He has a hangover when she calls. It is eleven AM and Jon thinks of leaving the phone to ring, but the damned thing's too fucking loud to be legal at this hour and goes on for almost a minute before he has enough motivation to reach over to the bedside table and check who it is. He stares at the blurry name on the screen for several seconds more, squinting as he tries to make sense of it through the haze, but the moment he realises who it is, he picks up.
"Arya," he groans, "Of course you're the only person who'd call me so early and expect me to answer. I did tell you about the breakup, right?"
"Yes, last night. In great detail." The irritation in her tone is clear, and she speaks over his automatic apology to add, "Four times."
"Shit. How late was it when we left?"
"Two. Then I had to drive you back to yours and by the time I was home myself it was nearer four. Thanks for that; I got seven bad hours sleep last night because I had to resort to drinking Coke to stay sober and awake while you were pouring your poor broken heart out all over my shoulder for six hours."
"You try breaking up with someone. And I've had to be your designated driver more often than you've had to be mine."
"Yeah, but on those nights I hadn't promised to take you to the football the next day."
"The foot- fuck! The North versus The Westerlands! The last game of the World Cup Qualifiers!" Jon groans wearily, his headache flaring to the fore as he pulls himself into a sitting position.
"Exactly!" Arya either doesn't notice or doesn't give a shit about his burst of pain, because she keeps speaking at an increasingly loud volume down the phone. "Game starts at eight, it's a five hour drive to Casterly Stadium, but with the extra traffic for the game it'll probably take eight, and it's nearly half an hour between your apartment and our house, and it's nine hours until kick-off and we've got less than half an hour's time to waste not travelling! You need to get up!"
Jon blinks slowly. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Well, you can hardly go with Ygritte anymore, can you? You mentioned it last night and offered to take me."
Jon blushes a bit at her choice of words, before coming to a painful realisation. "I'll have to drive? Of course I will, don't answer that, you're sixteen and traffic police won't recognise who our father is and let you off in the South." His head feels like shit and his body is uncoordinated. He certainly isn't ready to drive.
"They might let me off anyway if I show a bit of cleavage," she tells him, and though he knows she's just trying to irritate him he's tired enough that it's working and he growls down the phone and she laughs and hangs up and leaves him trying very hard to ignore a tantalising mental image of her leaning out of his car window.
Forty-five minutes later he pulls up outside the Stark home, waves hello and goodbye to their father, her mother, and their youngest two siblings as Arya piles into the car with her football shirt and a bag of supplies for the journey. They'll be heading South along the Kingsroad for maybe four hours if all goes well, then turning onto the Goldroad towards Lannisport. Naturally, Arya has brought at least a dozen CDs to choose from in addition to Jon's own collection, but though their music tastes are generally very similar, their moods are not, as Jon's hangover still lurks at the back of his mind telling him to avoid loud noises, while Arya's ridiculous amount of energy means that she wants a form of musical expression that generally comes across as... rowdy.
Jon immediately vetoes all suggestions of Rage Against the Machine for at least the next three hours, and suggests a bit of REM, which is followed by Radiohead and the Killers' first album Hot Fuss, which is just ending by the time they reach the toll barrier at the Twins, and the more soothing soundtrack has done wonders for his head. However, Arya has grown impatient, and frustrated, and bored, and, when Jon pauses the music to pay the person in the booth, she swaps the CD for Doolittle by The Pixies while he isn't looking.
Over the course of the last few hours, though, he's been feeling a lot better - he'd snacked on food she'd brought, and the roads were okay, and so they have a lot of fun singing along; Arya is better at mimicking the hoarseness of the male singer Black Francis's voice sometimes, which often leaves Jon to impersonate as best he can the bassist Kim Deal's brilliant high vocals. During the track I Bleed in particular there are a number of interesting harmonies.
There is a pause between albums for a while; neither of them feel like putting another disk into the player. Jon considers the day so far quietly as he drives and the Kingsroad gets gradually more and more crowded. He can't remember much of last night at all... He can remember the day that caused it all too well.
"Arya," he begins, "What exactly did I tell you last night? About the breakup with..." He still can't say Ygritte's name.
"Everything, I think," comes the reply, "You went on about it for long enough. Lets see, she tried to solve all your arguments with sex, kept insulting your intelligence by saying you knew nothing, implied if not outright stated that she thinks Father isn't your actual father, and she thinks you have some kind of repressed crush on Sansa because she looks like Mother and she clearly puts too much faith in Freud's theories and Oedipus's creepiness. You got tired of calling her out on it, you had a massive row in which she threatened to shoot you just after telling you that you only liked her because she reminded you of someone else you loved that you thought you couldn't have, who she probably thought was Sansa, looking back, and you drove away as fast as your car could manage."
"That covers it well enough, yeah," Jon sighs. "Did I do or say anything else worthy of note?"
Arya considers him for a second. He can feel her gaze. "That was all you said, really. You cried a bit, but not much. Wondered if you really were father's, if you'd ever find love, and so on and so forth. The kind of fear that would be really funny if everyone didn't worry about stupid shit like that at times."
He nods slowly. "I have something to ask you about this whole breakup mess," he says, meeting her eyes with a grin. She takes a second to recognise the look, and grins back, and they both chant in unison, "Don't tell Sansa!"
In his heart, Jon can't help but fear that the reason he wants no more to do with Ygritte is because he can't face any more of her uncomfortable truths; even if her guesses aren't entirely accurate, they're almost all close enough to strike at his core. She comes from a culture where far more is accepted as normal, and he just can't deal with her theories for much longer.
Even if it is laughable that he would like Sansa, and it is impossible that he sees Catelyn as his mother, let alone something he desires in any way, he knows his heart and mind linger slightly too long on Catelyn's other daughter, his other sister. And he does not know what to do, so he does nothing, hearing Ygritte's words - you know nothing, Jon Snow - echo through his head all the while.
Jon Snow is a nickname that has been long established for him, since Alliser Thorne, who was in the year above, had thought he was clever by assigning Jon the old-fashioned name for bastards in the region. It stuck, even amongst his friends, as Jon didn't mind much that people didn't automatically presume he was Catelyn's kid when they came over and if his surname was Snow and not Stark then maybe he wouldn't feel so wrong about his heart's secret and he keeps holding onto that thought because if it hurts now then how much worse would it be if he shared her surname?
Arya chooses the next record as well, as they take Raventree Bridge over the Blue Fork, though they end up only listening to one song from it - the only one either of them know by the artist and one of Arya's favourite songs; Bitch, by Meredith Brooks. Jon just listens to her sing and hates the uncanny truths in the lyrics she sings at him; I'm your hell, I'm your dream, I'm nothing in between/you know you wouldn't want it any other way. In some corner of his chest, his heart is hiding and crying but beating all the same as it ever does, because he'll be damned before he dies for unrequited love never mind the fact that he's already damned for it even if he hasn't died yet.
Next comes The Best of the Smiths, which lasts until they're past the Golden Tooth despite increasing traffic. It's five o'clock, three hours until the start of the game, and they're moving at a decent speed; Jon expects that they might reach Lannisport with an hour or so to spare. There's a break in the music for a while, about fifteen minutes, and they just sit in the relative peace and quiet of the inside of Jon's car as he drives. But Arya has never been one for quietness, and when he notices that she's fidgeting he strikes up a conversation about her classes, but the topic soon drifts to her friends and what they've been doing recently; the one who looks like a Baratheon is working at some bar somewhere, the fat one is working in a kitchen, the one known as "Ned" is making inroads into the music industry through Bannerless Records, and the thin one with the weird name (Lobby? Lonny?) is being mercilessly bullied by the higher years and has an injured leg as a result. She doesn't associate with the butcher's son anymore, apparently; he stopped being friendly to her after he was bitten by a wild dog on an expedition she'd arranged.
She turns the subject to him, and he tells her about Sam and Pyp and Grenn, and Tormund and Mance, even though he doesn't know if he'll associate with them at all once they hear of the breakup.
The mention of that topic brings a pause.
"Are you in a relationship?" Jon asks, awkwardly. It seems like a good time to ask, if he's going to at all, and if he's gonna have to beat up whichever bastard will break her heart someday he wants to hear about them before the day of. He wants to defend her, that's all, she can defend herself perfectly well but he wants to help anyway and there's absolutely no rampant self-interest involved, honest.
"Nope, not for lack of trying on Sansa's part. As if she's a walking advertisement for the bloody things herself. She seems to think that just because most of my friends are male at least one of them must like me, and I must like at least one of them, and that whoever could get through my shell the best would fall for me, and I for them. She didn't take it well when I told her that my best friend - the one I feel closest to, who I can talk about anything and everything with and have fun with whenever I can - is you. Stupid Sansa."
"She isn't stupid, she just thinks differently to you, like Ygritte isn't stupid; she just thinks strange things sometimes."
"It's a stupid idea to think that you'd fancy Sansa, though."
"And if I do?" Jon teases.
Arya snorts, and launches into a thorough and vehement rebuttal of the idea. "She isn't your type. Ygritte was fiery in personality, not just hair colour. You're determined, you're respectful, and you're loyal - you don't need someone to do nothing but quietly reassure you whether you need it or you don't, you need someone just as determined and stubborn, who'll not only know if you need a hug but will know when you need to get over yourself through a slap as well, and who'll be ready to give it. You need a passionate person to drive you on, not a passenger to go along for the ride. You need someone with a more similar taste in films, TV, and music to yours, or you'll never be able to do anything with them. You need someone who won't remind you of my mother every time you see her. Sansa isn't right for you and you don't like her that way anyway; you barely even talk to one another!"
Jon nods along. "So the incest wouldn't bother you?" he questions, cautiously glancing at her for her reaction.
Arya blinks slowly, almost sadly, frowning. "Not really, no. You're our foster brother, after all."
"But if I'm really your half-brother-"
"Then we've been lied to our entire lives by the most trustworthy man in the country."
Jon swallows. "Stranger things have happened." He has a funny feeling that this conversation isn't about him and Sansa anymore. He watches as Arya's chin is lifted stubbornly, jaw clamped shut, and she stares resolutely out of the window making a wordless noise of agreement, and he thinks, perhaps it never was.
The next album is put in shortly after, but Jon finds it hard to concentrate on anything at all from Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not by the Arctic Monkeys due to the thoughts - fears, hopes, and worries - which permeate and circulate in his brain. He isn't helped by the fact that soon after he manages to tune into the music both he and Arya sing the line "all that's left/Is the proof that love's not only blind but deaf," and he catches her glance towards him about halfway through, and he grits his teeth and focus on the road. He can't get distracted, he tells himself, and if he spends his time dreaming then they might well crash. Besides, if there's an afterlife and he goes up there and people ask him So, what happened to you, then? and his reply is Well, it's a funny one, that, you see, I was driving to a football match with my foster sister who may be my half-sister as well and I was so distracted by romantic thoughts of her that I crashed and caused a massive pileup on the Goldroad, he imagines most conversations would end there.
Rage Against the Machine's debut album Rage Against the Machine comes in next, and serves as a good and welcome distraction. It, along with the first five songs of Nevermind by Nirvana, takes them to their destination; Casterly Stadium, on the coast, at the very edge of Lannisport and towering over a large portion of it. They park, pay for a parking ticket, and head for the entrance. They have forty minutes until the game starts, so Arya buys a match programme while Jon gets a couple of beers for them and some snackfood, and then they make their way to their seats.
They chat and snack while the stadium fills around them, about the teams and their chances - though the Westerlands' Gold League is the best in the world, few players at their club teams are from the region - they hire them from elsewhere, and thus their national team is good, but not excellent. The North's League, the First League, is not as entertaining - it is dominated by a few teams, while the Gold League is more competitive - but more of their players are from the North, and this stands them in good stead at international tournaments. However, this year has been a bad one, as star goalkeeper Jeor Mormont was banned from the sport for taking steroids, injuries have weakened the side, and luck hasn't gone their way on several crucial occasions. They need to win this game to secure qualification to the tournament.
"Are the managers saying anything interesting?" Jon asks Arya, who has the programme.
"Not really. Roose Bolton says it's a must-win game and asks the fans to show their support, as if we'd be here to do anything else, and Tywin Lannister says his team will try to win even though they've qualified."
"Right. Who do you think will win, then?"
Arya scowls. "Honestly, I don't think we've got much of a chance. Without Mormont, our defence looks shaky at best, if not outright vulnerable. We're fine in the midfield, Torrhen Karstark in particular is excellent, but our best attacking option is Robin Flint and he doesn't have the stamina to play the full ninety minutes, which you need when you play a team managed by Tywin Lannister. We can't have him play seventy minutes before we put that piece of shit Daryn Hornwood on instead or we'll never be able to exploit the fact that their best centre backs, Lorch and Payne, are almost too old to play anymore!"
"Their strikers haven't been on great form recently," Jon counters. "Gregor Clegane is tall, and good at heading, but crap with his feet. With Smalljon in goal we have a decent chance of intercepting their crosses. He's been improving recently. And since Jaime Lannister's injury Tywin seems to think he has a point to prove, and his men try to attack too often as a result. They leave themselves open to counterattacks, and we can take advantage of that. We have fast wingers."
"And they have the best goalkeeper in the world right now in Sandor Clegane. Don't expect Hornwood to get any past him."
"With any luck, he can leave that to Flint."
The discussion continues until the teams are announced, and it turns out that Hornwood is playing rather than Flint; Arya reckons Roose Bolton has lost the plot, until Jon suggests that Flint could be substituted on at about twenty minutes in, meaning he'd retain more energy in the latter stages of the game and be better able to capitalise on the tiredness of the opposition. Then, the game starts, and there's less talking and more cheering going on.
The first ten minutes of the game are frustrating. Though the North have several good chances, they are all either saved or missed. Karstark hits the post from outside the box, a Hornwood free-kick lands on the roof of the net, and Clegane stands his ground well in a one-on-one with winger Jory Cassel to smother the chance of a goal. Then the tides turn. Roose shifts his team onto the defensive in absence of an early goal, and Tywin steps the intensity up. There is a clearance off the line by young fullback Cley Cerwyn, several other shots are blocked and there is an excellent save from the Smalljon, diving low and to the right to save a shot from Robin Brax. Twenty-five minutes into the first half, Daryn Hornwood is substituted off and Robin Flint on in his place. The two sides go through a period of really good football, counterattack after counterattack, and Jon and Arya cheer themselves almost hoarse in support of their team. Nothing comes of it at either end, however, and half time comes at forty-five minutes in with the score at a well-fought nil-nil.
Jon goes and gets drinks again, but the queue is terrible and so he gets four rather than two - to save himself another trip later and make this one feel worthwhile. Besides, Arya's face goes slightly red when she's impassioned and it's shockingly cute in an entirely platonic way but he doesn't think he can handle it right now without alcohol increases the redness, maybe he won't notice it so much if he's had a couple more by the end of the match.
The second half begins in the worst possible manner. Flint takes the kick-off, sliding the ball to Karstark, who tries to drive forwards and is neatly intercepted by fresh substitute Westerlands midfielder Tytos Waters. Waters is past Karstark's central midfield partner, Theo Wull, five seconds later, and defensive midfielder Domeric Bolton fails to block Waters' chip towards Clegane, who is marked by both central defenders and tall enough to easily nod it forwards to meet Waters' feet as he passes the defenders unmarked and touches the ball down perfectly only to send it rising again, with a beautiful flick over the scrambling Smalljon and an easy tap-in to follow. The score is one goal to nil. The North need two more to win, and to qualify for the World Cup. A chorus of mixed cheers and groans resonate through the stadium, and Jon has his head in his hands.
"We can't come back from this," Arya tells him. "This is Lannister's team we're playing. You don't beat him easily, and they have the breakthrough, the psychological advantage. We're gonna lose."
"It could happen," Jon tells her. "You've seen Smalljon in the First League. He galvanises himself, strengthens his resolve, with every goal, every mishap, and he's loud enough as he does that the rest of the team follow his lead. That means that our defence will probably hold from now on, and if we score, we're back in this, particularly considering Tywin Lannister's tendency to have his teams sit back once they're ahead. If Bolton recognises that, makes the right substitution or tactical change..."
She flashes him a sceptical look.
The next twenty minutes are marked by slow play from both teams. The North hang back, defenders keeping the ball, when they can, and when the Westerlands intercept or increase pressure, the ball is promptly cleared. When the Westerlands have the ball, they sit back, as if expecting the Northerners to advance in strength, and the slower period persists until what Roose Bolton's team have clearly been waiting for.
The perfect moment.
Robin Flint has momentarily dragged both opposing central defenders out of position, there is a lapse in concentration from Westerlands left-back, Brax, Jory Cassel spots the space open up and sprints forwards. Cley Cerwyn has the ball, on the other side of the pitch and in his own half, but the North's defenders have been waiting for this moment all night and he dabs it away from the opposing winger and absolutely thumps it forwards.
The diagonal ball is perfect. The defenders can't turn fast enough, Clegane comes off his line to try to collect it but misjudges the trajectory and is left stranded as Cassel takes a delicate touch on the edge of the penalty area, sidesteps Clegane's dive for the ball, and passes it into the back of the net. The Northerners roar and howl. The Westerners groan. Jon and Arya jump to their feet as they cheer, absolutely yelling their heads off as they jump and punch the air and hug. Jon jets go reluctantly, as the euphoria of his relief still clings to him though he'd rather she did instead.
There are only twenty minutes left to play when Jon's adrenaline high withdraws and he looks at the game properly again as central midfielder Theo Wull is substituted off, replaced by striker Ramsay Bolton. The formation changes to a 4-1-2-1-2 diamond, the wingers becoming more central on the pitch. Tywin Lannister immediately substitutes a winger off for a third central defender to come on instead. The second winger shifts central too, as a supporting striker to Clegane. The game thus becomes far more tactical.
Nonetheless, for a quarter of an hour attack after attack from both teams fails to result in a goal. Clegane heads wide, Waters - who neither Jon nor Arya had heard of before - has a beautiful strike from outside the area saved, brushed just over the crossbar. The Westerlands' winger-turned-striker misses two crucial chances. Meanwhile, at the other end of the field, Ramsay Bolton latches onto a lovely cross from his half-brother Domeric but lashes his shot straight into Clegane's face. Karstark has an attempt parried past the post, and in the resulting corner, Cerwyn almost scores with a bicycle kick. Robin Flint terrorises the defence, but can't quite convert, often thanks to the third, substitute defender.
It is the last minute of added time when the deadlock is broken. Brax, a Westerlands' full-back, wins the ball from Cassel and races up the wing, largely empty due to the narrowing of the formations. He cuts inside, turns outside, cuts inside again and lashes a cross towards the centre past a bewildered full-back. The ball is aimed for Clegane, and aimed well, but Smalljon is almost as tall as Clegane and is free to use his hands, and intercepts the cross with a mighty punch that carries all the way to Karstark, just outside the centre circle. He turns in a millisecond, dodging a defensive midfielder's slide-tackle, and is away. Cassel is to his right, Flint and Bolton ahead, and Ryger to his left as he sprints towards four of the Westerlands' back five. Flint drops back, closer to Karstark, and a defender follows, torn between the two opponents. Karstark dummies a pass towards Ramsay and exchanges a one-two with Flint, confronting the last two central defenders in a four-against-three situation. He stops in the middle of his run, foot on the ball, and as the defenders adjust, stop backing off, even as Flint sprints at them, he chips it over their heads to meet Cassel's run. The winger chests it and slides it across the goal, where Flint walks it into the net before sprinting out of it to celebrate.
Around him, sixty thousand people are all either elated or disappointed. The outpouring of emotion can be heard for miles. Across the North, hundreds of thousands have watched the game, bitten their nails, and cheered ecstatically, because their team is in the final because they kept going and kept fighting and took their chances when they needed them most, because Robin Flint had the energy to keep going until the end, because Jory Cassel is an incredibly composed player, and because Brax was too desperate to win the game his team didn't have to win that he ended up losing it.
And that is the importance of international sport. It inspires dreams and emotion, both for good and for ill.
Jon and Arya hug for most of the remaining minute of the game. And when the final whistle blows, they cheer all over again.
It is only once they reach the hotel - small, but decent quality and within budget - that Jon remembers that he'd booked the place with himself and Ygritte in mind, and there would be only one bed. However, Jon is a coward sometimes, and doesn't know how to say it to say. And so, it is only once they enter the room that Arya notices the issue. He's already resigned to the oncoming argument when she says," No, you're not sleeping on the floor."
"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. You're my little sister. I'll sleep on the floor."
"No-one will sleep on the floor!" she exclaims. Both their eyes flicker to the bed. Temptation flickers in Jon's heart. "It's a double bed. It's built for two," she continues, resolutely.
"We haven't slept together since I was twelve and you were seven. I'm a grown man and you're a woman, and we're family. We have desires now. It's not done."
"I don't care about whether something's "done" or not, and neither do you! You're my brother, yes, but my foster brother. We aren't related by blood." She has that stubborn tilt to her head again, her jaw locked - he knows her, he can read her like a book, and she is saying something she isn't certain she believes.
"And if we fuck? What then? If we get into that bed and cuddle and kiss and get aroused and take off clothes and fuck, what then? Will we both keep lying to ourselves, telling each other that we aren't related even though we don't know for sure and we look so similar? Because other people won't think that and then, someday, it'll be tested or father will tell us and we'll know the truth, which is probably heart-breaking, and we'll never be together again! I don't want that, Arya, that's the last thing I want." They are standing in the middle of the room, less than a foot apart. Jon's words have struck at the heart of the matter, finally addressed the fears that have been lurking for years in their hearts, and they just stare into each other's eyes. Countless fears permeate Jon's mind as he stares; does she not feel the same? Will she hate him? Is she his half-sister?
Suddenly, her eyes narrow. Jon's too busy worrying to react, and the next thing he knows, she's grabbed him by the neck and pulled him downwards and her lips are on his, and she tastes of beer and sweat and she feels divine and looks it too because she always has and he's always loved her since the day she was born but now he's kissing her and she's kissing him and it's the best thing he's felt in his life and he wishes it would never end but it does and she pulls away and he realises she's picked his pocket because his phone is in her hand.
Gods, he loves her.
"Now," she tells him, "I am going to hand you this phone and you are going to call Father and demand he tell you the truth. And after that I'll kiss you again, and we'll probably fuck because if we don't and we are related we'll never give ourselves another chance to do this and in the name of fuck I want to do this. Understand?"
Jon can only agree whenever she gets demanding. In this instance in particular, she's absolutely right, and he'll kick himself for the rest of his life if he doesn't take this chance he's been dreaming of for far too long.
She presses call and hands him the phone.
It's a few seconds before Ned Stark picks up, and when he does, he sounds tired. "Jon? What is it?"
"There's something I need to know," Jon tells him.
"I've had a long day, Jon," Ned replies. "Can you ask when you get back, or is it urgent?"
"Urgent."
Ned yawns. "Go ahead, then."
"Am I really your son?"
There is an intake of breath. Ned's voice grows sharp. "How exactly is this urgent, Jon?"
"You don't want to know that... Father?"
There is a sigh. Ned Stark sounds old. "I suppose I don't. I don't quite know how to put this, Jon, but... You aren't my son, you're my nephew. My sister Lyanna's son, with Rhaegar Targeryen."
"What happened to her?"
"She died shortly after giving birth to you."
"And why haven't you told me this before? Why haven't you told anyone?"
"Rhaegar had died recently, and Lyanna wanted me to raise you rather than his family, who she didn't trust. Promise me, she said, Promise me, Ned. Because they could have claimed custody of you if they'd known you existed, I had to make people believe you were either my foster child or my bastard until you were too old for them to claim you."
"And what then? When I was eighteen? Why not tell me then?"
"I was afraid, Jon. I was afraid I would lose you as a son because I lied to you for so long. Will you forgive me?"
"I... I need time to think. I'll probably speak to you tomorrow." Jon hangs up, unable quite to comprehend what he's just been told.
The next thing he knows, Arya is in his arms and hugging him, because no matter how exactly they love each other the fact that they do is always going to be a constant. He holds onto her tight and closes his eyes, because she is all he has for certain now that everything's changed and his life is thrown into doubt, and if he won't cling to her now of all times when will he ever do so?
He opens his eyes to see her staring up at him and is overcome with love. "Cousins," he whispers, as if he too wishes to keep it secret. "We're cousins."
"Well that's not so bad, is it?" she asks at the same volume. "Cousins can marry legally, you know. It's considered taboo, but it's better than siblings, at least."
He smiles, nods, leans down, and lips once again meet lips. This time, it's gentler, tender, and just as beautiful as the first. They smile, and he thinks that he has never been happier, because she is all he has wanted and needed for years. She is the master of his fate, captain of his soul, centre of his universe. She is the light to him in dark places. She is his reason to live. He loves her. He can do nothing else.