Arya looked down at her little, short-fingered hand clasped in Jon's and smiled softly, running her thumb over the back of his hand. A gentle breeze blew through the silent spring meadow, shaking the flowers together with a rustle and making the hairs on her arms stand on end. She turned on her side to face Jon, necklace shifting with her. Her thirteenth birthday was a week passed and the gold locket he had given her still felt foreign and heavy around her neck.
Jon turned too, grinning, black hair almost brown in the sun. She watched his eyelashes set soft shadows against his pale cheeks. He let out a little huff, cool breath washing over her face and opened his grey eyes to stare back at her.
Arya smiled, that minuscule twitch that was always just for him, and pressed her lips against his.