Skirmish

The first battle that the Northern forces encountered was one of friendly fire.

It started with Arya saying, "Gendry, watch this!" and lobbing a quickly made snowball at Jon's head.

The King in the North had his head turned at the time, watching the horizon with Tormund and trying to decide the best path to take. Many of the known landmarks had been covered under deep drifts of snow. Arya's snowball connected with the back of Jon's head, white exploding against his black hair.

To Arya's great amusement, Jon turned on his heel so quickly that he sent up a spray of snow around him. His hand also flew to his head, coming back with snow streaked across his gloved fingers. Arya couldn't help the smile that spread across her face and incriminated her.

"You think you're funny, Little Arya?" It was a left-over, family nickname, one Ned had given her when even Rickon, the baby of the family, had grown as tall as she had. Little Arya did think she was funny—after just three days of cold wind and white, snowy landscapes, she had grown bored.

Unfortunately for Arya, she was laughing too much to realize that Jon had already scooped snow into his hands in retaliation. Tormund forgotten, Jon launched his own snowball, effectively hitting his littlest sister in the chest.

"Jon!" Arya yelled, swiping the snow spray from her face and mouth. That was all it took to set a Northern king and princess running through the snow. Arya ducked first behind Gendry, who laughed and held his hands up in surrender, though he didn't move from his place of protection while Arya gathered more snow.

After throwing her next snowball over Gendry's shoulder, Arya was off again, ducking and weaving between the stalled horses. Jon left Tormund behind him, the wildling shaking his head after the monarch.

"If I get hit, I'll smother you," Sansa told her little sister with a delicate sniff. Despite the caravan's 'good' fortune of finding whole castles and small villages abandoned to camp in, Sansa seemed to be on a mission to let everyone know how put out she was that the deep snow was making their travel so slow.

"I thought Cersei and Littlefinger would teach you better strategies than that," Arya jabbed back. Jon had not yet caught up with her. She scanned her options, her eyes falling on Sam. He was talking animatedly at Bran, and Arya made a beeline for him.

Under the cover of Sam's back, Arya quickly loaded her arms with as many snowballs as she could. Arya was light on her feet, despite the snow giving under weight and sinking her down to her knees in particularly deep areas.

Jon was taller, longer-legged, and had an easier time breaking a path through the snow, so that he caught up with Arya after she ran from Sam. Arya threw he snowballs in quick succession, hitting Jon mostly on the torso. It did little to slow him down.

"I'll get you, Arya!" He hollered over the winter winds. Arya's fleeing had led them out of the cover of the trees they had stopped in. Out in the open, the wind whipped their hair all about and pierced through their layers of clothing. Night must have been approaching.

Even as he ran toward his sister, Jon thought that they would soon have to turn back to the village for another night. The loss of progress made would have to be sacrificed for shelter through the night. A few miles were nothing compared to the loss of life that was sure to happen in the elements.

Judging the distance left between them, Jon threw himself the last couple of feet, tackling Arya into a deep drift. They fell softly through the snow, all of it providing a cushion for Arya so that Jon's tackle did her no harm.

Their laughter was drowned out by the howling of the wind, but Jon's signature black attire against the snow gave their position away. Sansa came walking gingerly through the drifts, holding her skirts in her hands.

"You two will catch your death of cold out here," Sansa shouted. "Lord Tyrion is already having the others turn back!"

Jon hauled Arya to her feet by grabbing hold of her elbow. Both of them shook the snow from their cloaks, smiling all the while.

"The cold is the way of the North!" Arya shouted back to Sansa. "It's in our blood! It can't kill us!"

As they walked back to Sansa, Arya slipped her hand into Jon's, as she had done when she was much smaller. That gesture rooted Jon to the North, where he had always felt he belonged, even with his bastard raising.

Sansa tsk-ed over both of them, knocking stray bits of snow out of their hair. She turned daintily in the snow and began to lead the way back.

"We're making slow progress," Sansa said, not bothering to look back at Jon. Next to him, Arya pulled a face, mouthing the words Sansa had just said in mockery. Jon had to smother his laugh with his free hand.

"I can't control the weather, Sansa," he said once he recovered. "We'll just have to push through as well as we can."

"Do we not have dragons at our disposal? Do dragons not breathe fire?" Her words made Arya's eyebrows raise. Jon understood immediately. Sansa wanted to use the dragons to melt the snow, to clear a path, to make travel easier.

"That's not a terrible idea."

"They're not our dragons," Jon muttered into the wind. "You'll have to ask Daenerys about that."

Even with her back to them, Jon could practically see Sansa's eye roll.

"Or I suppose you could ask your Lord Tyrion. He is Hand to the Queen, is he not?" His teasing made Sansa's back stiffen. She turned her head enough to throw Jon a look, her icy blue eyes colder than the snow he played in with Arya.

Now both Jon and Arya were trying to stifle their laughter with gloved hands and furred cloaks.