Joanna, on Nymeria's back, dug her fingers deeper into the thick fur, and shifted her weight slightly as the direwolfie padded faster and faster through the gate in the Wall; the Wall which was a huge, white, blue, never-ending coldness that went up and up and up, until it melted into the white sky, and became like the clouds. Sometimes people stared at her for riding a wolfie, but Mother and Father would not let her have a horsey, or even a pony – even though she was three years old – so if she wanted to ride a wolfie, then a wolfie she would ride.
It was so cold in the tunnel that Joanna felt like she was like turning blue. Ahead of her, Mother and Father, on horseys, were arguing about turning blue; Father so big he seemed to take up the whole world; Mother small and bony, like the wildling women Jo had seen in story books.
'I'm cold, Stark,' Father was complaining.
'You're wearing too many layers!' Mother was scolding, 'if you wear too many layers, you sweat; if you sweat, you get colder; I've tried explaining to you, Lannister, but no, the Southerner knows best!'
Father turned in his saddle to wink at Jo; the blueness making his yellow hair look silver.
'Jo, do you remember her explaining this?'
Jo smiled at him, and tried to wink back. She only succeeded in closing both her eyes.
Mother turned around to observe her answer, and Jo rapidly changed her smile into a noncommittal shrug.
'See?' Mother said; poking Father in the ribs; 'even the three-year-old agrees with me!'
'The three-year-old only seems to be shrugging, Stark,' Father protested; and on and on it went, the fighting, the griping, the shout-shouts and the brawling; the way it had been when they went missing yesterday; the way it had been when they came back yesterday; the way it had always been.
Jo didn't mind so much; at least not today. Because for many, many nights now, Mother had had bad dreams, about ghosts with blue eyes refusing to look at her, turning away; about a man that wasn't a ghost, with grey eyes, refusing to look at her, turning away; and every night, Father had had to wake her up, and tell her that she was alive, and that he loved her.
Fighting was just another way for Mother to say it back.
Arya's heart was beating so fast it grew numb in her chest. Around her was the forecourt of Castle Black, and brothers in black staring, and Jaime in black, scowling, and Jo in red, staring.
She waited. Jon didn't come.
Arya felt a tide rise within her and smash the letters her brother had written her to pieces – I cannot wait to see you, little sister; I wonder if you will have changed so much that I won't recognise you; you did look like a scrawny little crow last time we met; no, I don't think you should worry so much about Joanna not talking – I think I didn't talk for a long time either.
And the tide was black, and made of other words made entirely from her own dreams: traitor, whore, traitor, whore, the North remembers, the North remembers, the North exiles, the North casts out, the North never forgets.
She waited. Jon didn't come.
He's probably busy, maybe he doesn't know we're here, maybe he doesn't –
Jaime had dismounted, and was biting the heads off several brothers gaping at both him and his hand:
'Tell the Lord Commander to get his stiff Stark arse out here before I open him from balls to brains!'
As they scurried, Jaime turned back to her and helped her dismount. It was something that she and Jaime liked to do, even though she didn't need it. It was the reassurance of a touch, of warmth, of his arms holding her hard because his hands couldn't. And it was the reassurance of the moment her feet touched the ground, and she could look up at him and drown; grey meeting green, fire meeting fire, love.
Jaime placed her on the ground with more gentleness than he had ever shown; his arms still around her waist. His eyes were very soft – the opposite of what they had been moments ago.
'Stark,' Jaime said; kissing her forehead; 'he'll be here. He will.'
She stared up at him, wanting to believe him; but the abyss was still too near, beneath her feet, with only her heels on the ground.
'Come on, Stark,' Jaime insisted, 'breathe.'
Arya stared at him, and tried, and jumped as she felt a tiny hand slip into hers. She looked down, and smiled wanly at Jo, who smiled up at her with big grey eyes; strands of golden hair peeping out from beneath her hood. Jo held Arya's hand with one of her hands, and took to stroking her hand with the other, as one might stroke a kitten.
Arya felt a kind of calm sweep over her with every touch of her daughter's hand; every stroke like a salve for the mind; like sand over a fire.
'Thank you, Jo,' she said.
Jo smiled.
Jaime's head snapped suddenly in the direction of a point just over Arya's shoulder. Arya turned, and felt Jo's hand slip out of hers.
A figure in black was moving rapidly down a staircase made of stone, and tearing off its hood as it went. Arya saw hair the colour of her hair bared suddenly to the cold, and eyes the colour of her eyes turning dark with emotion –
Oh gods, it's him, it's Jon, he's here –
His face was so different, and so lined, scarred as though it had been through a war: it was her father's face, her father's eyes; she saw him see her, she saw him smile; it was just as she remembered, it was the same –
She felt emotion well up inside her; she was sure she was going to burst into tears; she didn't care if she burst into tears; because she knew that he would take her in his arms and muss her hair and call her 'little sister', and the years would fall away, and everything would be alright again.
Her brother marched past her without looking at her, and punched Jaime squarely in the face.