Jon Snow

Jon absently heard Davos speaking to him. He knew it was likely important, everything seemed life or death these days, but Jon could scarcely bring himself to care. The pair walked through the halls, heading towards the castle forge. They needed to see how the dragon glass weapons were progressing before they met with Daenerys and Tyrion, after which they'd have more meetings with northern lords and small councils and Dothraki leaders.

At this point, Jon was just thoroughly exhausted. His days were so completely packed that he rarely had time to use the bathroom, let alone actually think. And, most upsettingly, he hadn't found ample time to truly talk to Arya.

Sure, they would have meals together, but never with enough privacy to talk the way he wanted. He would see her around Winterfell at times, but never long enough to exchange more than a smile, and even that was usually strained. When he did see her, however, it was enough to worry him. Arya seemed detached from everything and everyone around, save maybe Gendry and Sansa. Her mind often seemed drawn elsewhere, and her eyes seemed much older and more tired than they should be.

Jon had to squint when he finally reached the courtyard. The sun beat down, reflecting on the snow and temporarily blinded him. As he waited for the spots in his vision to clear, he noticed that Davos had stopped talking. As soon as he could see again, he turned to his friend, only to find Davos' attention caught on a pair sparring in the yard.

One of the pair was easily identifiable as Brienne of Tarth, her large frame and blonde hair immediately recognizable.

If Jon were being honest with himself, he had identified the other fighter just as quickly. Part of his mind, the logical part, understood that his little sister was fighting, and fighting well, against one of the best knights in Westeros. But the part of his mind that tended to rule, the emotional part, refused to acknowledge it. He couldn't comprehend what was before him. It was only when he saw the familiar hilt of Needle in the smaller fighter's hand that he allowed himself to accept it. Arya was the one fighting Brienne, and she was doing it well. Too well.

It was one thing to be a good fighter. Jon was a good fighter, Tormund was a good fighter, Brienne was a good fighter. But Arya – the fight was a dance for her. She moved in ways Jon could hardly fathom. This was the sort of fight that wasn't learned through battle, no, she must have been trained to fight this way. She wouldn't need to be hardened through wars as Jon was, because she already had the abilities. The discipline of her movements the day of their reunion suddenly fit, it married with this fighting ability to draw an answer that led to more questions. She had been formally, tediously trained, perhaps more so than Jon had. But how? And by whom? This level of skill couldn't be acquired easily, or painlessly.

All thoughts of his meeting with Gendry left his head as Jon watched the sparring session. It felt sacred, intimate in a way Jon struggled to understand. The two fighting styles were so different, struggling for dominance.

Jon was taken from his reverie by Davos shaking his shoulder. By the look on the older man's face, it was not the first time he had tried to get Jon's attention. Jon only looked at Davos for a moment, before turning back to his sister.

"That… is something else," Davos said, eyes drifting back to the fight in front of them.

All Jon could do was nod.

"We should go meet Gendry," Davos said after another moment, an unspoken question in his voice.

"I need to see this. I need –" He needed to know. What Arya could do, what she had learned, what she had done with the abilities.

"We don't have time, milord." Davos replied, rationally.

But Jon wasn't exactly rational at the moment, "then we will make time, Davos!" he snapped. Jon took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked to Davos as he said, "I'm sorry. Will you please tell Gendry that I will meet him later?" He didn't wait for a response before turning back to his sister and Brienne.

He heard Davos give a disgruntled sigh before shuffling off to the forge.

A few minutes later, he heard Davos return, but when he looked he saw that Gendry joined him. The smith didn't look to Jon, barely even acknowledged him, instead focusing on Arya.

Gendry looked as troubled as Jon felt, if not more so. Jon's eyebrows knitted in confusion, but before he could think on it the crowd before him shifted. Jon's eyes found the battle again, only to see Brienne holding Oathkeeper poised at Arya's neck. The panic only lasted for a moment, before Jon saw that Arya was holding that wicked dagger to Brienne's throat as well. A draw.

Both women stepped back, removing their blades and grinning at each other.

Jon took the moment to step through the crowd to approach his sister.

The grin on Arya's face dropped the moment she saw him, something like fear, or embarrassment flashing upon it before that damned emotionless mask took over. Brienne's grin, on the other hand, just shifted to reflect something like pride and protectiveness. She moved slightly, likely unintentionally, in an offensive position near in front of Arya.

But Arya just straightened her back, and joined her hands behind her as he stopped in front of her.

"Brother," was all she said in greeting.

"We need to talk." His voice was gruff, gruffer than usual, but Arya just nodded.

Arya Stark

The days since Jon's return had been both endlessly busy, and hopelessly empty. There was too much to do, and so little she could help with. After the first night of their reunion, Gendry went straight to the forge, and Jon had a seemingly infinite number of meetings. Everyone always had something they needed to do, which was fine. Arya was more than capable of being on her own; she had been for years. No, the issue Arya faced was quite different. While she could handle being alone, Arya had issues being stagnant, without purpose. Arya always had difficulty staying still for too long, and as the rage within her grew over the past years, that difficulty gained strength and warped. She needed a target, an aim.

Before Jon had come home, Arya had a purpose. Sansa, as gifted as a politician and leader as she was, did not have the muscle to enforce it. So, Arya had provided the bite to Sansa's bark. Jon didn't need Arya's protection, not in the way that Sansa had. No, Jon was perfectly capable of slitting throats himself if the occasion called for it.

So, what was her role in this new world of Jon being the Warden of the North and Sansa being the Lady of Winterfell? Why was Arya here, when she had so much to do in the South?

It didn't help that Jon seemed to still see her as the young girl he had known. She would go to follow her siblings into meetings, and Jon would stop her, claiming she didn't need to be present. Sansa didn't advocate for her sister; instead she would just give Arya a helpless, pleading look. Arya listened to Jon, not out of complacency, but due to the knowledge of the careful precipice they balanced on. If she did anything to make her brother seem weak, which she was more than capable of doing, they could lose the support of the Northern lords that was so vital to their success.

She knew where her power lay; it was with Needle, and they didn't need that yet. But she couldn't help but wish to do more. She was tired of waiting.

The more time that Arya spent alone, doing nothing but training and occasionally spying on those she deemed untrustworthy, the more the urge grew to leave for King's Landing. To finally claim the last names on her list. Maybe then, she would finally find peace, she could finally stop moving, she might finally be able to reclaim Arya Stark.

But she knew she couldn't. She hadn't become that desperate, at least not yet. So, instead, she continued the carefully curated routine she had adopted in the weeks since she had arrived in Winterfell.

She woke up before dawn, and ran through routines with needle, never allowing her abilities to dull. She would have breakfast with her family, although never privately. They were usually accompanied by Ser Davos, the Dragon Queen, and the Imp, at least. The topic of conversation was typically mindless, either something about the grain stores or other logistics of Winterfell. She rarely spoke during these meals. After that, she'd return to the yard to practice. She would usually spar with Brienne for an hour or two, while Podrick attended to some of his duties as a squire. Then Brienne would typically meet with Sansa, while Arya practiced with Pod. He seemed to have liked having her as a teacher, due to her being closer in size to him than Brienne. Gradually, people had begun to join these lessons, mostly younger children. So, she trained them.

She started every day by asking what they would say to the God of Death.

Not today.

After her class was lunch, which she usually spent in the forge with Gendry. They talked about everything and nothing. She carefully avoided mentioning what happened after she left the Twins, not wanting to see the pitying look she was sure he would give. She would stay for an hour or two after lunch just to keep him company, before she departed to the Godswood to see Bran. She would sit with her brother for an hour, finding solace in his silence.

She then returned to the yard to continue practicing routines until supper, which often went the same as breakfast, except everyone pretended they didn't see Jon sneak off with the Dragon Queen at the end of the meal. She often spent her evenings with Sansa, having found a comradery and understanding with her sister that quieted the tempest within her. These nights with Sansa would remind Arya why she couldn't leave for King's Landing. What she would risk if she did so. And then she would fall into a fitful sleep, before waking up before dawn to repeat the day over again.

The monotony had quickly grown boring.

At the moment, Arya was in the yard, sparring with Brienne. It was one of her favorite activities of the day. Arya never felt the need to hold back with Brienne, during their sessions Arya truly exerted herself.

Today's fight was particularly grueling. Arya's back was already soaked through from landing on it in the snow twice, but she took solace in noting the sweat lining Brienne's brow. Brienne was giving it her all as well.

As usual, a small crowd had formed around the battle between the Lady Night and the Faceless Man, not that they knew what that was, but Arya was too enthralled by the fight to notice a new face among the familiar ones.

By the end of the fight, she had felt as though she was glowing, the adrenaline of the fight leaving her with her favorite kind of high. She knew Brienne felt it too, as they grinned at each other. The time spent fighting with Brienne, it made the Arya almost feel like they were friends. The concept felt foreign to Arya.

Suddenly, she realized that the crowd was different, withdrawn. She looked away from Brienne, eyes immediately finding Jon walking towards her.

He saw. He saw her fight, he knows who she is, what she is, what she can do, what she has done. Arya stopped breathing for a moment, before retreating to that familiar wash of nothingness of the Faceless Men. She could feel as Brienne shifted next to her, almost protectively. If she hadn't been wearing her mask, not a physical one, but emotional, she would have smiled at the gesture.

But she was wearing a mask. She almost always wore a mask. She either wore the mask of Arya Stark to hide the emptiness she felt within, or she wore the mask of No One to shield herself from what she felt. She no longer knew how to be who she was, or who she was supposed to be.

But Arya just straightened her back, joining her hands behind her habitually. She hardly meant to do it anymore; it was simply a leftover reflex from serving at the House of Black and White.

Jon came to stop in front of her.

"Brother." I'm sorry, I didn't want you to see that, I don't want you to know that, she wanted to say. But she kept it hidden. She kept everything hidden.

"We need to talk," was all he said in return. Arya swallowed but nodded, eyes leaving Jon, only to see Gendry behind him. He had seen as well. Her gaze stuck on his face. He looked stricken. He looked horrified. She had lost him, lost them both. Two of the most important people in her life, lost because of the brutality she was capable of.

She couldn't breathe for a moment. But, later. If she could fight the Waif with a mortal wound, she could face her brother. The mask she wore never faltered as she led Jon to the Godswood.

For once, Bran didn't sit by the great tree, looking to the past and to the future. Arya missed him.

Arya stopped by the tree, before pivoting to Jon, and saying as casually as she could, "what would you like to talk about?"

"Arya," Jon said, almost pleading.

Arya just raised one eyebrow in response.

Jon seemed to be looking for the words. When he couldn't find them, he looked at the Godswood around them, "I haven't been here since I've been back."

Arya just nodded.

Jon took a seat as he continued, "Father used to come here before every execution. He'd pray to the Gods. I used to watch him sometimes. I wondered how he could have so much to think about."

Arya murmured, unintentionally "there is only one God."

Jon's head snapped to her. She hadn't meant to say that. It had been a reflex for so long.

The Many Faced God was a conversation she was not ready for. A truth she wouldn't face right now. So, she offered another in return. "Father knew about Needle."

Jon was surprised, "he did?"

"He did." Arya confirmed. Eyes closing at the memories that washed over her. "He hired a teacher for me, in King's Landing. Syrio Forel. He taught me the art of water dancing. At least, he started to."

"What happened?" Jon asked. Arya could feel her face harden at the question. She hadn't realized that it had softened at the thought of her old teacher, her friend.

"He died. Same day as father. He died protecting me." Arya knew her words were cold, and her voice matched it. She couldn't help it. She didn't want to feel that again.

"Father never stopped you from being you," Jon said after a moment. Arya inclined her head slightly in a nod. "Please, Arya, I just want to know you."

"Jon—" Arya started.

"Arya, I see these amazing, likely terrible things you can do. I see how you walk around the castle, almost a ghost. I just want to understand."

Arya breathed in deeply. She wanted to know him, too. She wanted him to understand, she wanted someone to understand. She needed someone to understand the weapon she had forged herself into, and not judge her for it. Jon was the most likely. He had always understood her best as a child. And yet… "Promise me you won't look at me any different."

"Arya," Jon started, gently, "I would never… I could never –"

"I have done things, Jon. And I don't regret them. They kept me alive, and they were for our family. But they aren't pretty."

Jon swallowed. "Ok. I promise."

Arya nodded, and started with King's Landing.

Jon Snow

She told him of the road to King's Landing. Of Nymeria's departure, and Lady's murder. She told him of Mycah, and the Hound killing him. She told him of Syrio Forel.

Jon felt like he'd cry as he heard her speak of watching their father murdered. He was eternally grateful to Yoren for shielding her eyes. He briefly contemplated finding him, thanking him. Soon he learned that it wouldn't be possible. But Arya still portrayed no emotion. She was detached from her own story.

Arya told him of killing a farm boy, her first kill, and escaping King's Landing with Yoren and Gendry, as well as Hot Pie and Lommy.

He choked when he heard that she was headed to the wall, to him, and he couldn't help but smile as he heard of her growing friendships with Gendry, Hot Pie, and Lommy. He didn't know what to make of Yoren's advice of making a list of the names she wanted to kill, but he remained silent.

He didn't understand the importance of her saving three prisoners. He said as much, to which Arya just told him to wait.

His blood turned to ice when he learned she spent time at Harrenhal. He had heard rumors of the brutality.

The feelings were complicated and confusing when he learned that Tywin Lannister had been his sister's savior. That he had seen her as a girl, and treated her decently. All he could do was thank whatever Gods were out there that he didn't realize the identity of his cupbearer.

Then the prisoner returned, and helped her escape with Hot Pie and Gendry. Lommy had already died by that point in her story.

"I should thank that Jaqen H'ghar." Jon said after hearing of the escape.

Arya smiled drily. "I'd wait until the end of the story to decide on that, brother. That wasn't the last I saw of Jaqen."

At the cold look in his sister's eye, Jon fell silent.

Arya continued with her story. She told of meeting the Brotherhood, parting ways with Hot Pie, running into the Hound, meeting the Red Woman.

Her face turned vicious as she told of how the Brotherhood sold Gendry to the Red Woman. She had skirted around the topic of when, exactly, Gendry had joined the Brotherhood.

He didn't know what to think of Arya being captured and traveling with the Hound. He knew the man as he was now, not as he had been then.

Arya's voice grew quiet. The emotionless look left her eyes. Pain, hard and real, too much for a girl of her age, showed on her face.

"I snuck into the Twins. It was during the wedding, Robb's and the foreigner. I never even learned her name. But the Freys –"

Jon knew this story. It had haunted him. "Arya, you don't –"

His sister looked at him, determination in her eyes.

Those piercing grey eyes, the same as his own, stayed locked on his while she continued to speak. "The Freys betrayed the North. After, I suppose, Robb betrayed his agreement with them. The Hound found me before I was caught, or before I could help. He knocked me out. Whether it was to save me, or to save his ransom, I don't know. But I woke up before we were out. And that is when I saw Grey Wind's head sewn to Robb's body. And that is when I broke."

Jon's mouth was dry. The sound of wind filled his ears. He had never heard the specifics of the Red Wedding, as people called it. But this, the fact that Arya had been there, had seen that... She had only been thirteen. But Arya was still looking at him, the pain on her face replaced by curiosity.

"I am so sorry, Arya. That you had… You should have never had to see that. If I had been able to I would have come to you. I almost did, after father died. I should have been there."

"I'm glad you weren't." Arya's voice was cold. "If you were there you would have done something foolhardy and gotten yourself killed as well."

Jon forced a laugh, "that is true. Do you want to continue? We can stop there."

"No." Arya was finite. "I want to do this now and then be done with it."

So, Arya continued, words lighter than before. As if that had been the thing she had been dreading.

She told him of continuing to travel with the Hound, getting Needle back. She told him of her Aunt Lysa's death just before she made it. He felt sick when she spoke of the humor she found in the situation.

Her voice was different when she spoke of Brienne finding her. She sounded almost awed. She could hear the tinge of regret in her voice at not going with Brienne, even if she claimed it was for the best.

Jon found some solace in the fact that she chose to spare the Hound.

But then she started to detach again. She seemed distant from the story of her arrival in Braavos, of waiting outside the House of Black and White, of meeting Jaqen H'ghar once again.. She looked at him with pride as she spoke of her choice to hide Needle as opposed to getting rid of it. But that pride turned cold when she spoke of Ilyn Payne. Jon was unable to find much sympathy for the man when he heard of his actions, and his treatment of young girls.

His grip on Long Claw tightened when she spoke of her blindness, a movement of comfort, even though she said it with the cavalier attitude of someone who had stubbed their toe. It only grew tighter as she told him of training with the Waif, and of their final fight.

But then the story of Braavos ended. And she had rejected No One. She had come home.

She had come home and killed the Freys. And there was no remorse in her eyes. Just hesitancy at his reaction. He didn't know how to feel. They had deserved it, of that he was sure, but the fact that she was the one to enact revenge left him with a pit in his stomach.

Arya told him of running into Hot Pie on her way to kill Cersei. Of coming home. Of killing Little Finger.

And then she grew quiet, and he did not know what to say. So, they sat, Jon absorbing, Arya waiting.

Until she seemed to not be able to take it anymore. Her impatience lasted much longer than it used to. Likely because of the time with the Faceless Men. Seven Hells, he had heard ghost stories of the Faceless Men during his time at the wall. The fact that Arya had trained them, had come out of it alive…

"Do you hate me?" she asked, voice quiet.

"No, Arya, I could never." He answered quickly. "I just — I just wish I could have been there."

Arya nodded, understanding.

"This thing with the faces. I want to see it." He stood suddenly, but Arya didn't even flinch.

Arya smiled slyly, "what, you come here with two dragons and fought whatever it is that the White Walkers are, and this is what you don't believe?" but hidden behind the smile, Jon could see dread in her eyes.

So, he just said, "please, Arya."

Arya hesitated, but nodded after a moment, before promptly turning and walking away.

Jon supposed he needed to get one of her faces. Rubbing his face with one of his gloved hands, Jon sat back down.

A few moments later, a sound brought his head out of his hands. He turned to the forest behind him to see Ghost stalking out.

His direwolf had been scarce since Jon returned to Winterfell. Jon secretly believed that Ghost was offended that Jon had left him behind when he went to Dragonstone.

Jon remained seated, letting the big white wolf come to him. Ghost did approach, slowly at first before laying down next to where Jon sat. Jon scratched the head of his oldest and most loyal companion.

"I saw Nymeria, you know." But it wasn't Arya's voice that spoke. Jon stood abruptly, Ghost standing with him. He turned, and had no words to express the surprise he felt when he saw Little Finger standing by the entrance of the Godswood.

Jon's mouth opened and closed a few times, and Ghost growled next to him.

He knew it was Arya. It had to be Arya. But he hadn't expected her to take this face. And the disguise was so convincing that it tricked Ghost.

Then it got more unbelievable. Little Finger – Arya grabbed some invisible seam at the bottom of her – his – their chin, and lifted one face from the other.

And there she stood. His littlest sister, in the clothes of a man she killed, his face dangling from her hand.

She was nervous. She didn't show it, she had no tells, but he knew. Despite the blank face, he knew. She was still his sister.

"Ok." He said.

"Ok?"

"Ok. Thank you for showing me." Arya took a deep breath, and he walked to her. Jon took his youngest sisters face in his hands. "Ok. You are still my sister, Arya. No matter what you can do. Nothing will ever change that."

Tears welled in her eyes, and before he could process it she wrapped her arms around him, holding him in a tight hug, which he gladly returned. Tighter than the one when they first reunited, she hadn't been using her full strength.

After a few moments, he pulled away. His hands found her cheeks once again, and he kissed her forehead. When he pulled back, she smiled up at him. A true smile, the first since he had returned home.

"I think it's impressive that you went through all of that and remained Arya Stark." He was quiet, gentle.

Arya looked away, eyes misty. "I feel so far away at time. Untethered." She looked to him, "it helps being home with you, and with Sansa."

Jon smiled.

"How can I help protect our home." Arya wasn't asking for permission.

"Arya, you don't have to—"

"Don't try to protect me, Jon. I have been protecting myself for too long, I don't know how to let someone else do it. If you try to make me stay at home, I will wear a face and get out. I won't sit still, I won't be passive. Not any longer."

A woman stood before Jon. No longer an impulsive young girl, but an adult. Rational, capable. Still, he was hesitant.

She must have seen it on his face, because she said "let me help. Let me fight."

Jon sighed. "I will see what I can do."

Arya nodded, satisfied.

"You should talk to Gendry," Jon said as an afterthought. Arya looked confused. "He seems important to you. He deserves to understand, you deserve to have him understand."

Arya turned solemn, and just nodded, but she didn't move. Instead, she sat down by the great tree. Jon sat next to her, and started talking. Of beyond the wall, of Ygritte, of everything. And they were home.