Jon
Jon breaks his embrace with Arya, stepping back to take full measure of her.
"I thought you'd be taller." he says, grinning.
"I thought you would be, too." Arya returns, laughing. Still just on the cusp of adulthood when they'd parted on the docks of King's Landing, Arya's face is free of the creases of time, but bare a few scars in their stead.
"So were you behind this, then?" Jon asks, still smirking a bit.
Arya's brow furrows in confusion. "Behind what?" She looks around the crypts, then her eyes light up with understanding. "Oh, this?" she asks, gesturing between them.
"You think I had something to do with our return?"
Jon laughs again, but doesn't deny her questions.
"You still don't see Sansa for the cunning woman she's become." she says, a little incredulously. She chuckles and moves to retrieve the arrow still pinned in the packed dirt of the crypt floor.
Abashed, Jon turns and watches Arya returning the wooden missile to her quiver. "Of course I think she's clever, Arya."
Arya's only reply is to narrow her eyes and purse her lips doubtfully at him as she finishes up her work.
"I do!" Jon repeats loudly. "Sansa has ruled the North with grace and success. She took this castle of ruin and rot and turned it into everything our father- Ned Stark always spoke about."
Arya's expression loses some of its harshness. "Ned Stark may not have been your father, but you are and always have been a Stark of Winterfell."
Jon nods his head, but doesn't respond.
"She brought us both here." Arya says quietly. "I hadn't returned to Winterfell since the day I left for your trial in King's Landing. She sent ravens, lots of ravens. Some I even replied to. She had a tail following me from the very beginning, a little bird tied to her string. I had to cut that one loose."
Jon raises his eyebrows, his eyes curious.
"Oh, I didn't kill him." Arya laughs.
Jon lets out a huff of air and laughs with her, relieved.
"Even in the lands west of Westeros, it's frowned upon to murder your own husband." Arya quips, and she doesn't wait to see his reaction, heading up the winding stairwell instead.
At first light the next morning, Jon rises from bed and dresses quickly. His eyes feel bone-dry from little sleep. He'd sat with Arya by the hearth in the common room for a while after they left the crypts.
"And who is this husband?" Jon had asked quizzically, following Arya swiftly up the stairs.
"You'll meet him in the morning." she'd replied curtly, not looking behind at him. He'd thought he heard mirth in her voice.
When they reached the hearth, they'd pulled up two simple wooden chairs and sat in front of the fire.
"So what is west of Westeros?" Jon had asked as they sat, only half expecting an answer. Arya had never been one to tell all of her tales, even with him.
"It's a lot like the places you know. The men who wear the crowns sleep with a dagger in their bed. They'll rip out your heart and build their castles on your rotting bones. Children are born with the names of people who are mouldering in graves." Arya said cryptically.
Jon looked at her then, and saw the shadows in her eyes that he hadn't noticed before. She wasn't looking at him, but at the flames.
She closed her eyes, as if the light had become too much.
"I saw a lot of things, Jon. Some of those things were beautiful. Some were terrifying. A lot like Westeros, except completely different." She opens her eyes again, and smiles a little. "I know that's no answer, but perhaps one day I'll have the words."
Jon had nodded silently, and their conversation turned to the Queen of the North once again. They found a jug of ale on a nearby table and poured themselves each a glass.
"She was quite clever, maneuvering us all here again. I don't think Sansa ever meant to be the only Stark left in Winterfell." Arya said, and she took a swig.
"Why do you think we're here?" Jon had queried, wondering if Arya had an inclination of Sansa's suspicions of the Three Eyed Raven and Bran.
"Oh, I imagine it has something to do with this." Arya said, gesturing toward the dagger at her hilt.
Jon's brow furrowed."The catspaw?"
She'd looked at him then, and smiled. Jon hadn't been able to place the expression then, and still couldn't as he reflects on it after a night's sleep.
When he's finished his morning ministrations, Jon opens his chamber door to leave, but stops suddenly when he sees Sansa standing there with her hands crossed behind her.
Her hair is swept up again in its complicated knot, and she wears a gown of deep purple brocade. The crown of wolves is perched atop her head, and it glints in the morning light.
"My Queen," Jon greets her, bowing deeply.
Sansa inclines her head somewhat stiffly, but gives a small smile. "I appreciate the pleasantries, Lord Hand, but I'm afraid we must be quick. The small council convenes this morning, and you'll need to be introduced."
"Introduced?" Are these not men who served me when I was King of the North?" Jon asks, a little taken aback. Sansa's change in attire had signaled a change in the intimacy of their relationship as well. They weren't Jon and Sansa, but Lord Hand and Queen.
Sansa's smile disappears, and her face turning serious. "Of course the men and women of the small council have not forgotten who you are. You'll need to be presented as Hand of the Queen."
They begin walking down the hallway toward, Jon slightly behind Sansa to indicate his deferred status. After a few steps Sansa stops, and turns.
"We walk together, Lord Hand." she announces, gesturing for him to step forward.
"My Queen, I don't think-" he begins, shaking his head.
"We walk together."
When they enter the Great Hall side by side, Jon can feel the eyes of everyone in the room as they settle on the pin on his lapel. Their expressions are puzzled, but not hostile.
Sansa is standing at the high table, as sleek and regal as any she-wolf Jon had ever seen.
"Please sit." Sansa commands the room, and everyone finds their chair, Jon sitting at her right side.
Sansa, however, remains standing and addresses the room cooly.
"Lords and Ladies of the North, as you know, we have returned Jon Snow to his home here at Winterfell, and we rejoice in this victory." she asserts, her face a calm mask of confidence.
Jon gives a small, awkward smile, but he maintains a steady gaze toward Sansa.
"I have appointed him as Hand of the Queen, a position that befits the man who sacrificed everything for the North and our people. He will serve us well in the days to come."
The members of the small council incline their heads in accession, and without further ceremony, Sansa sits at the high table and continues with the typical proceedings. The representatives from each house stand and give a report of the affairs of their keeps, with Sansa making suggestions or bequeathing resources to those that need it.
Jon follows the discussions for some time, but his gaze is averted by movement in the corner of the room. Arya is leaning against a wall, arms crossed and a mischievous smirk on her lips.
Looking back at Sansa, Jon recognizes the exact moment she notices Arya has entered the room as well. Her hands clench, but her face maintains its mask of regal comportment.
Shortly after, the small council is dismissed, but when the Northmen and women turn to leave the room, Arya is no longer there.
00000000000000000000000000000
A/N: Admittedly, the burn is even slower than I had originally intended. Haha Stick with me, though. It will happen!
Thanks for the support, as always.