A fortnight had passed since he last asked Sansa about Arya, but each and every day his mind went to where she could possibly be. Could she be on her way to Winterfell? Or has she truly died? So many times did he want to rule out the latter, but he just didn't know. He prayed to the gods every day that she had not lost her life, but raven after raven delivered news of everything else but Arya, so his high hopes had diminished over time. Jon Snow, however, refused to give up.
He couldn't deny the frustration he felt when he had received no real sign of her, but he never gave up hope. She was still out there somewhere, whether in King's Landing or Qarth or all the way in Yi Ti, she was still alive. He'd know if she died. He'd know. He flexed his burned, marred hand as he continued to think about her.
Rest, Jon. He had to; thinking about this so often is far from being healthy. But knowing that she is out there and possibly trying to reach him is just about the only thing that is keeping him sane. He saw Nymeria through Ghost, saw her sing with hundreds of their little grey cousins. He saw her; could Arya be on her way north?
Jon slumped into his chair with a sigh, holding on to hope, giving a silent prayer to any of the gods who would listen. I beseech you, bring her home. Bring Arya safe to me.
He closed his eyes, and within a moment's notice, he was well off to sleep. Much needed sleep.
It was quiet. Bright, and quiet, the white too bright, to the point where he had to shield himself as he travelled, squinting to see what was ahead of him. Something was urging him to keep moving, to go this way, leading him further down. No, not to the crypts this time, as he was oft being led, but to a place unknown. A place with no steps though he felt himself descending something.
His legs dragged him down, and a flicker of darkness transformed whatever room he now occupied into a place of eternal night. Suddenly he was outside, the milky white turning into distant stars, and from here he could see the earth's sister-wanderer bright in the sky, red and serene. He looked down at his feet, bare and surrounded by deep green grass, the blades softly poking between the spaces of his toes. The warmth of spring that kissed his skin felt so real. Where was he?
Before he could think to try to answer his own question, he saw a figure inching toward him in the corner of his eye, stopping more than three yards away. Jon turned to the mystery person, who he had assumed was as ancient as Maester Aemon.
"I have finally found you, Jon Snow." The hooded person had more than one voice, male and female, all speaking synchronously, shrouded in the darkest cloak Jon had ever seen. Was it possible for clothing to be so...black? The person was hunched over, the hood and shadow of their cloak concealing their face. "Do you know who I am?"
"No," Jon admitted, but he felt no fear. No use for fear. He was more curious of knowing the identity of this person, whoever they happened to be. "But I assume you are death personified."
It was then that he heard a laugh, a rumbling, deep and loud and…piercing, unfamiliar yet familiar. "No, I am not Death," the laughing voice replied, still chuckling, "but I do know him well."
"But you are the Stranger. I have seen you before, on a stained glass panel down in the little sept." Jon Snow was a gods-fearing man, but he did not follow the Faith of the Seven. Arya, Robb, Bran, and Sansa had, though. But to him, the old gods of the forest were his, the only gods he had ever known. "The Stranger represents death." Death and the unknown, mystery.
"I have been called many things," there was that chuckle again, "but 'Stranger' is not one of them."
The person revealed their face to him, pulling down their hood. It was a man, a handsome man, with skin as dark as charcoal-and-earth, with hair very tightly coiled, a scar running from his eye down his cheek marring his face. His russet eyes were intense, as hard as iron, or maybe as brittle, he was unsure. Something about his eyes…something about his eyes were familiar to him, and he did not know why, for he had never seen this person before.
"Jon Snow," the man began, his voice sounding deep, like honey poured over thunder, rumbling through the air. "Do you know who I am?"
"No," Jon admitted, "but the Stranger has many faces. My little sister told me that, once."
"She was not wrong." He smiled then. "However, those who are Faceless have one, and many."
What does that mean? Jon wanted to ask, but he saw the man tugging at the corner of his cheek, near the jawline, and began to pull as if it were a mere cloth. He saw the skin stripping away to reveal paler flesh, to his astonishment, but the man was not screaming. Different shapes and colours and hair styles were pulled off and discarded on the hollow ground beside him. At least thirty faces were torn away until the face that remained was that of a woman. Her hair was pulled back into a single braid, with full lips and piercing grey eyes, dark like his, seeing all like his. She looked a lot like Alys Karstark, who in turn looked like an older Arya. How long had it been since he had last seen Arya, his little stick of a sister? I lost my life for her, he reflected solemnly. I broke my vows for her.
"Do you know who I am?" The voice was softer now, sweeter, gentler, broken. Her eyes appeared…haunted, as if she saw too much, experienced too much, dealt with too much.
He wanted to say Arya's name, but he dared not want to get his hopes up, so instead, he replied with silence. Her gaze never left him as she undid the clasps at her black cloak to let it fall into a black pool around her form, exposing the leather belt that hung at her waist. A small sword rested on her right hip, a sword slim enough to fit a girl's hand, made small for a young girl. As she drew it out, with her left hand, he noted, it almost looked like a dirk, and even from here, he knew Mikken's work. Needle, he thought, astonished. It's Needle.
"Arya?" He was in disbelief, extending a hand, lips trembling. Arya. It's Arya. He felt ridiculously silly for not answering immediately now. "Is it…really…"
"Jon, wait for me." She was not looking at him; instead, her gaze was lowered until it met his feet. Her smile was wistful when she added, slowly raising her eyes to peer up at him, "I will see you soon, brother."
"Arya," his voice was unusually soft; she blinked, and began turning away, her steps the quietest he had ever heard them. She looked as if she were floating.
"Wait, no! Arya, just wait-" Jon had his hand outstretched, fingers spread apart as he watched her walk away through the empty spaces. He can run after her and catch up to her in no time; his legs were much longer than hers, he could reach her. He's running now, picking up speed, but even with her slow steps, she's still too far away. He ran frantically, his strides longer, booming voice still calling her name, pleading for her to turn around, but she never did. Small chance she heard at all.
He was running as fast as his body could allow. So why did it feel like he was running in the same place, not going anywhere?
He heard his name being called. A beautiful, melodic voice chanting his name, barely above a whisper. It couldn't have been Arya, because she was slowly disappearing with every step, not to mention that Arya sounded nothing like what he was hearing.
Suddenly he was a wolf, running towards his fast-disappearing little sister, racing through forests and leaping over small mounds of dirt to reach her. He felt the loose branches stinging his skin like a whip and he was sure that his legs were bloody because of it.
"Jon." He heard it again, and it was almost as if the moon spoke to him, or the rusted red wanderer that he saw in the distant sky, turning slowly, watching him. "Jon." It sounded like a woman. But whose? He couldn't quite place it.
He glanced around to see nothing. The Stranger - Arya - was gone. He was shrouded in darkness, even the moon and the stars and the wanderers were absent. Black. Pitch black. He felt like he was dead again; he hated this. "Jon," the voice insisted, louder this time. He, as the white wolf, paused, opening his mouth to catch his breath, his tongue lazily dangling out the corner of his mouth. He felt like he was being pulled. But to what?
"Jon," Sansa's voice screeched and his eyes flew open, both mind and body on full alert. She was shaking him as she continued to raise her voice. "Jon! Jon, wake up!"
"What's wrong? What happened?" He felt nothing but alarm when he saw tears well in her eyes. His brows furrowed in worry, reaching out to hold her hand. "Sansa? Sansa, who-are you-"
"Arya, it's...it's Arya." Jon's heart leapt in his throat, expecting to hear the worst until the corners of Sansa's lips curled into a slight smile, the unshed tears finally streaming down her pale cheeks. "She's outside."
There were a multitude of unspoken words playing on her lips. She's home. She's back. With those simple words, his eyes widened, rising from his chair to breeze past Sansa and dash throughout the halls, his footfalls slapping against the grey granite floors as he stomped down the stairs. He was all too eager to see Arya again. I will see you soon, brother. The words from that dream repeated over and over again in his mind.
Suddenly, he paused, staring straight at the woman in front of him. Sansa did not lie, and he thought it all a dream. She stood before them with a look that of a warrior, with grey eyes hard like iron. Her eyes softened to their usual cinereal shade when her gaze fell on Jon; he could almost hear her breath hitch. She looked exactly as she had in his dream, Jon realised.
She grew up so fast and so quickly, but he felt stupid to believe that she would look the same after six years. Her hair was not as long as it was, barely fitting into a braid. Her body was more womanly, he noticed, her male clothes tight enough to show the curve of her hips and the slimness of her waist. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold weather, the snowflakes melting in her wavy hair the same way they did in Robb's the last time they saw each other. He rid himself of the depressing memory, focusing only on the beautiful girl - woman - just a few paces before him.
I've seen the fires, Jon Snow. A girl with a hundred faces and eyes of iron is coming to Winterfell, to see you. Just you, only you.
Those were Lady Melisandre's last words before she departed on his command, and he thanked the gods her vision was truthful this time. It's been far too long since he's seen her; it was torturous being away from her, spending years not knowing where she truly was.
His eyes drifted; she held Needle's grip firmly in her right hand. Needle, their biggest connection to one another. He was happy to see that she still had it even though it was most certainly too thin and too small for her now. Bits and pieces of his dream began to flicker in his mind and he found himself wondering exactly how she'd managed to survive all this time. She'll tell me. We never kept secrets from each other.
He had to admit that seeing her evoked a lot of memories that had long been fading from his mind. Memories that included the two of them finishing each other's sentences like they were of one heart, mind, and soul separated by two bodies. Memories of her dirt-covered self, plucking flowers for him and their father, looking so happy and proud when he picked her up and kissed her forehead, rustling her already tangled mess of hair. Memories like allowing her to stay in his room because she was so terrified of the raging thundersnows.
He missed those moments, but he missed her most of all. It had gotten to the point where many of the girls he had met were compared to Arya in some way or another, although perhaps subconsciously. Should he feel ashamed of that, or should he be surprised to realise she had such a strong impact on him and his personal choices?
Everything happened in slow motion in his mind, but he was sure the quickest of seconds passed when he hurried to her, sweeping her off her feet. He then settled her back down to embrace her once more, not daring to shed his tears. He kissed her forehead, as he had done since they were but children, pulling away to give her a grin. He was happy to see that she returned his smile, albeit with a broken one. That was the smile that greatly reminded him of his own, and he encased her in his arms once more with the realisation. We truly are alike, even still...
"You're here...you're truly here..." He uttered in pure disbelief. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes, and he felt them welling up even more in his, a feeling that had never overcome him since he was but a boy. As hers began to fall, he whisked them away with a gentle touch, still in awe of how much she had grown.
"Of course I am here," there was a glint in her eyes as she spoke, her breath so shaky. She looked so relieved. "For you."
...to see you. Just you, only you.
"I'm glad it's you. Welcome back home, little sister."
They were words he always told her, words he always called her, but for some reason, they felt so wrong now, so out of place. I have to call her something else. She's not so little anymore.