A.N.: Thank you so much for the reviews! Enjoy…
Valyrian Steel
43
The Return of the King
A collective groan of relief escaped them as they wended along a lazy thermal river and crested another hill. To outsiders, the snow made everything seem endless yet Jon recognised the fine winter's day for what it was. He was heartened by the taste of the snow on his tongue, the song of the wind and the sun shimmering behind the billowing clouds. He was home. And he clicked his tongue and guided his horse confidently ahead, leaving behind the others – all but Arya, who cantered beside him, her eyes bright, colour high in her cheeks.
She knew Sansa waited for them at Winterfell: Jon had never seen Arya look so excited, so delighted, to see their sister.
He couldn't wait to see Sansa's face when he returned home, not only alive and well and leading armies, but with Arya!
The journey home had been insightful, he thought, in many ways. The Westerosi had come prepared, swathed in heavy woollen cloaks and new furs purchased in White Harbour, their armour leather-covered and their weapons freshly sharpened. They rode confidently through the snows, following Jon's party, laughing and singing through the storms, sharing stories to warm themselves with their laughter. At Jon's order they had tents raised before the storms hit, were well-rationed and sparred morning and night before continuing their journey or retiring to try and find some rest as the winds howled.
Used to the cold, accustomed to moving as the Free Folk did, Jon slept in short bursts. Always wary of someone crawling into his bed-roll. He slept poorly, agitated more by the knowledge of her nearness than the howling winds tearing at their tents. He had taken pains to strategically place the criminals of King's Landing between their parties – the Northmen, who knew the country, led the caravan, with Ser Jaime Lannister's contribution on foot or in wagons behind, some chained but most free. After them came Daenerys' honour-guard of one hundred Unsullied soldiers, who served the dual purpose of protecting her while also ensuring none of the criminals attempted to flee – none so far had proven themselves stupid enough to risk it in this weather – and behind the Unsullied rode Daenerys Targaryen with her court. At the back of the caravan rode two hundred kos, Daenerys' favoured bloodriders.
They had arrived at White Harbour and Jon had sat with Lord Manderly, discussing how to transport so many men north in winter. That was the first argument Jon had had with Daenerys: she insisted they wait at White Harbour for the rest of the Unsullied armies to arrive on her ships, and the Dothraki to join them on the King's Road. Jon refused to waste the time. And despite Lord Manderly's fine hospitality – he was hosting his King, after all – Jon had been anxious to leave the only Northern city.
He knew Daenerys had attempted to seek him out in his chambers.
Attempted… A she-wolf had guarded his door.
A silky soft voice broke the silence of the darkened corridor, and her heart fluttered in her chest. "Are you lost, my lady?"
The fine hairs on the back of Daenerys' neck stood on end as shadows took the form of a young woman. She was taller than Daenerys and very slim, sharing the King's long, solemn face. The way she looked at Daenerys with her eerie grey eyes always unsettled her: she felt as if her skin was being flayed, leaving her utterly vulnerable.
The girl looked so like the King, so like Jon – with her long face that seemed never to have known a smile and her mesmerising, unsettling grey eyes – yet when Daenerys looked at her, she shuddered. Pretty as the girl was, something went cold in Daenerys at the sight of her. She knew, instinctively, that there was no-one she had ever met more dangerous than this young woman, with her simple dark braid brushing her shoulder-blades and a delicate Braavosi-style sword glinting at her belt. It wasn't the sword that frightened Daenerys.
She narrowed her eyes at the girl, determined not to be afraid of those chilling grey eyes.
You don't want to wake the dragon, she thought, assessing the girl – for that was what she was. A slip of a girl with a little sword. How long had her ancestors' swords held up against the wrath of dragons, Daenerys mused, the thought bolstering her: she was determined to put the girl her in her place.
"I would see Jon Snow."
"The King is resting," the girl said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "We have a hard ride ahead of us."
"He would wish to see me."
"No-one is to disturb him."
"He will see me. I am a queen," she said impatiently, lifting her chin. She thought she saw a smile glittering in the girl's grey eyes, but the torchlight flickered and she must have imagined it.
Her voice as gentle as a caress, the girl tilted her head, gazing unblinkingly at Daenerys, and murmured, "In Essos."
Daenerys bristled and flushed with anger. The strange girl's eerie eyes glinted with triumph, seeing that her barb had struck true. And that made Daenerys angrier still: no-one dared speak to her thus.
The girl's unyielding grey eyes swept downward from Daenerys' face, slowly taking in the details of the most sensuous Lyseni lace nightgown Daenerys had in her wardrobe, iridescent silver-gold and fashioned in as a Meereenese tokar, the lace revealing more than it concealed. Her voice was exquisitely gentle yet Daenerys had never felt more threatened when the girl told her, "You're likely to catch your death if you saunter about like this."
Goose-flesh appeared on Daenerys' silky soft, lavishly moisturised and perfumed skin. Her heart stuttered in her chest and her mouth went dry. Arya Stark smiled blandly at her.
"Shall I call a guard to guide you back to your chambers, my lady?" she asked, her voice a delicate sigh like the breeze on a gentle summer's morning. My lady… I am a Queen…in Essos…
Arya watched with some satisfaction as her words started to spread their poison. Daenerys Targaryen's lip curled and she stifled a snarl with great effort. Bristling, she threw back her tumbling platinum waves and sneered, "So be it. If the King does not desire to meet with me I shall not force him."
Arya Stark gave her a seething, icy look more dangerous than any Daenerys had yet seen on her chilling, emotionless face.
With a wave of her hand, a Manderly guard appeared. Arya told them gently, "Please escort Lady Targaryen to her chamber. She has become quite lost. I can only imagine what she was thinking, wandering about Lord Manderly's castle dressed…like that."
Daenerys Targaryen simmered, her eyes narrowing on Arya, who gave her the blandest look in response, utterly unfazed. The guard goggled at Daenerys Targaryen's small, exposed breasts and tripped over his own feet, guiding the way through the corridors.
Arya melted into the shadows, touching the hilt of Needle, reassured of its presence at her waist, and she traced her fingertips over the tiny obsidian wolf-heads embellishing the sword-belt Jon had gifted her, replacing the one she had lost the day Father was arrested and Syrio Forel was killed. She tapped her knuckles delicately against the heavy Northern oak door and listened for Jon's muffled response before entering his chamber.
He glanced up from a working table overflowing with papers, the lines at the corners of his eyes exaggerated by the flickering candlelight, and blinked, kneading his eyes as he groaned.
"Arya," he said, sounding exhausted yet relieved to see her. "I thought you were in bed."
"Perhaps you'd have preferred I was. You almost had an uninvited bed-mate," Arya said gently, watching her brother. His body went still. His reaction told her everything she needed to know. She hadn't even had to say the name. He cleared his throat gently.
"You frightened her off?" he asked quietly, barely glancing at her.
Arya smiled. "Now, why do you assume I frightened her?"
Jon gave her the kind of look he used to give her all those years ago, when they had barely needed words to communicate. His eyes glittered with irony: she smiled in response. Her heart soared, joy sparkling through her veins, bright and good. They had spent every moment together: Jon seemed unwilling to let her out of his sight, and Arya was just as protective of him. Throughout their journey from King's Landing to Duskendale, then north to White Harbour, they had spent every waking moment together, talking – they had shared their stories. He knew some of hers: Gendry had shared it with him! Gendry! He was alive – and headed to Winterfell, of all places! Jon had told her all about Sansa…and Rickon…
All Jon could share of Larra and Bran's fate was a brief glimpse one of his black brothers had had of them at the Nightfort years ago.
Larra had taken their broken brother beyond the Wall… Of all the places Arya had been, all she had endured, the idea of going beyond the Wall still gave her chills: Arya remembered Old Nan's stories and shuddered. Men were one thing: monsters were quite another.
Sighing, Arya pulled up a chair at the end of the table, gazing concernedly at her brother. He never stopped working – never stopped worrying. He reminded her so bitterly of Father she wanted to weep. But she didn't. She watched. He had become guarded and sterner than she ever remembered Jon being when Daenerys Targaryen appeared at White Harbour, barely two days after they had docked in the harbour. Ever since, Jon had been tense. Ever since, Arya had been watching Daenerys Targaryen.
And what she had noticed disturbed her.
Tonight was the first night Daenerys had attempted to approach Jon but she had spent days watching his every move, pining for him – and becoming more and more bewildered and infuriated as he actively ignored her. Unseen, Arya watched her reactions – and more importantly, the reactions of those around her, who knew her best, worshipped the ground she walked upon…and dreaded her disappointment. Arya wasn't the only one watching, waiting for Daenerys Targaryen's reactions whenever Jon ignored her. It was very telling that the tension within Daenerys Targaryen's court rose the longer Jon denied her what she wanted.
"Jon… We have shared our stories…the very worst we have endured," she said gently. Of all her siblings, she had been closest with Jon and Larra, but especially Jon. Arya knew her mother had hated that they loved their bastard siblings so fiercely: she had never wanted to get Larra into trouble by spending too much time with her. Whatever Arya did would be blamed on her and Arya was always afraid that Father would give in and send the twins away. She gazed into Jon's face, yearning for those days again, in the nursery with Bran and Rickon, squabbling with Sansa, cuddling with Larra and watching Robb and Theon and Jon play and fight. "You've told me everything…everything but her."
"There's nothing to tell," Jon said shortly, his jaw tightening as he averted his eyes to his scrolls.
"Then why did you tense with dread when I mentioned that someone wished to climb into bed with you?" she asked gently. She frowned. "I didn't even give a name. But you knew. Jon… What's going on?"
"She committed her armies to our cause," Jon said, trying to shrug it off. Arya gazed at him.
"And?" she prompted gently.
"And then she used me for her pleasure," Jon said, his gaze challenging as he levelled it on her. Arya did not look away. She sighed heavily, understanding what he meant. He hadn't dared refuse her when she had climbed into his bed, for she had committed her armies. Arya knew enough of Daenerys Targaryen's arrogance to know that denying her would have risked her continued alliance – she would have gone back on her word to spite him for rejecting her, her pride wounded.
"She desires you…because you're the only one she has ever met strong enough to resist her," Arya said, pride shining from her face. She rested a hand on Jon's arm and became very serious, intense. Her grey eyes – their grey eyes – seemed to glow, mesmerising and eerie in the candlelight. "You have to but say her name and she shall die by my hand."
Jon didn't laugh. He took her seriously, as he always had, even when she was a little girl and she had burst into tears because she was desperate to learn to shoot. Instead of laughing at her frustration and fury, he had wiped her face and taken her to the godswood. He had let her practise with Bran's little bow until her fingers ached. He sighed and shook his head, looking absolutely exhausted. "I'm not sure what good that would do."
He hadn't said no. Arya stared at her brother. The Jon she remembered would have balked at a cold-blooded assassination – where was the honour in such a thing? But he hadn't said no, hadn't even chided her.
I'm not sure what good that would do, he had said. Arya realised her brother had given the matter serious thought. The fact that he hadn't outright forbidden her, chastised her, been horrified at the suggestion…it said a lot about what Jon had been through, what he would tolerate, what he would do to uphold the oath he had sworn to guard the realms of men.
"Jon," Arya said softly. She realised, suddenly and completely, that Jon her brother had become a man. A man who had been forced by circumstance to make the harshest choices anyone could make – and had to live with them. The scars on his face attested to that. "How can I help you?"
Jon sighed heavily, set his pen down and gathered her up in his arms, embracing her fiercely. He stroked her short braid and Arya rested her cheek against his shoulder. "You're doing it," he murmured, and Arya smiled sadly to herself.
Arya's presence had bolstered Jon. Had brought joy to his life once more. He had thought never to see her again. When Gendry had told him of their adventures… Jon had thought her lost in the Riverlands, or dead. He knew why Arya had not tried to return to Winterfell – the last she had heard, it was a smoking ruin, their family scattered or murdered. What was left for her in the North? She had chosen to go east, to Braavos, where she had trained. She had learned how to become a Faceless Man. The deadliest of assassins. She had told him about some of the skills she had learned – not the art of death itself, but of learning: of gathering information and observing patterns, how to use them to her advantage, to spot the flaws in people's nature or tease out their deepest desires.
She had become a spy without equal.
She watched everyone, never letting it be known by anyone but Jon just what she was, or what her particular skills were, or how she could use them. What she was learning just by watching.
Just as her nightgown did, Daenerys Targaryen revealed more than she could hide. It was almost too easy to take her measure, boring. Entitled, arrogant, believing herself more god than girl, untouchable, self-righteous and vicious, wilfully ignorant – not just uneducated, but actively ignoring what was before her eyes when it contradicted what she had convinced herself was the truth…
Arya had knocked her down several pegs that night in the corridor, guarding Jon's door.
A thoughtful and decisive ruler, Jon had been undermining Daenerys at every turn since his arrival at Dragonstone. In Essos, she had been worshipped as a god: in Westeros, she was nothing. And everyone knew it. Daenerys was starting to realise it. Arya watched how Daenerys reacted, and how everyone else reacted to her. They were more fascinating than their mistress. Daenerys wasn't used to taking orders – or having the orders of others followed by her own people, yet that was exactly what happened – to Daenerys' mounting fury.
The first time Daenerys learned how it felt to be put in her place was at White Harbour. Her wishes were ignored in favour of the King's orders. No-one listened to her – not even her own council. Jon Snow refused to wait. They would make do with the men they had or would be marching upon Winterfell as the Night King levelled it. They would face the mightiest army the world had ever known – and be powerless to stop it, caught in the snowdrifts, exhausted and without weapons.
The journey itself had not improved the Dragon Queen's mood. She knew nothing of cold, how it sapped your strength and gnawed at your resolve. She did things as she had always done them – which was exactly the way she wanted, in spite of the realities she refused to face head-on. She refused to listen to Jon's advice on travelling through the winter storms. She proved herself inept during their journey to Winterfell once – and only once. That was the second, and most severe blow to Daenerys' ego as they travelled north.
After the two Unsullied she had ordered to guard her tent overnight were found frozen to death the next morning, still clutching their spears, the King intervened. He directly took control of the Unsullied and Dothraki. Forever after, her men turned to him for leadership. Daenerys sulked, sour-faced, looking like she was chewing a hornet.
They had all seen Daenerys' horror at the men's needless deaths, rightly blaming herself for them. Yet it had not lasted long, and it was Jon who had lit their funeral pyre himself, tossing the torch into the conflagration that sent waves of delicious, welcome heat over them all – horrifying though it was, they all leaned toward the burning bodies, groaning at that life-giving heat. Daenerys had remained inside her tent as the camp was dismantled, buried in furs and complaining about the temperature of the stew and the quality of the meat.
"You're thoughtless," Jon told Daenerys, his tone dark, his solemn face sterner than they had ever seen it. "Thoughtless to anything but your own desires… You will heed me."
Daenerys Targaryen had become accustomed to having men heed her. She had learned to use her body to pleasure her husband until he worshipped her, murdered for her, razed cities at her word. Because of Drogo, Daenerys had learned that she could use herself – her body – to get whatever she desired. As long as she made men happy by giving them her body, they would give her the world and believe it was their idea to do so.
Jon Snow was not happy – not with her. He actively avoided her. He spent every night with that chilling sister despite knowing how much she frightened Daenerys. He had to know that, surely. Every night, Daenerys tucked herself up in her feather duvets and furs and wondered why he had rebuffed her so coldly – through his sister, no less – and she thought back to their time at the Wall, the hazy firelight, drenched with warmth, the ferocity of his lovemaking… Surely he wanted her again?
This Jon Snow, this King in the North, was the man who had arrived at Dragonstone and bluntly refused to kneel. Had snatched away one of her kingdoms with a soft scoff and a grim, unyielding voice of tempered steel. Denying her family had ever had any right to the North at all. Protecting his own interests – and those of his sister, who had been married to her Hand so briefly. Daenerys knew Lord Tyrion had a fondness for Sansa Stark and a deepening respect for Jon Snow. And she was coming to despise both for it, itching with irritation every time her people turned to the King for leadership. Lord Tyrion continued to serve her yet Daenerys knew he had lost all admiration for her, all respect, all love – if he had ever loved her to begin with.
He always watched her carefully when Jon Snow refused to engage with her.
And he had watched her, unsettled, when Lord Manderly gifted her a beautiful whip upon her departure from White Harbour.
It was about time, she had thought, and her due as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, to receive gifts. Jon Snow had been lavished with gifts upon his arrival at White Harbour, feasted with fresh seafood prepared every which way. With Jon Snow, Lord Manderly had been open, warm, delightful and charismatic, jolly. To Daenerys, Lord Manderly had been courteous. He had given Jon and his sister gifts, and more to take to their sister at Winterfell, fine velvets and hair-combs and silver furs, perfumes and glistening jewel-bright embroidery threads.
Daenerys, he had given a whip.
It was a fine whip…but a single whip. Not worthy of a queen, or even a lady. He had given it to her as she departed White Harbour, and she thought she saw a look pass between Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion as she accepted it from Lord Manderly. Paltry though it was, Daenerys had thanked Lord Manderly for the gift with as much queenly magnanimity as she could muster.
She tightened her grip on the handle of the whip now, glaring as yet another flurry of snow and wind tore at her hair and bit her lips, stinging her eyes. Irritated, she jerked on the reins of her mare and hissed as the beast neighed, jerking its head in protest. The mare was nothing like the silver Drogo had gifted to her: Jon Snow had asked Lord Manderly to make no special arrangements for her. And the mare was wilful.
She gritted her teeth and slapped the whip against her mount's hind-quarters, making her buck and kick out, furiously throwing back her head.
"Gently, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said.
"She is a wilful beast," Daenery scowled.
"You have been punishing her for miles," Ser Jorah chided softly. "Loosen the reins or she'll toss you from the saddle."
"Do these Northerners not know how to break their horses?"
"A broken horse is useless, like anything else," Ser Jorah said kindly. "You're taking your anger out on her and she won't stand for it."
"Must we continue to ride at the back of the caravan like the lowest of the slaves?" Daenerys hissed. His face was swathed with cowls and a furred hood but Daenerys could see his eyes narrow in a frown.
"There are hundreds of criminals who must be escorted North and only the Unsullied have the skill and discipline to do so," he said. She had heard this before. And it grated more and more each time she heard it. She knew it made sense strategically to put the criminals between the Northmen and her forces, lest any make an attempt at escape…yet she could not help but think of Arya Stark lurking in the corridor, guarding Jon Snow's door – denying Daenerys entry to the King. Denying her – a Queen! Who did the Stark bitch think she was?
Daenerys glared ahead of her as if her gaze could span the miles between herself and Arya Stark, who clicked her tongue and nudged her young stallion ahead, her heart in her mouth, breathless with terror and delight. Awe.
There it was. They crested the hill and her eyes burned with tears.
Winterfell.
For a heartbeat, she glanced over her shoulder. Swathed in a thick woollen cloak lined with heavy bear-fur, dressed in new wool tunics and leathers, a heavy brigandine and gorget, Sandor Clegane caught her eye. His sad brown eyes stared back, and his voice murmured in her memory: You're almost there and you're afraid you won't make it. The closer you get, the worse the fear gets…
He had said that to her barely days – had it been only hours? – before they had reached the Twins. They had been too late then. And he had saved her life when it would have benefited him to surrender her to her family's enemies: scooped her up onto a horse and carried her away from the carnage as the Northern army was butchered.
You're almost there… I made it. I made it home, Arya thought, and Sandor Clegane gave her a sad, gentle smile, his gaze sliding past her to the great castle sprawling across the moors. She let herself grin and turned back, sitting higher in the saddle to catch the first peek of crimson, searching for the weirwood tree. Even from this distance, through the snow, they would be able to see the blood-red leaves of the heart-tree. Her eyes stung, her heart soared, and her lip quivered as she saw it. Red. The heart-tree. Home.
Beside her, Jon reached out and touched her cheek as she sniffled.
She clicked her tongue, and, for perhaps the first time, people heard the King in the North laugh as he spurred on his own proud stallion and cantered beside his sister, riding headlong for Winterfell.
Behind them, their self-appointed honour guard exchanged glances and urged their horses on, retaining a respectful distance – everyone seemed to appreciate just how extraordinary this moment was, that Jon Snow was returning to Winterfell with the sister everyone had presumed dead. But they were saddle-sore and exhausted and those high walls promised shelter, food and warmth and the King would not begrudge them urging their horses onwards.
Sandor Clegane watched Arya ride on ahead, something unfamiliar swelling in the pit of his stomach. He had become…accustomed to the girl's presence, infuriating though she was… He hated people but he had murdered anyone who tried to take her from him. She had lodged herself deep inside him like an arrow through the ribs, and he could not free himself of her. Didn't wish to. The furious, wrathful, brave Stark bitch who had left him to die…after promising to murder him every time she had drawn breath. She had not gifted him with mercy, though he'd taught her himself where to strike the heart… She had left him. Left him to die, perhaps…or left him to live. She couldn't do it. Hard bitch that she was, Clegane thought to himself…she had taken his name off her list.
He'd seen her laugh only once: when they had learned her Aunt Lysa had taken flight from the Eyrie. This was different. She had smiled and her mutinous grey eyes had been soft, warm and glistening with tears. She had smiled at him.
You made it, girl, he thought, pride swelling in his chest. Whatever she had been up to – and he had heard rumours throughout their journey north, believing only the worst of them to possibly be true – she had made it home.
He had kept her alive. Her sister had been too frightened of him: Arya had never been frightened enough. But they were both home.
Spurring on his horse, he followed the King and his sister with a large party who had kept pace with the King since White Harbour: Ser Davos Seaworth, the Northmen who'd travelled south with the King, Lord Manderly's own guards, Lord Barahir, the Tarlys and several Dornishmen, including the fierce Sand who'd come beyond the Wall with them and a young Dornish knight who had all the beauty Obara lacked. As they neared the great sprawling castle – so much bigger than the Red Keep, with plumes of smoke rising from Winter's Town – they noticed the siege preparations.
The King's Regent had not been idle.
Good girl, Sandor thought, a vision of red flickering through his mind, sapphire eyes and a flawless ivory face that never revealed her thoughts. He remembered the girl over whom he had draped his dirty white cloak as she was abused before an audience; the girl he had offered to return to this place; the girl who could barely stand to look him in the face yet who had sought him out to thank him for returning for her during the riots, who knew he would never – could never hurt her.
The little bird had discovered that she had fangs and a fur coat and knew how to hunt.
He remembered her in ill-fitting silks fashioned to flatter the Queen: he remembered her that last night, in a sombre purple dress with her hair down, more Northern than she had ever allowed herself to look. She had not yet been a woman the last time he saw her, the night of the Blackwater… He wondered whether the Red Wolf was now brave enough to meet his eye.
How was it that the Stark girls had become so important to him? Proud of Arya's smile; delighted by Sansa's survival.
He watched the two fine horses cantering towards the castle, losing them to the gentle snows drifting idly around them, and cantered on ahead as the rest of his party spurred their horses onwards, desperate to reach their destination at last.
Snow twirled delicately in the air, which tasted of frost and smoke, but did not stick. It was too fine a day for the snow to settle, especially after yesterday's rains, which had frozen solid overnight, making the castle's battlements and yards treacherous. Men had been busy since dawn spreading grit on steps and pathways, the great yards turned to a quagmire of melting ice, frozen mud and salt-grit. Despite the weather, the yards and battlements teemed with life: a break in the storms had the skilled workmen labouring intensely on the Broken Tower. It was beginning to take shape, now, the tallest and northernmost tower of Winterfell, shooting proudly into the air like a spear. The men worked in spite of the snow drifting in dainty, unhurried flurries about their heads, melting in their hair and on their eyelashes before it could touch the ground. The sun blazed through the snow-clouds, bright, white and hot.
After so long indoors, the people of Winterfell – and Winter's Town – enjoyed the brief respite, and many faces turned to bask in the rare heat of a strong winter sun. Larra smiled, watching the seven Lannister girls, with Neva and Briar, basking in the sun. They were wrapped up in fur-trimmed cloaks and each of them wore thick woollen dresses, their ears kept warm with their prized, embroidered headbands or, in Briar's and little Leona's case, a delicately crocheted bonnet tied beneath their chins. Their hands were encased in crochet-lined, felted mittens embroidered to match their headbands, keeping away the sting of the cold. They were the girls' pride and joy, now that they were denied silks and fine jewels. The Lannisters, so used to the blazing warmth of the sun in the Westerlands, and Neva, who had been raised in the tropical paradise that was Lys the Lovely and was used to the sweltering heat of King's Landing, were drinking up the winter sun for as long as they could enjoy it, perhaps imagining, Larra thought, that they were…home.
Under Lady Tisseia's care, Larra left them basking: the former slave turned her tattooed face to the sun and sighed contentedly, her heavy skirts sparkling blindingly as the intricate beading and embroidery caught the light and refracted it. It had been a while since Larra had taken a shift in the forges, and though she had received regular reports – both from Aislin and Gendry – she liked to be there, amongst the men, to watch and to listen. She wanted to assess the apprentices and check on the progress of the obsidian scorpion.
The Broken Tower would be completed before the blacksmiths had finished the scorpion, Larra realised with some regret, as Donal Noye gave her a tour of the forges designated for building the scorpion. Turning something of wood and steel into a machine of entirely dragonglass was a feat in and of itself. Under pressure to complete it quickly, the armourers were floundering.
"Oh dear," Gendry sighed, his lips twitching as Larra approached her usual anvil, knotting a leather apron over her woollen dress. "It's going that well?"
"What do you mean?"
"You only return to the anvil when you need to think carefully about something," Gendry smiled warmly. "If you stay in the solar, you'll be interrupted; no-one dares distract you here."
"You mean when I'm within arm's reach of a hammer?" Larra sighed, the humour in her voice falling flat. He had left her in their bed hours ago and had been working diligently at his anvil ever since. His tunic stuck to him, stained with sweat and his muscles rippled with every movement – and she watched him move, licking her lip. "Are you having better progress than the scorpion, at least?"
"Miles better," Gendry grinned. "Come and have a look: it'll cheer you up."
Larra set down her hammer and drifted over to Gendry's anvil. The heat of him, the scent of him, made her mouth water and she gave him a gentle, appreciative smile as she sidled up beside him. He caught her eye and his lips twitched, his sapphire gaze flicking to her mouth, and he cleared his throat, tucking her closer with a hand heavy on her waist. He lifted his tongs closer for her to see – she breathed out a sigh of delight and wonder at the intricate ripples and folds Gendry had created, molten silver and shadows dancing and writhing sensuously like forbidden lovers.
"You've done it," she breathed, peering closer. The blade…seemed to be alive, moving in a way she had never seen Ice or Dark Sister do – perhaps because Gendry was still actively forging the steel. Or it was her imagination. Either way, Gendry's craftsmanship was exquisite – worthy of an apprentice of Aeris the Armourer.
"Well, I'm trying," Gendry said, flushing delicately, and he turned his gaze to the blade, likely assessing it for imperfections. His humility made Larra smile, and she reached up to cup his cheek, drawing him in for a sweet, lingering kiss.
"You've done it," she said softly, gazing up at him, her eyes glowing with pride.
"Valyrian steel," he said softly, shaking his head as if in wonder. He turned his gaze from the steel to Larra, searching her face, adoring it, and he sighed. "Surely I am dreaming."
Larra smiled. "Then it is a good dream."
He hugged her waist, drawing her in for a gentle, savouring kiss that took her breath away. She smiled, teetering back, and blushed.
"Go get yourself some stout," she said, watching his face. "You're exhausted." He nodded, hugged her waist and strode toward the courtyard entrance. She called after him, "And bring me some back too, please!" She heard Gendry chuckle and he raised a hand in acknowledgement as he strode away.
Tasting him on her lips, she smiled as she took up her hammer and tongs and set to work, planning out the armourers' next steps forward as she hammered and manipulated obsidian. She glanced at the Valryian steel Gendry was forging…the Valyrian steel Gendry was forging, she thought, awed. Such a phrase no-one ever believed would be possible after the Doom. It was…momentous. Gendry was forging Valyrian steel. She shook her head, delighted and awed, yet bit her lip. He was the most talented armourer in the North – possibly, by forging Valyrian steel, the world. He had a cunning mind and a way of assessing things, picking them apart and rebuilding them in his mind to see how they worked…
Regretfully, she eyed the Valyrian steel. She knew what had to be done. The progress Gendry had made with Valyrian steel, monumental though it was, for many different reasons, would have to halt. At least temporarily. Until Gendry had figured out how to alter the scorpion to accommodate for it being forged entirely from obsidian. She hated to stop him when he was filled with such passion for their project, when he was making such staggering progress already, his confidence growing with every strike of his hammer...but they needed the scorpion.
Always so agreeable, Larra knew Gendry would do it – would sacrifice his time with the Valryian steel to do what was necessary, though his heart would ache and scream to return to the challenge and artistry of Valyrian steel.
She hated the idea of disappointing him.
Gendry strode back into the forge, empty-handed but smiling.
"Gendry – " she began, but he wasn't listening. Instead, he took her hand, gently pulling her away from the anvils and through the forges. "Are you alright?" she asked curiously. She bit her lip, thinking of how thoroughly he'd had her this morning, with her on her belly, first, then on their knees, her gripping the headboard as he pounded into her, a new favourite position for them both. No, he didn't need her, the way they so often took themselves off to the godswood or her chamber during a hard day – whichever was nearer. His eyes were glinting with something close to mischief, and she winced in the bright light of the strong winter sun beaming down on the yard, turning banks of snow to blinding beacons. The tumult of the yard never carried into the forges, where the songs of the anvils and hammers drowned everything but the deepest of male voices or Larra's soaring voice when she sang.
The yard was bustling with activity: Jon had not announced his return with banners or horns – he and Arya had spurred on their horses, anxious to reach the castle. Behind them, though, his personal guard followed, and he heard their groans of relief as they slowed and stopped, lads from the stables rushing out to aid them. A ripple spread through the courtyard as people recognised him – Jon smiled, his breath pluming around him, as Ghost skidded toward him, leaping high and planting his front paws heavily on Jon's shoulders, licking his face.
"Ghost," he grunted, reaching up to pat the direwolf, who dropped back onto all fours and tilted his great head at Arya. He went still, delicately sniffing the air, scenting Arya, glanced at Jon as if in question, then leaned in to gently lick Arya's face, neck and ears. Jon watched, awed at the direwolf's memory: Ghost meant home, no matter where Jon was. And he had never seen Ghost so deeply affectionate with anyone. He was gentle with Gilly and Little Sam but never adoring like this.
"It looks the same," said Arya quietly, as Ghost padded away, to wend through the horses as men – and women – clambered off them, groaning and massaging their aching legs, glad to relieve the reins to stable-boys. Arya gazed around the courtyard with misty eyes and Jon smiled sadly as he looked around, seeing what Arya did: a bustling yard full of happy people all diligently working away, weaving baskets, carving or fletching arrows, spreading grit on the walkways and steps, doling out stout and ale, skinning animals for their furs and sending the carcasses to the butchers, building siege weapons, giving livestock some sunlight in the fine weather, talking and laughing, singing and flirting and kissing and scolding. They were living.
"The snows are heavier…but the castle's the same as it ever was," Jon said, and fondly watched his sister dawdle about the yard, her eyes wide with wonder as she drank in her first sight of home and the Stark banners flying from the walls – the colours inverted now, a white direwolf on a grey banner. To mark Jon's bastard status – though most now associated the white direwolf with Ghost, with Jon. It was only Jon who lingered on his bastard nature, and now only rarely.
Jon gazed around the yard as Arya did, glad that they had given no warning and even more glad that Sansa had not ordered the work to cease just because of his return. The castle did not stop still, the way Father and Lady Catelyn had ordered Winterfell to turn out for King Robert's arrival all those years ago. There were no garlands of flowers: instead, swathes of icicles glittered in the sunlight as delicate flurries of snow drifted past like thousands of tiny dancers. A murmur of King in the North spread throughout the yard, until it was a shout, and those in the yard turned to cheer.
His people celebrated his return in their own ways, waving and smiling from their work or dipping curtseys or short bows. He acknowledged them with a nod or a wave but cared only to see one face.
Flickering like flame, the sheet of copper hair caught his attention and he prowled closer, smiling, as Sansa hurried down the steps from one of the covered walkways. She was swathed in a heavy cloak, a grey wolf-pelt about her shoulders. Rippling behind her was her sheet of copper hair, brushed until it shone. She was the brightest thing in the yard and all eyes were drawn to her red hair – to their Lady, the Regent of the North. Jon strode across the yard to meet her, feeling his heart seize in his chest as Sansa launched herself at him, throwing herself into his arms, gasping with relief. He lifted her off the ground, squeezing her, and felt as if he could breathe for the first time in months. Her familiar scent teased his nose and he groaned, hugging her tighter, lifting her off her feet. He stroked her hair and sighed, closing his eyes, relishing the closeness, her warmth, her scent, how fiercely she embraced him.
"You returned," she panted breathlessly, giving him a squeeze.
"I promised to always return to you," Jon murmured in her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek, finding himself wishing that they could have reunited in private, without eyes on them, enjoying the intimacy of the solar and the firelight and the two of them together. Sansa's deep sapphire eyes were sparkling with tears as they released each other; her lower lip trembled slightly.
"Jon," she sighed, her eyes shimmering.
"I…brought you a gift from King's Landing," Jon said, as movement flickered in the corner of his eye. He smiled, and Sansa's eyes widened.
"A present?" she asked, sniffling delicately. "Your safe return is all I care about."
"I should like to share it with you nonetheless," Jon said, his grey eyes glittering with rare humour. Sansa followed his gaze and froze, gaping: she burst into tears. The two sisters, as alike as copper and acorns, darted toward each other, eyes shimmering and lips quivering, to throw their arms around each other. Sansa silently wept: Arya hugged her fiercely, shuddering with a devastating mixture of grief and relief.
All around them, the men and women who'd ridden with him climbed off their horses, groaning with relief and giving orders to the stable-boys who rushed around. Jon noticed the quiet before anything else: the way the courtyard had fallen still, watching the Stark sisters reunite. No-one looking at Arya could mistake who she was, not with the King stood lean and dark and solemn beside her, sharing her grim eyes and her dark hair and her long face. Lean and supple as a sapling, Arya released Sansa, who wept freely and sniffled, giving a tremulous smile as she wiped her eyes. Arya reached for her sister's hand and held it, smiling gently as Sansa caught her breath.
Ghost licked Jon's palm and he glanced down. The direwolf gazed up at him then turned his enormous head to stare behind Jon, who followed his gaze and flinched, his breath catching painfully in his lungs.
He had not seen her in a long time. The castle was full of ghosts yet Jon had worked himself so hard his exhaustion had kept her away. Yet now he saw her, out of the corner of his eye, a glimmer of shadows and moonlight. He hated thinking of her here, knowing what fate had befallen her in the place she should always have been safe. It was Arya, he knew: seeing her had reminded him too vividly of Larra. They had always looked so alike, except for Larra's eyes. Her uncanny violet eyes had always been uniquely her own. He missed their warmth and their mischief, the depth of her compassion and understanding, her wiliness and charisma and creativity. He missed his sister: and watching Arya and Sansa, he could finally admit it. He missed his twin-sister. He had not allowed himself to miss her, not when he had gained so many brothers. Not when he had so many demands on him. Not when thinking of her fate beyond the Wall might be the thing to break him.
He met Sansa's gaze: her eyes blazed, smiling so brilliantly he was stunned, blinking at her in a daze. Confused, he stared at her.
"I have a gift for you, too," Sansa said, her voice husky from her tears. Her eyes blazed like sapphires and Jon stared at her, his heart stuttering in his chest, seizing painfully. He stared at her, the colour draining from his cheeks as a tantalising pain spread through his body, an awareness that prickled his skin. His lungs cramped as he fought to breathe and Ghost bumped against him, butting his head against Jon's hip, forcing him to step back for balance.
He glanced at Sansa, beseeching her with wide eyes, his features taut. Beside Sansa, Arya gazed past Jon and gasped softly. Jon stared between his sisters, his breaths little more than pants, his body tense, and he willed himself not to turn, not to look. It could not be. It was not her. To look, thinking it was her, and be disappointed so bitterly… Arya had filled him with hope. The ghosts of Winterfell threatened to destroy it.
Jon stared at her, a war going on behind those impenetrable grey eyes, and Sansa knew it. She saw the conflict. She saw the panic mingled with desperation in his gaze, the yearning and sorrow and heartbreak, the anger and bitterness and furious love. He was desperate to see her yet desperately afraid of being broken by her absence. Sansa glanced past Jon to the entrance to the forges and smiled.
It was the smile that did it. Sansa's smile as she gazed past Jon to the forges.
Hope flickered through him. If Sansa saw her too…
Slowly, he turned, holding his breath, steeling himself against disappointment.
Jon's breath gusted from him, pluming around them as snowflakes twirled idly in the air, the sunlight making them sparkle. The shock rendered him speechless, unable to think, to do anything but stare, slack-jawed, across the yard.
An immaculate oval face surrounded by riotous curls sprung free from simple, raised braids, pale as moonlight with a pretty nose and an exquisite rosebud mouth. Vivid violet eyes that glowed like amethysts amidst the grim grey yard.
Onlookers watched the expression on his face and many yearned to be looked at the way he looked at the woman across the yard. Utter reverence. He gazed at the slender, beautiful young woman as if she was the beginning and end of all things. She was dressed simply, wearing a leather apron over a plain woollen dress, her dark hair gathered into thick braids, tight corkscrew curls tumbling about her face rebelliously, brushing kisses against her cheeks and brow. The wind teased her curls but her face remained immovable as a glacier.
Behind her loomed Gendry, muscled arms crossed over his chest, an easy grin on his face as he watched Jon. The King in the North stared across the yard for a long moment. Then his brows drew together and he blinked rapidly, glancing back at Sansa for a heartbeat: the redheaded woman's eyes glowed as she smiled, giving him the tiniest of nods.
Heart hammering in his chest, Jon glanced across the yard. Larra stood there, tall and slender, her purple eyes vivid and glowing in her pale face. She looked older, more beautiful than even he remembered her, he who loved her the most and saw all of her beauty. His eyes burned and Jon groaned as if wounded, kneading the heel of his hand against his chest, useless because of his brigandine. His muscles aching as he stalked across the yard, drawn to her.
He slid on a patch of ice and Larra caught him as he skidded toward her, heedless of anything but her. She caught him. He stumbled and she steadied him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him fiercely. He heard her short gasps and smelled the perfume in her hair, felt her warmth and her strength, her arms like steel as she embraced him. He clung to her, shuddering with disbelief, bewildered and off-kilter, eyes darting as he tried to rationalise what he was seeing and feeling. He clamped his eyes shut and focused only on the ferocity of her embrace, her heat, the scent of white flowers touched by snow clinging to her hair.
"Larra," he moaned, and it was a broken sound, a boy's voice – the boy who had left this yard years ago to join the Watch, leaving behind the person he loved most in the world, and for whom he would sacrifice his own life to defend. Thinking of protecting her through his dedication at the Wall had kept him going when he had forgotten what warmth felt like, when every hard decision had weighed on him so heavily he could barely walk let alone fight, let alone lead. He reached up and gripped tight the long braid falling heavily past her waist. His hands shook: his face stung. Tears dripped down his wind-chapped cheeks and he shuddered, lifting Larra off her feet to squeeze her tightly. She clung on and he heard her delicate sniffles as she wept freely into the furs draped across his broad shoulders.
He set her down, reluctantly releasing her, to cradle her face in his hands, stunned and disbelieving. A feminine, far more beautiful version of himself, with her expressive brows and pretty lips. Skin pale as the snow, treacle-dark curls and those splendid purple eyes, deep and lustrous. He had forgotten what colour was, spending so much time in the ice and snow and grim tumbledown Castle Black. But there they were, Larra's eyes, vibrant and mesmerising as they had always been – yet he had forgotten just how deeply purple they were, how they glowed with humour, irreverence, ferocity and cunning – and love. Larra was love, fierce and unyielding. Half-blinded by tears, he sniffled and his lips trembled as he smiled at her, breathless with shock.
"Larra," he said again, this time soft and yearning. She reached up, wiping his tears away with her thumbs and cradling his cheeks.
"Jon," she murmured, smiling beautifully. Her eyes glittered in the sunlight sparkling all around them; her cheeks were flushed with delight and she sniffed delicately, wiping her cheeks and her chin where tears dripped freely. "You're home."
"I'm finally home," Jon breathed, staring at Larra, afraid to blink lest the vision disappear. He sucked in a shaky breath and Larra smiled warmly at him, reaching to hold his hand. They gazed across the courtyard and Larra gasped softly, her fingertips fluttering to her lips as her gaze landed on Arya. Their youngest sister stared across the yard at them, at Larra, as if struck senseless. Beside her, Sansa was beaming, wiping her cheeks. The men and women who had ridden with Jon watched on, every one of them unable to deny that they were not touched by the scene as brother and sisters reunited for the first time in years, despite every hardship.
Arya ran across the yard. She launched herself at Larra, who caught her easily, lifting her off her feet with the strength of her embrace. Hugging Arya fiercely, Larra opened an arm to Jon, inviting him to join their embrace. He wrapped his arms tightly around his sisters, kissing their heads. The three of them looked so staggeringly alike, with their dark hair and long solemn faces. Jon opened his eyes and caught Sansa's gaze across the yard; she strode elegantly toward them, her lip quivering, and Arya squawked indignantly as she was enveloped by her three older siblings, Sansa joining their embrace, kissing Jon's cheek and resting her cheek against Arya's head, Larra gripping the back of her cloak to hold her close.
After an age, they broke apart: tall, but still the smallest of them all, Arya started wriggling with discomfort. They reluctantly let each other go, smiling and wiping their eyes.
Larra gazed at Arya, stunned. "We thought you were in King's Landing… Bran will be happy to know you've returned home."
"Bran?!" Jon blurted, startled, and Larra and Sansa exchanged a tiny smile.
"He's in the solar."
Jon looked as if he had been struck dumb. Arya's mesmerising grey eyes popped. They glanced at each other.
Then all four rushed for the nearest door, racing to get inside, to reach their brother. Jon tore ahead, his long legs eating up the distance; Sansa's copper hair shimmered as she followed, pausing only to beam at Lord Yohn Royce, who smiled warmly, bowing his head respectfully, and took on the duties of greeting the King's men, who watched with no small sense of yearning as they watched the ferocity of the Starks' love for each other.
They burst into the solar, tumbling over each other, and Jon rushed to Bran. He looked more like himself than Larra had seen him in years, his face youthful and open, alight with sheer joy as he reached up to embrace Arya and kissed her cheeks, breathless with excitement as they talked over each other, eager to share their adventures as if they were once again children in the nursery eager to share the most gruesome of Old Nan's stories.
Jon sank down to Bran's level, his eyes swimming with tears, as he leaned in to embrace their brother. Bran's face became more sombre, wiser, more knowing, and he rested a hand gently on Jon's shoulder, saying, "Jon," with terrible feeling.
Jon turned his gaze to Larra, shocked.
"How?" he croaked, his eyes wide as he took in Bran's wheeled chair – evidence of his broken body – and Larra smiled. "Sam said you went beyond the Wall. However did you survive?"
"Because I'm stronger and smarter than you," she teased.
Jon laughed richly, the sound echoing around the solar. "Aye," he agreed, breathless and grinning, his eyes alight.
"That's true."
Sansa watched him, aware that he seemed more alive now than he ever had. It was joy that radiated from him rather than the exhaustion she was so accustomed to. It was joy that had been missing in Jon all those years at the Wall. Larra was his joy, they had always known that. Jon was Larra's pride; Larra was Jon's joy.
As he sank onto the settle beside her, he reached for her hand, weaving his fingers through hers, and Sansa's heart soared, smiling and settling in beside him as they always had for those months when it had been the two of them alone against the world.
They were no longer alone: Arya and Bran and Larra were home.
Their family was home.
Winterfell was home again because their family was with them.
Against all odds, in spite of all they had endured, they had found each other again. The direwolves had returned to Winterfell.
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives…
A.N.: Ach, my heart!