making him blush.
“What am I doing,” he said, looking around to find something—a rag, his shirt,
anything—to clean the mess he had made. “I got seed on your—what if a
washerwoman sees and realizes what it is?”
Arya was beyond caring. “I can get dirt on my clothes to hide it and tell
mother I fell in a puddle of mud. Coming from me, she’ll never doubt it.”
It always marveled him how quick-witted she could be; it made him laugh this
time. They lay down on their backs for a moment. The bed was narrow for two,
but Arya was skinny, and they snuggled closely. Their hands found each other,
and they entwined their fingers.
Jon took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. He hated that they had to get
up and leave, that they had to part ways, that he couldn’t wrap an arm around
her tiny frame and fall asleep beside her. He hated that they had to hide. But
that worry was for later. Right now, he could allow himself a few peaceful
moments like this, lying by her side, when nothing else mattered. He kissed her
neck, right below her ear. There was nothing he didn’t love about his little
sister.
===============================================================================
Sharing a bed with Arya was part of Jon’s new-found routine. It filled his days
with an unsteady sense of excitement, a happy kind of anxiety. Though daytime
dragged itself, meals lasted a lifetime, and Robb had never landed so many
blows on him at the yard as he did the past few days, Jon welcomed the nervous
feeling on the bottom of his stomach. It made him know what longing meant, and
it was a good longing because it got sated every night with Arya in his arms.
While the sun was up in the sky, Jon did everything in a hurry, absent-minded,
as if being always in haste could somehow speed up the hours until everyone was
asleep and he could meet his little sister in that small chamber that had begun
to feel more familiar than the very chamber he shared with his brothers.
He had learned to leave the door unbarred, and as soon as Arya walked in,
barring the door behind her, he took her mouth eagerly. Ever since they’d
kissed that first time, Jon couldn’t get enough of her mouth. He thought he
kind of smothered her with how hungry his kisses were, but she didn’t complain.
Perhaps it wasn’t just about kissing her; though he loved their kisses and how
her tongue met his, he took his pleasure just from having his mouth on her, on
any part of her. When they kissed, his hands immediately fondled her breasts
like they were his to touch. And they sort of were, because Arya allowed him
to, let out those tiny gasps in their kiss that got him hard and leaking. But
what really got him mad with arousal was sucking on her nipples, until they
they were hard and shining with saliva. Sometimes it was too much, and Arya
pushed him away with the heel of her hand on his forehead, and it never failed
to get him embarrassed. But there was never much time to dwell on it, because
soon Arya was touching him, jerking his cock, or sometimes even squeezing his
arse cheeks when they rubbed their groins together through their smallclothes.
And he ate her cunt, too, a lot. It was a fast way to make her come. His own
release felt better when he knew he had given her pleasure. So there he was,
again, kneeling between her legs, lapping at her nub, while his thumb touched
it from over the hood. Arya liked when he did that. Jon liked when she pulled
his hair in the midst of her release. After she was done, he buried his tongue
in her slit, as far as it would go, tasting all the saltiness he could. When he
was sated, he climbed on the bed with her, putting his lips on hers.
“I like the way you smell,” she said against his mouth.
“I smell like you do.” It was true. He might not be quite a man grown yet, but
he already had a stubble if he didn’t shave for a fortnight or so, and Arya’s
smell always clung to his facial hair.
“I know,” she laughed, “that’s why I like it.” She reached for his throbbing
cock between his legs, pulling him on top of her. “Come,” she said.
She was holding him, so he thought she was going to use her hand, like she
often did. But this time he felt her guiding him toward the juncture of her
legs, the head of his cock brushing against her cunt. Jon knew his face was
scarlet when he stopped her.
“No,” he said, wide-eyed, scared, “we can’t do that.”
“It’s all right,” she insisted, rubbing his cock on her moisten folds.
He stilled her, grabbing her by the wrist. “No,” he told her firmly.
She tried to wriggle her wrist free, but he was stronger. He held her arms down
on the bed, but as he tried to pin her down, his cock slid between her thighs.
A moan escaped him, much to Jon’s embarrassment. How could he say no when his
body betrayed him so? Her thighs were pressed together tightly, creating a
narrow, slick passage between them where his cock fit. His hips bucked before
he could stop himself, and suddenly the movement was deliberate—he was fucking
her thighs, gods damn him. The angle was weird, so he pulled her thighs up to a
better position. She was still so wet that his cock slid warm, and he couldn’t
help but wonder how could it feel so good if he wasn’t even inside her. He
fucked her thighs faster, feeling her so slick he almost inadvertently slipped
inside her once or twice as he thrust. How ridiculous and horrible it would be
if he ended up taking her maidenhead by accident. He set the thought aside and
settled for taking her mouth, kissing her again.
His skin slapping on hers sounded like he was actually fucking her, though, and
the noise enhanced his pleasure. He came, spilling on her inner thighs.. His
heart was still pounding when he cleaned themselves up with a rag. Arya kissed
his cheek, and for some reason, he was very grateful for that kiss.
They got dressed in the dark, fumbling to find their clothes. They ought to
have brought a candle this time. The moon was turning and this night was much
darker than the nights before. They left the room, closing the door silently
behind them, and had just made the first turn in the hallway, headed to their
chambers when they saw the brightness of a candle. It was too close for them to
hide. Lady Stark walked down the corridor, candlestick in hand, furs thrown
over a night-rail.
“What the two of you are doing out of bed?” she inquired, anger blazing in her
eyes.
Arya opened her mouth, but Jon spoke first. “Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped
earlier today. I took Arya to the kennel to see the pups. Farlen always says
how’s best not to bother a bitch with a recent litter, so we went at night to
avoid his reproach.”
“And what do you think you were doing, bastard, dragging my daughter into the
dark night? And with no candle?”
“I dropped the candle on the way back,” Jon lied further.
Arya spoke in his defense. “I was the one who insisted on going. Jon told me
no, but I wouldn’t let him be. I’m the one to blame, not him.”
Jon wanted to say something, take the blame back for himself, but it meant too
much to him that Arya would stand up to her lady mother for him.
“I will talk to Ned about this. This cannot go on,” she said, pressing her lips
into a thin line.
“Mother, it wasn’t Jon’s fault,” Arya argued, crossing Lady Stark to speak in
his behalf.
Jon could see the contempt in Lady Stark’s face. How she hated that his lord
father inflicted his presence on her; how no matter how much she despised the
very sight of him, there was nothing she could do to keep him apart from her
trueborn children. Robb was a brother to him in the true sense of the word, his
friend. Bran loved him as much as Jon loved him back. Sansa was polite at most,
but even the babe Rickon was fond of him. And there was Arya. He loved Arya.
Arya was his as much as he was hers, and Lady Stark’s scorn would never steal
that away from him.
Her sneer was obvious when she personally saw to it that they got back to their
chambers and stayed there.
===============================================================================
The Starks’ sigil was a direwolf and the Tullys had a trout on their banners,
but Lady Stark reminded Jon of neither lately. With her gaze following Jon
intently, she reminded him of a harpy.
Arya and Jon did not dare leaving their beds to meet at night in the old and
cramped guest chamber. Arya had suggested they meet in the godswood, during the
day. Lady Stark didn’t worship the old gods and never went there unless she
really had to, so Arya argued it was a safe choice. Besides, there were other
places for them to go, abandoned places, like the First Keep, or the Broken
Tower. But Jon wouldn’t take chances. Their lord father hadn’t shared Lady
Stark’s concern with their being out of bed, dismissing the subject as
children's enthusiasm over newborn pups, and didn’t discipline Jon, which only
made Lady Stark angrier. She couldn’t stand him, but still paid attention to
his every move and he wouldn’t risk capture again. Hopefully, in a fortnight or
so, something else would capture her attention and she would give up her
vigilance. Until then, Jon intended to keep his nose clean and stay out of the
way.
A week later, something did happen to drive her mind away from him, but Jon
couldn’t bring himself to feel glad about it. A deserter of the Night’s Watch
had been found wandering outside a small holdfast in the hills, and was going
to be beheaded shortly after first light that day.
Father gathered his party—guarsdmen, Hullen, Jon, Robb, Greyjoy, and for the
first time, Bran—and rode with them to bring the man the King’s Justice. A
beheading was always grim, but Jon was no stranger to seeing his father fulfill
his duty as Lord of Winterfell; being there made him feel like he belonged,
even if the feeling didn’t last. Lord Stark had always made every effort to
teach them the ways of the North, even to Greyjoy, who was ironborn, not a
northerner. Jon did everything he could to earn his father’s respect, not to
disappoint him. He looked at Bran, who had barely been able to contain his
excitement along the road, but now looked unsure on top of his pony. Imagining
his brother would want to make their father proud too, Jon whispered words of
advice to him, and was glad to see they took effect for Bran neither flinched
nor looked away when the deserter’s head rolled down the hill, stopping under
Greyjoy’s boot.
It was Robb who found the dead she-wolf, giant, bigger than any wolf Jon had
ever seen. Worms were already crawling in and out of her eyes and her tongue
was dark outside her mouth. The litter was still alive, but hungry and
desperate. The party’s first impulse was to kill the pups, but Bran and Robb
wouldn’t have it. Father seemed to side with his men, and Jon realized he
craved his brothers’ approval just as he did his father’s. Jon wasn’t sure he
believed in signs like Jory and Hullen did, but if it was a sign, it signified
that the Stark children were meant to have these wolves. Two females and three
males, after all.
When their father agreed to let the pups live, Jon was content to see the joy
in Bran’s eyes, even if the sense of belonging was already dissolving in his
mouth. But then he found the sixth pup, a white ball of fur with big red eyes.
Mayhaps it was indeed a sign. Mayhaps he did have a place with the Starks, in
the end.
Back in Winterfell, a pot filled with goat’s milk was over the stove, as the
six Eddard Stark's children argued about names for the wolves. In the midst of
all their talking, Bran made sure they all knew that it had been Jon to
convince their lord father to let them keep the pups. The look of admiration he
got from Arya made Jon want to hug Bran.
If the beheading had not been able to take Lady Stark’s mind off him, the tiny
wolves surely would have. It was no easy task taking care of them as young as
they were. They were constantly hungry and always seeking the heat of their
bodies and clothes, as well as the towels wet with warm milk. Rickon was too
young to take care of his pup by himself. His little brother got to name the
wolf—Shaggydog, he chose—but it fell on Jon to take care of the beast.
The wolves brought him and his siblings even closer, for a while. Robb, Bran,
Jon, Arya and even Sansa, who tended to avoid the stables and the kennel, spent
the following days together, nursing their wolves. At first, Greyjoy seemed
really bothered that they had something in common that didn’t involve him, and
spent hours on end training his archery or away at Winter Town, but he, too
gave in after all, showing interest in the animals he had once volunteered to
kill.
The entire castle went chaotic in the week that followed. If what Jon heard was
right, King Robert Baratheon himself and all his cortege were coming to
Winterfell. As far as Jon knew, the King rarely left King’s Landing, and almost
never came to the North. The last time he remembered hearing such a thing was
during Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, before Lord Eddard Stark came home with
Greyjoy's only living son. But he had been too young when that happened and
couldn’t remember in detail.
At the very least, two hundred people would be coming from the South in His
Grace’s retinue, and not only the guest house, but every spare chamber, cell or
room in the castle was to be prepared to receive the visitors. That made
sharing the old chamber with Arya even more ill-advised, but it also meant
everyone in the castle, Lady Stark especially, would be too concerned with
preparations to pay attention to him, which meant he could get away with Arya
for a couple hours during the day without raising questions.
They met far from the hear tree, hiding in the thicket of the godswood. Arya
had her back was against a mighty oak with Jon pressed tightly against her,
their mouths locked together. His hands palmed her body, touching everything at
the same time, going from her teats to her arse then running his fingers on her
thighs. He had spent too long without her and now he seemed to want all things
at once. He felt her short nails on his scalp as she pulled on his hair. She
had to bite down on his lower lip for him to realize she was trying to break
their kiss. The fierce bite made his cock throb, stiffening him further,
instead of softening him.
He pulled back, though. “Too much?”
“No,” she answered, “but yes. I mean,” she panted, “I think you should go
first. Can you pull it out? I miss looking at it.” But her nimble fingers were
already unbuttoning his breeches, undoing his laces, dragging him out.
The head of his cock was partially exposed, stiffness pulling the foreskin
back. Her hand was a bit sweaty when she touched him, but her palm felt rough.
She bent her head down and spat between their bodies, but her aim was poor and
her spit fell on the grass under their feet. He was already trying to gather
saliva in his mouth so he could spit on his hand and spread it over himself
when she squatted in front of him, trapped between his body and the big tree.
“Arya?” he asked, uncertain.
“I want to try something,” she said, holding his cock in her hand. The last
time she said something like that was when she tried to make him stick it
inside her, but this didn’t seem to be the case, so he just took a deep breath
and waited.
She stuck her tongue out, like a misbehaved child, and licked him, wet tongue
flat on the flushed head of his prick. His moan was long and loud on his ears,
and he braced himself on the tree in front of him with one arm, his other hand
resting on her shoulder, after tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
She held him with her small hand, pulling the foreskin back completely, grip
almost a little too strong, and licked him again, right on the underside this
time. He felt himself shuddere. She pumped him a couple times, squeezing clear
fluid out of him. It was always like that with her, he got hard to the point he
leaked. And she licked that too, tracing his shape with her tongue. It felt
good, mind-blowingly so, but just not enough.
“Open your mouth,” he heard himself saying.
She obeyed, taking over the reins again. She put her mouth on him, sucking the
head of his cock in. He sighed and dug his left fingers in the tree’s trunk,
not knowing what to do with himself. He was so aroused with the warm, wet heat
of her, but also so desperate for release that he almost considering taking
himself in his hand and fucking his fist until he came. But then she pulled
back only to suck him back in again, getting him further inside her mouth this
time; he’d never seen anything quite like it, so he endured.
She bobbed her head a few times, and it felt…delicious, really, and he hated
how impatient he was. He felt teased. Before he could stop himself, he covered
her hand on his shaft with his right one and tugged at himself a few times,
while half of his cock was inside her mouth, trying to give her a hint of what
he wanted.
He exhaled heavily. Now that had felt good. If she managed to keep still, and
just hold her mouth there, he could jerk himself a few times and it would be
over in just a moment. He almost told her that, but like before, she was a fast
learner and knew how to read him well. She followed his lead, trying to move
her hand in time with the caresses of her mouth.
There was no cadence, though. There was no rhythm between her sucking and her
hand—her grip was getting loose, too—and the bobbing of her head on his cock
was too slow to make him climax. It kept him exactly on that line where it felt
too good to interrupt, but not enough to bring him to the edge. Jon felt every
muscle in his body tense. He could see a thin shade of sweat on her neck,
despite the cold weather.
Like she had just listened to his thoughts, she gave up on her sucking and just
kept her mouth in place, engulfing just the tip of him, pumping him with
strokes that were practiced and perfect, now that she didn’t have to worry
about doing it in time with her mouth. Jon’s pleasure built up rapidly,
pulsating through his body. He pulled back just in time not to spill in her
mouth, seed flying toward her, landing part on the ground and part on her face,
like that first day by the pool—only this time her chin and her lips were
coated. She licked her lips, making that strange expression again as her tongue
snapped inside her mouth.
“Do you like that?” he asked, frowning. He’d never heard anything about a man’s
seed being tasty. If anything, even its smell was strange to him.
“No, it tastes bad,” she answered, point blank, “but I like it.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. You never liked anything that was bad?”
Too many things.
Curious, he scraped her chin off with his thumb, catching the seed on his
finger. It couldn’t hurt to try, not if Arya was fine with doing it, so he
thrust his seed-covered finger in his mouth. The taste of it overwhelmed him at
once and he tried to spit it out, but his entire mouth was already impregnated
with it.
“Arya!” he yelled. “How can you eat that? It tastes disgusting.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she argued, just for the sake of arguing. “I mean, it does,
but—not in a bad way? Gods, I don’t know.”
Mayhaps he knew, because despite the earthy taste and how sticky it had felt on
his tongue, Jon couldn’t say it’d been entirely unpleasant, now that he got
used to it. Still, he didn’t think he would ever do that again. Gods, he was so
strange. He pulled her up to her feet and kissed her, and there was seed’s
taste in both their mouths, a filthy kiss that felt way too good. She hiked her
skirts up to her waist while they kissed and he didn’t bother undoing the laces
of her smallclothes. He just wormed his hand inside, middle finger reaching
between her folds, rubbing her nub quickly, feeling her sopping wet. He let go
of her mouth and sucked on her neck, right where he felt her blood pulse. He
did it lightly not to leave a mark, hearing her moan against his ear. This
time, he thought he could tell when she found completion. She grabbed his
shoulders and tensed all over, breath caught in her throat for a second, and
then fell apart, trembling. He reached farther down inside her smallclothes,
touching her slit, and she was as a lake down there.
Gods, how he had missed her.
===============================================================================
The night before the King arrived, Jon lay awake in bed, thoughts so unruly and
thick in his mind he felt smothered.
Robb was their father’s heir, would be Lord of Winterfell after him. Bran and
Rickon would one day be Robb’s bannermen, with lands and households of their
own. Sansa and Arya would marry heirs of other important Houses, taking their
names.
The thought of Arya marrying someone made him queasy, but that was how things
were going to happen. Being delusional would do Jon no good; why imagine a
future that could never be? The lives of his brothers and sisters were planned
and laid out before them. There was no need for doubt.
But Jon? What did Jon have? What could be expected of him? He was a bastard
with no name to give a wife or a son—he wouldn’t spread the stain of his
bastardy any further. Outside of marriage, he wondered what were a bastard’s
options.
It was not uncommon for a bastard to be a blacksmith, or even become a septon
or a maester. Jon was no scholar and he’d never be a maester; his blood was hot
for battle and the yard had always been more to his liking than a room full of
books. To become a blacksmith, he should’ve started his apprenticeship long
ago—he was too old for that now. He would be no septon either. His gods were
the old, not the new, and those he’d managed to desecrate, making a show of his
lust to the heart tree.
A bastard who took pleasure in his own sister’s arms—Jon was hopeless.
At least he hadn’t defiled her.
Yet.
Jon could never do that to Arya, couldn’t stoop so low and soil her honor like
that. Arya might not know what she’d offered him, but Jon knew better. She was
to be a maiden until the day she was wedded, and if Jon could not marry her,
then he could not bed her, that was it. He knew it now—but how did he trust
himself to resist the temptation? Seeing her every day, having and not having
her at the same time—could Jon really trust his resolve? Especially when it had
already crumbled so many times.
He remembered the feel of her smooth thigh and his cock sliding between them,
grazing on her folds—how wet she was, how inviting her cunt had felt. Her
maidenhead was the only thing he could not have, so of course it was the thing
he wanted the most. But that was not the only reason behind his wanting. He
longed for Arya, in all the meaningful ways he’d never get.
Arya, resilient little Arya—she had worked her way through all of his defenses,
shattering his walls one by one.
Deep down, Jon knew the day would come when he’d have to take his distance,
that he and Arya would have to part ways.
When that day came, he was going to take the black.
===============================================================================
Jon had never gotten as drunk as he did during the welcoming feast for the
King. Jon didn’t know if he drank simply because he could or for other reason.
He hadn’t been deemed good enough to sit at the table with his family, where he
took his seat every day, but down at the benches he felt more at ease among
young squires with all sorts of tales in their mouths. They cheered him every
time he emptied a glass, so he found himself draining several of them. It was
petty validation, he knew, but he was taking it from everywhere he could find,
considering how short the supply always was.
The royal visitors made their entrance in a procession that passed a foot from
where Jon was seated, the Starks paired with them. His father had escorted
Queen Cersei, and King Robert did the same to Lady Stark. Robb walked in with
Princess Myrcella in his arms. Prince Tommen was a child, but when he came in
paired with Arya, Jon felt envy, wondering if he would ever escort a lady
somewhere like Tommen did. Sansa drew in the crown prince, Joffrey. The boy was
taller than Jon, but tall wasn’t the word that came to his mind when he looked
at the prince. Joffrey was just… lengthy. As well as conceited, if his pouty
lips were anything to go by. He wore a golden choker and rich velvets. Some
people had it so easy it was infuriating.
Jon was happy to see his uncle Benjen walk in the Great Hall, but also mildly
annoyed that an obscene prick like Theon Greyjoy got to make a big entrance
while Jon had to seat with everyone else at the benches. Still, Greyjoy was
highborn, even if a hostage, which placed him above Jon, no matter how much of
an arse he might be.
He felt Ghost’s fur against his legs under the table, and saw his bright red
eyes. That was a perk to be content about, since none of his siblings had been
allowed to bring their wolves to the feast. He was proud to introduce Ghost to
uncle Benjen when the man came to seat with him.
“How many cups have you had, Jon?” he heard the man ask, talking about the
summerwine.
Jon gave a forestalling smile, trying to count them in his head, but he must’ve
taken too long, because Ben was soon laughing in his face, continuing with
small talk. His uncle asked him why wasn’t he seated at the table with his
brothers and Jon was forced to admit the reason. It seemed like everything in
that damned night was strategically set out to remind him of his bastardy, Jon
was grumpy to see.
But then, in the midst of their talk, he heard uncle Ben say, “We could use a
man like you on the Wall.”
Pride invaded him and he started to blurt out his boyish accomplishments. Well,
he was a better sword than Robb. “Take me with you when you go back to the
Wall,” he heard himself saying. He hadn’t planned on going so soon, but wine
was making him bold along with the especially frustrating night. “Father will
give me leave to go if you ask him, I know he will.” Deep inside, Jon hoped the
decision didn’t come so easily to his father.
“The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon,” his uncle said. Being called a boy
never enraged him more than right then.
“I’m almost a man grown,” he repeated the words that were starting to become
his personal motto. They bickered back and forth some more, Jon trying to
convince uncle Ben that the Night’s Watch was where he belonged.
Their talk got heated when uncle Ben spoke about knowing a woman as if it were
an argument against going to the Wall, when it was the precise reason to why he
had to go there in the first place—keeping himself from knowing the only woman
he wanted to know.
“Come back to me after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, and we’ll
see how you feel.”
The thought of putting a bastard in Arya’s womb made him tremble with dread. “I
will never father a bastard! Never!” he spat out, drawing attention from the
whole table.
He felt hot tears stinging his eyes and tried to flee the hall before anyone
saw him cry. Drinking had made him uncoordinated and he almost tripped on his
own feet, bumping into a serving girl and breaking the flagon of spice wine she
carried. Laughter roared all around him as he left, Ghost following closely.
The yard was silent at least and he had a moment to gather his thoughts, until
Tyrion Lannister appeared and spoke to him. Jon was already beginning to feel
unnerved that he had to make small talk again, remembering his courtesies, as
to not bring further shame on his father. But the dwarf surely had an odd way
to make idle chatter.
“I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother,” the
man told him, and Jon was left wondering if Tyrion Lannister had indeed ever
vomited on his Jaime Lannister.
He showed interest in Ghost, like most people did at first sight. Jon
introduced the wolf to him, boasting on Ghost’s murdering skills.
Tyrion Lannister had seemed pretty amiable until he asked, “You’re Ned Stark’s
bastard, aren’t you?” And then any sympathy Jon might have initially felt for
him was gone. “Did I offend you? Sorry,” the little man went on. “Dwarfs don’t
have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the
right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head. You are
the bastard, though.”
Jon was. And everyone felt like rubbing it in his face, like it was his fault.
“Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” he said, rigid.
“Yes,” Lannister agreed. “I can see it. You have more of the north in you than
your brothers.”
“Half brothers,” Jon said. Lannister was right. He and Arya were the only ones.
“Let me give you some counsel, bastard. Never forget what you are for surely
the world will not,” he said like his had been great words of wisdom. “Make it
your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it
would never be used to hurt you.”
The advice, thought mayhaps not ill meant, got Jon particularly upset. Tyrion
Lannister wasn’t in any place to give him counsels. He was a trueborn, raised
under the sigil of the richest House in Westeros, with people bowing before him
and serving him all his life. “What do you know about being a bastard?” Jon
asked.
“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes,” the man said simply.
Jon frowned. “You are your mother’s trueborn son of Lannister.” Dwarf or not,
he was no bastard. Definitely not shunned like one.
“Am I?” There was a derisive tone to Lannister’s voice. “Do tell my lord
father. My mother died birthing me, and he has never been sure.”
“I don’t even know who my mother was,” Jon said. If he was supposed to live a
life without a mother, Jon would rather have her die in childbed than simply
have a mother that gave him up. No one could say anything about his or his
mother’s honor if she had died in childbed.
“Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are,” he said with an apologetic smile.
“Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be
dwarfs.”
Lannister went back to the feast, and Jon was left to muse on his words.
===============================================================================
Jon and Arya ended up meeting in the godswood before the welcoming feast was
over. It hadn’t been intentional. After making a fool of himself at the Great
Hall, the conversation with Tyrion Lannister had got him contemplative. He
wanted to sober up before going to bed; he wasn’t that drunk anymore, but
didn’t feel ready to challenge himself with climbing the stairs. So he
staggered to the woods, Ghost close behind him.
When he got there, he didn’t see Arya at first, but Ghost got a scent of
Nymeria and went off running. Jon followed his lead and found Arya sitting next
to one of the hot springs, eyes downcast, staring at the water, a lantern by
her side. Ghost had lain down next to Nymeria, his white fur contrasting with
her grey one.
“Shouldn’t you be at the feast, little sister?” Jon asked, sitting next to her.
“Mother sent me to bed early after I dropped gravy on Sansa’s dress. She was
very angry,” Arya said, crestfallen.
“Who was angry, Sansa or your lady mother?”
Arya frowned for a moment. “Both.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter, but
didn’t seem very genuine to Jon. “But I meant Sansa.” She was slowly destroying
a small area of humus covered grass by her side, tearing at its leaves with her
fingers.
Jon passed an arm around her shoulders and rubbed the side of her arm. When she
looked at him, he gave her a kiss on the forehead. She smiled at him; it was a
pretty smile. He tried running his fingers through the locks of her hair, but
got stuck in the tangles, so he settled for messing it up instead.
“How long until the feast ends?” Jon asked.
“Probably a while. The King surely likes to eat and he still had a big plate of
salted venison in front of him when I left the Great Hall.” She threw a tiny
rock into the spring. “So, what did you think of him? King Robert?”
Jon thought for a moment. “Whoever conquered the iron throne isn’t the man I
saw today.” He was quiet for a moment before adding, “And it’s strange how
Prince Joffrey in nothing resembles his father. He looks like a girl.”
She laughed and the sound of it was so warming that he held her face softly and
kissed her on the lips, feeling her breathing against his face. Jon pulled back
and looked at the hot spring again. There had been a summer snow-fall two days
ago and the air was still a bit chilly. He lay back on the grass, dark sky
above him dotted with bright stars. A moment after, he felt Arya lying next to
him, snuggling against his body, shoulder and neck fitting against his armpit,
head resting on his chest.
Jon looked at her, studying her traces. Her big grey eyes seemed not to see
anything besides him. Her long face sometimes was almost a mirror to his own.
Her brown hair was always twisted in knots, giving her an untamed vivid look.
Her slenderness made her seem as light and agile as a bird.
“You’re so pretty,” he heard himself say, “beautiful.”
The grin she gave him was wide and full of teeth. She pulled herself closer
against him. They fit together. They always had, even before any of this. Jon
liked that about them. They might not fit anywhere else, but they always found
comfort and joy in each other.
===============================================================================
Jon watched Bran fight Tommen, sitting on the sill of the window in the covered
bridge between the armory and Great Keep. He eyed their movements intently,
wishing Bran would throw Tommen to the ground, make him show his belly like
Ghost did to his opponents in dogfights. The younger prince wasn’t particularly
mean or anything. Prince Joffrey was the problem, not his brother, but Jon
found himself contemptuous for the whole family.
Ghost shifted next to him. Nymeria approached them, Arya on her side. His wolf
greeted Arya’s, smelling her and nipping softly on her ear, before settling
back down.
“Shouldn’t you be working on your stitches, little sister?” Jon asked her. It
wouldn’t be good if Arya ran away from too many sewing classes. Septa Mordane
might tell her mother, and Jon didn’t want Lady Stark’s attention too focused
on them again.
“I wanted to see them fight,” Arya answered, but her gloomy face made him think
there was more to it than she was telling him.
Instead of pressing her to say anything, he just smiled at her. “Come here,
then,” he urged.
She sat next to him on the sill, and they watched Bran and Tommen training with
wooden swords for a while, under the watchful gaze of Ser Rodrik. Jon fought
the urge to hold her hand. Ever since the first day in the godswood, he didn’t
know which of his displays of affection would seem brotherly, fraternal to
other people’s eyes, and which would denounce their relationship for what it
really was.
“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed, watching how the boys
puffed.
“A shade more fun than needlework.”
He grinned, messing up her hair just to see the red flush her face.
“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him, her tone of genuine
curiosity. It was like she really forgot sometimes.
He gave her a crooked half smile before responding. “Bastards are not allowed
to damage young princes,” he lamented. He was sure Robb could make Joffrey
yield faster than Ghost did to dogs, but it would feel good if Jon was allowed
to do it too. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from
trueborn swords.”
Her response was a faint little Oh. She must have felt uneasy for reminding of
his bastardy, because she soon changed subjects, complaining that she wasn’t
allowed to practice, despite being older than Bran. On the other hand, mayhaps
it wasn’t unease. Perhaps it was her way to show sympathy. Both of them were
kept from doing things they wanted to—Jon for being a bastard, Arya for being a
girl.
“You’re too skinny,” he said, weighing her arm, his long fingers circling her
wrist. “I doubt you could even lift a longsword, never mind swing one.”
She pulled back her arm and stared at him. He messed up her hair again to show
her he hadn’t meant offense with his comment, getting her hair even more of a
tangle. He liked to know that her messy hair was at least partially his doing.
It was true, though. She couldn’t lift a longsword. But that didn’t mean there
wasn’t swords in the world fit for someone like her. But that was something he
would have to think of later.
“You see Prince Joffrey?” he said. He watched her look for him in the yard with
her eyes, until she finally spotted him. “Look at the arms in his surcoat,” he
said, pointing at the shield embroidered there. The arms were divided in the
middle. Half of it was Baratheon’s stag and the other half was the lion of
Lannister. “The Lannisters are proud. You’d think the royal sigil would be
sufficient, but not. He makes his mother’s house equal in honor to the king’s.”
He had said that more in aversion to the Lannisters than anything else, but
Arya understood it differently.
“The woman is important too!” she objected.
Jon laughed. “Perhaps you should do the same thing, little sister,” he
suggested, “wed Tully to Stark in your arms.”
“A wolf with a fish in its mouth?” She chuckled. “That would look silly.
Besides, if a girl can’t fight, why should she have a coat of arms?”
Jon’s shoulders rose and sagged. “Girls get the arms, but not the swords.
Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little
sister.” He wondered who would make rules like that.
They watched the practice in silence for a while. Ser Rodrik called Bran and
Tommen to a halt and invited Robb and Joffrey to take over. The prince
suggested live steel. Robb was the better swordsman, of that there was no
doubt. The look on Joffrey’s face was bored and disdainful, but Jon could see
behind his ploy. He must be afraid, and spoke of live steel only because he was
certain Ser Rodrik would say no, leaving him free to go on with his mockery and
avoid being subdued by Robb. On the off chance Ser Rodrik said yes, Robb would
be the one in a tight spot if the prince got hurt, regardless of who started
the whole thing. In the end, Robb and Joffrey didn’t fight again, and the
prince left the yard with his party behind him.
When Jon finally climbed off the window, he noticed Arya staring at him
intently. “The show is done,” he said, taking a moment to pet Ghost behind the
ears. “You had best run back to your room, little sister,” he advised. “Septa
Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance.
You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find
your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers,” he
teased, but Arya didn’t laugh.
“I hate needlework,” she said, inflamed. “It’s not fair!”
It wasn’t. Girl or bastard, being isolated from what they wanted wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair wanting her while being her brother, but not wanting her or not
being her brother felt even more unfair, even more wrong. Not being able to
stay with her was the worst of all.
“Nothing is fair,” he said, feeling cranky. He immediately messed up her hair
again to try and lighten up his features before walking away with Ghost on his
heels.
His lord father intercepted him before he reached the chamber he shared with
his brothers. His expression was even more serious than Jon was used to see.
“Father,” he greeted as they stood in the hallway.
“Jon,” his father said, with a curt nod. “Benjen told me you aspire to take the
black.” Lord Stark was direct.
“I spoke to him about it,” Jon answered warily, imagining if uncle Ben had said
anything about his drunken vexation during the feast.
“I have decided to grant your request. You will be leaving soon.”
The words came as a slight shock to him. Jon frowned at the lack of resistance
to his request, wanting to ask why so sudden, if his father had been persuaded
to say yes or if his decision had been purely his own.
“Jon, His Grace has nominated me the new Hand,” father said by way of
explanation.
That didn’t surprise Jon. Why else would the King had come all the way to the
North if not for that? Jon’s first impulse was to congratulate his father on
the honors, but the look on his sire’s face was so dark Jon swallowed his words
and just looked at him.
“The march to King’s Landing will begin in a fortnight, after all preparations
have been made.”
“Robb is staying,” Jon said. It wasn’t a question. Jon knew he was right. There
must always be a Stark in Winterfell and Robb was the oldest son.
“Rickon will be staying, too,” his father continued, “he is too young and can’t
be apart from Catelyn yet. Bran and the girls are coming to court with me.”
Jon tried to imagine living in Winterfell without Arya and almost cringed. He
would miss Bran an awful lot as well. Cohabiting with Lady Stark without his
father around would prove to be even more insufferable if Robb was his only
friend in the castle. When he first entertained the notion of going to the
Wall, he imagined visiting Winterfell on occasion. Uncle Benjen visited
regularly, if not often. Even as a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, Jon
would be able to get a glimpse of his sister, see that she was growing well.
But with Arya and their father half Westeros away, there would be no point in
visiting.
“You will be leaving with Benjen the day the rest of us leave to King’s
Landing.”
Jon thought of how timely his departure to the Wall was. His father’s
willingness to give up on him tasted bitter in Jon’s mouth. The initiative had
been his, that was correct, but he was more at ease with joining the Night’s
Watch when he thought it was a choice he made. Now he suspected his father
would have sent him there even if Jon hadn’t said anything to uncle Ben. It
made Jon feel like a nuisance, but he kept to himself and nodded his agreement,
staying silent until he was excused.
Jon had been supping in the kitchen ever since the welcoming feast. The royal
family still shared the Starks table during meals and Jon was still a bastard.
He didn’t mind much, considering the lack of empathy Jon felt for Lannisters or
that batch of Baratheons. Still, it was a little depressing that, on his last
fortnight at Winterfell, he didn’t even get the chance to part bread with his
brothers and sisters.
It was late. After the talk with his father, Jon wanted anything but food. In
fact, his stomach seemed inclined to retching up. Thankfully, he didn’t. So Jon
skipped supper, and, as soon as his lord father excused him, he went to the
practice yard and lashed out his rage onto the training dummy. The worst part
about his anger is that he didn’t feel entitled to it. He had been the one to
first ask about the Wall; it made no sense that it riled him up having his
father acquiesce to his request. And Jon was a bastard, so it wasn’t his place
to feel wounded when people treated him for what he was.
Eventually, after hours of mindlessly attacking the dummy with his sword and,
at one point, even with his fists, Jon finally felt hungry, and once hunger hit
him, it hit him hard. He dragged himself to the kitchen, tired and sweaty.
Dinner was long over and the kitchen was empty, an extremely rare occurrence
when the castle was so crowded. Sitting at the table, a plate of onion cheese,
cured ham and spiced bread in front of him, Jon took a look around him,
admiring the walls of the only place he knew as home. Mayhaps that was what he
was angry about. That his father had brought him, a bastard, to his home, to
live among his sons, to be instructed in the same ways they were—that he had
allowed Jon, even for the briefest of moments, to almost forget what he really
was. It hurt every time he was forced to remember. He would do better not to
forget it anymore, then.
Jon almost didn’t hear Arya’s steps when she walked into the kitchen. Sometimes
it seemed like she was trying to be as silent as Ghost. She was accompanied by
Nymeria, who lay down next to her litter-mate. It was good having the wolves
with them. Ghost might be always quiet, but Nymeria always warned them when
someone was approaching.
When Arya sat down on the bench across him, Jon didn’t ask her whether she
should be in her chamber. She ought to know by now when it was and when it
wasn’t safe to sneak out.
“You have to come with me,” she said. The urgency in her tone made Jon think
there was something in the castle she wanted to show him.
“Where to?” he asked.
“To King’s Landing!” she said, like it was obvious. “Mother came to my chamber
before supper. She said King Robert made father his new Hand, and that we all
have to live in court now. I mean, almost all of us. Robb and Rickon and Mother
will be staying. Greyjoy, too, obviously.”
“I know,” Jon said, looking down at his place and shoving another piece of
cheese into his mouth, washing it down with ale. “Father came to tell me.”
“Yes, and you have to come with me.” It sounded very simple when Arya said it,
like he had a say in that.
“That is not going to happen, Arya,” he declared, gulping at more ale.
“How so?” Her face showed signs of genuine inquiry. How could she not know?
“Because I’m a bastard. I don’t belong in King’s Landing. The court has no
place for a bastard.”
“You belong with me,” she said matter-of-factly, but her tone soon became
pleading. “Come with me to King’s Landing. I know father will let you come if I
ask him.”
Jon couldn’t tell if she actually believed that or just desperately wanted to.
Either way, she was wrong. Suddenly, Jon was angry all over again.
“Go to King’s Landing to do what?” he asked, serious. “To watch father marry
you off to some southron lordling?”
“He has Sansa. She’s betrothed to Joffrey. He can marry her off.” Her scowl
showed him just how much she appreciated the idea of father marrying her off.
“You know you’ll be expected to get married one day,” Jon said, his voice low.
Arya had gotten a bit loud with her last retort and Jon worried it might have
drawn attention.
“It’ll be years until that. Mother said even Sansa’s wedding won’t be that
soon. Having you in King’s Landing with me would give us time to think of a
solution.” She sounded so hopeful it made Jon’s guts twist in a knot.
Jon eyed her with grief. “There is no solution, Arya. I’m taking the black.
When you go to King’s Landing, I’ll leave to the Wall with uncle Benjen.”
She looked so shocked and her eyes were so wide that, for a moment, Jon thought
she might cry.
“No, that is wrong,” she said, shaking her head, “you have to be with me.
You’re my brother.”
“Exactly! I’m your brother,” Jon said, close to exasperation. Arya was trying
to find hope in a hopeless matter. There was no way out for them.
“What matters is that I love you. I love you. Isn’t that important?”
The words shook him to the core. He cupped her face by the sides and kissed
her, pressing his mouth on hers, with enough force to feel her teeth behind her
lips. The table between them made him have to lean against her to kiss her and
the angle was strange; that and the fact they were in the middle of the bloody
kitchen made him let go of her.
But he wanted her, loved her, was shaky with how much he needed her, so he
said, “Will you meet me in the godswood?”
“In about an hour,” she replied, lips red from the force of his kiss, “after
Sansa falls asleep. I think she’s with Princess Myrcella now, but it won’t take
long before she goes to bed.”
Jon nodded his agreement and, against his better judgment, kissed her one more
time before leaving the kitchen.
===============================================================================
The visitors crowded the castle everywhere. The yard was very frequented and so
was the armory. At first, Jon imagined the godswood would be, too, but it
hadn’t happened. The outsiders belonged to the Faith and the few ones who were
religious enough to pray and make offers to the gods did it in the small sept
Lady Stark went to. Not even the pools in the godswood drew their attention.
They were too small for that many guests, and the woods were too old and somber
and uninviting for southern eyes. The godswood was for northerners.
Jon lay down on the grass, waiting for Arya, petting Ghost behind the ears
while he waited, but he didn’t have to wait long. Soon she saw her come toward
him, a lamp on her hand, Nymeria following her just like Ghost had followed
him. They didn’t talk about the Wall, about King’s Landing, marriages or any of
that, for which Jon was grateful. In that moment, Jon just hoped Arya longed
for his company the same way he longed for hers.
She sat down next to him, already sliding into his arms, taking his mouth,
kissing him, sucking on his bottom lip. He held her by the nape of the neck as
her hands clutched at him so tightly it was like she was afraid of what would
happen if she let go. Jon knew he was.
He rolled over on top of her, pinning her down on the ground, feeling his cock
swell against her. Her hands went to his back, then to his arse and the back of
his thighs, pulling him even closer. He touched her breasts, and traced the
outline of her ear with his tongue. At first, it had seemed an odd caress to
Jon, but Arya’s fingers found his neck and she scratched him, groaning, so he
did it again. Her nails were very short, and didn’t hurt him. The feeling was
just sharp enough to make him shiver. He had never thought being scratched
could be arousing, but this was nothing but.
It was too cold for them to strip naked, but Arya tugged her smallclothes down
and off her feet, pulling her skirt up, at the same time as Jon fumbled with
his laces, trying to pull his cock out. His flesh felt warm against the touch
of his hand. He held his weight on his knees and on one hand, hovering on top
of her, cock on the other hand. He stared down at her—her were legs parted, her
eyes wide, lips reddened—and beautiful was the only word in his mind.
Jon rubbed his cock between her cunt lips, feeling her wetness coat him,
deliberately torturing himself with what he couldn’t have. He then flipped her
on her stomach, trying to hold her skirt up while lowering his body on hers,
locking her legs closed between his, fucking her right there, like he did in
the old guest chamber, his cock trapped between her thighs and brushing on her
cunt with every move. His hips bucked fast, and Jon was lost in the smell of
her hair in his face, in the kisses he trailed on her neck. He held her in
place by the hips with one hand, but the other found hers and their fingers
entwined, digging in the ground beneath them. He was groaning despite his
efforts to keep quiet.
His hips snapped and bucked as he thrust against Arya, feeling the buildup in
his groin. His heart raced in his chest, Jon felt every muscle in his body
getting tight and there was this feeling of being almost there, almost, gods,
so close, but not quite there. It seemed to go on forever until he finally got
his release, a relieved, loud moan forcing itself out of his throat as he
spilled between Arya’s thighs.
He pulled back, dragging her hips with him, getting her on all fours in front
of him, skirt pooling at the line of her waist, exposed arse and thighs, legs
covered by woolen socks. She looked at him from over her shoulder. Jon buried
his face in her, lapping at her cunt, one long stroke of his tongue from her
nub all the way to between her arse cheeks, the taste of her wetness mixing
with the taste of his seed. It tasted strong and in another situation, it might
be off putting, it might disgust him even, but her gasps were so delicious, and
Jon could swear she was pushing her hips against his face, so he kept going,
licking her clean, tonguing her nub, and even holding her arse cheeks apart and
burying his face there.
He didn’t stop for a moment to think of what he was doing. He just knew he
wanted her so badly, wanted to taste her, wanted to hear her wailing and
gasping, wanted to never forget that sound. He rubbed her nub with his thumb in
small, fast circles, exploring her with his mouth. He had never felt her so wet
before. And then she was trembling, gasping, her thighs quivering against him,
and he thought he heard her moan, gods, Jon, I love you.
He let go of her and she lay down on her back, looking at him, breathless.
Jon’s cock was half hard again, but he just tucked himself inside his breeches.
He glanced sideways and noticed the direwolves for the first time in a long
time; he had been unaware of their existence. Looking at Ghost’s red eyes, Jon
felt an irrational embarrassment that his wolf had seen all that.
They lay on their backs next to each other, looking at the sky. Jon knew they
had to go back, and soon, but they could stay there together, if only for a
moment.
===============================================================================
Jon wasn’t allowed in the royal family’s presence, and Robb and his lord father
were almost always with them, so Jon had a lot of time in his hands. It didn’t
bother him much anymore. He had Arya. They had been trying to spend more time
together before their departure, but it wasn’t always easy. Jon might have more
free time on his hands, but Arya still had her classes with Septa Mordane.
Though not easy, they always found at least a little time together.
Sometimes they just lay side by side on the grass in the godswood, the wolves
with them, talking, japing and trying to laugh and forget they wouldn’t see
each other for a long time. It was a way of being close and not having to worry
about being caught because they weren’t doing anything wrong.
It was what they did the morning before they were supposed to leave Winterfell.
The King, his father and their party had left for a hunt, the last one before
they left. Even Greyjoy had gone with them. Jon and Arya had tried the
godswood, but Bran was there, trying to teach his wolf to fetch a stick. In the
end, they settled for Jon’s chamber, knowing it was empty. If they were
careful, no one had to see them.
Part of him wanted to kiss her, make love to her the way he had never allowed
himself to, wanted to make the little time they had left count. Part of him was
relieved that he was going to the Wall before he could do anything permanent,
anything that would harm Arya after her infatuation for him weaned off. Part of
him knew it was insane leaving her side. Jon was so divided it felt as if he
was being pulled in different directions until he was ripped out in pieces.
They stayed together until the bells announced it was time for lunch. Jon
hugged Arya before she left, squeezing her tiny frame in his arms. Melancholy
took hold of him as he realized that soon it would all be just a memory growing
weaker every day. He feared not being able to remember how Arya felt, how she
looked when she smiled. He fervently wished that something, anything granted
them more time. Just a little more time.
Bran fell from the First Tower that day, and their departure was delayed. Jon
was wondered if that was some kind of godly irony and was washed by guilt.
===============================================================================
 
They ended up leaving a fortnight later, having waited as long as they could;
if they waited any more, the roads would be tricky and dangerous with snow.
Lady Stark never left Bran’s side in his sick room. Jon did not have to worry
with her unwanted attention anymore, but he couldn’t be glad about it. Not when
his little brother lay on the brink of death, growing weaker every day.
When Jon finally got to see him, he was shocked by how thin and frail he
looked. As he said his good-bye, he could feel Lady Stark’s contempt at him,
but Jon didn’t let it get to him, not this time. He was already giving up too
much because of her, because of being a bastard; he wouldn’t pass up what might
be his last chance of seeing Bran. As he prepared to leave the room, Lady
Stark’s words to him were hateful, as always, but behind her venom-filled eyes,
Jon could see her motherly desperation and felt truly sorry for her.
At least the delay had given Miken time to finish Arya’s present. He held the
package tightly in his hand as he made his way to Arya’s chamber. “Leaving is
harder than I thought,” he had told Robb only moments ago. Mayhaps that was the
reason why he’d taken so long to say farewell to Arya, to come and see her,
stalling until uncle Benjen was waiting for him, growing more impatient with
every moment. As long as he postponed this final meeting, he could pretend it
didn’t have to happen. Actually going away was more difficult than deciding to
leave.
Arya was in her room, packing, which struck Jon as weird that she would still
be doing it when they were about to leave. Nymeria yelped at him when she saw
Ghost, and Arya turned around to see him. She threw her arms around his neck,
jumping to reach him, her known smell surrounding him.
“I was afraid you were gone,” she said, her voice breaking for a moment with a
gasp. “They wouldn’t let me out to say good-bye.”
Jon wondered if she actually thought he’d leave without saying anything.
“What did you do now?”
“Nothing,” she answered. “I was all packed and everything. Septa Mordane says I
have to do it all over. My things weren’t properly folded, she says. A proper
southron lady doesn’t just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags,
she says.”
“Is that what you did, little sister?” Jon could almost see her throwing
everything in a wrinkled bundle inside the chest, and then sprinting her way
around the castle, trying to say her last good-bye to everyone she would be
leaving behind. To Jon.
“Well, they’re going to get all messed up anyway. Who cares how they’re
folded?”
“Septa Mordane,” Jon said. “I don’t think she’d like Nymeria helping, either.”
The she-wolf glanced his way when he spoke her name. “It’s just as well. I have
something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”
Her eyes smiled along with her lips. “A present?”
“You could call it that. Close the door,” he said, imagining if she’d think he
wanted to kiss her.
She commanded Nymeria to guard the door as she closed it. When she turned to
face him, Jon already had the sword out and handed it to her. Her dark eyes, so
much alike his, shone at her gift. It made Jon feel happy and relieved. For
weeks he had wondered if Arya would like her present, would hold it dear to
her.
“This is no toy,” he told her. “Be careful you don’t cut yourself. The edges
are sharp enough to shave with.”
“Girls don’t shave,” she said.
“Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa’s legs?”
Arya giggled. She always liked when they japed about things they didn’t like,
or people that were mean to them. “It’s so skinny.”
“So are you,” he said. “I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords
like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won’t hack a man’s
head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re fast enough.”
“I can be fast,” Arya said.
Jon knew she could. He had always trusted her, had always known all the great
things she had in her.
“You have to work at it every day.” He put her hand on the sword’s hilt,
correcting her grip. “How does it feel? Do you like the balance?”
“I think so,” Arya said, staring at the blade in her hand.
“First lesson. Stick them with the pointy end.”
Arya hit him on the arm with the flat side of the blade, and it stung a little,
but he grinned, loving that she had liked her gift.
“I know which end to use,” she said with a smile, but her face darkened a
moment later. “Septa Mordane will take it away from me.”
“Not if she doesn’t know you have it,” It could be their secret, like all the
others they had, only theirs.
“Who will I practice with?”
“You’ll find someone,” Jon promised, trying not to be sad that it wasn’t going
to be him. “King’s Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of
Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run,
hide, make yourself strong. And, whatever you do…” Arya said his next words
with him. “Don’t tell Sansa!”
Jon messed up her hair. “I will miss you, little sister.” Horribly so.
She must feel the same way, because her eyes looked about to be welled in
tears. “I wish you were coming with us.” She said for the thousandth time. It
pained him every time.
“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?” He was feeling
better, so he allowed himself to give her a little hope, vain or not. He wasn’t
going to let this last time to be filled with sorrow. “I better go. I”ll spend
my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep uncle Ben waiting any
longer.”
Arya tried to hug him when he said that.
“Put down the sword first,” he warned, with laughter, and she set it aside,
almost shyly.
Then her mouth was on his face. He felt her kissing him with urgency everything
she could reach. His cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his jawline and even his
neck. It was clumsy and a bit desperate, and exactly why Jon loved her. He
stilled her for a moment and held her in place, kissing her firmly on the lips,
his tongue meeting hers, tasting her one last time, hoping she could feel his
love in his kiss.
But he had to leave.
At the door, he looked at her one more time. “I almost forgot. All the best
swords have names,” he reminded her.
“Like Ice,” she said, remembering their father’s sword. “Does this have a name?
Oh, tell me.”
“Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, but it came to her a heartbeat
later. She was that quick. Once again, she spoke his next word with him.
“Needle!”
Jon kissed her one last time, stopping himself before tears came or he pushed
her over a bed—both prospects seemed equally likely—and left before he lost the
courage.
As he rode with the caravan, Jon asked himself if Arya would remember him the
way he would remember her, or if the wonders of a city bigger than Winterfell
and far more stimulating than the entire North would sway her, make her forget
him. He hoped Needle would prevent that. He hoped that, when Arya looked at the
sword, it reminded her of who she was. He hoped Needle made Arya know he would
always love her. Skinny, scabbed-knees, tangled hair, smart, quick-witted,
beautiful Arya—everything he would ever want.
The memory of her laughter, of her love, warmed him more than his furs on the
way North.
End Notes
     I am not a native speaker and this work is unbetaed, so I might have
     gotten some of my prepositions wrong and the phrasing might have
     sounded a little off occasionally. If you spot any mistakes, don't
     hesitate to tell me.
     I'd like to thank all the wonderful people who left me kudos,
     comments and who bookmarked this story when it was still a work in
     progress. Without you, I know I wouldn't have finished it.
     Thank you all for reading. :)
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