Chapter 37: Jon XI
It was just two hours after dusk when he reached Winterfell. The snow was still stick, but not as much as it had been the previous night. The sun wasn't warm enough, but they had to endure. Winter was here, and it was harsh. Jon had seen carcasses of animals frozen to death beyond Winterfell up North. He was worried. Bodies of these beasts had been made to withstand the cold, and if they had perished under it, what chance did humans have?
The castle went up in uproar soon after he arrived, not expecting his presence so soon. People gathered and bowed, but Jon thought it all to be unneeded pleasantries. He searched for Sansa, surprised that his cousin had not yet greeted him with a smile on her face.
"Ghost, to me," he called, and the direwolf slipped among the crowd to come and stand near his leg. His red eyes stared at Jon, and he frowned. Ghost bared his sharp, yellow teeth and pulled greedily at Jon's breeches.
"Where to?" Jon asked, and instantly thought himself to be stupid. Why would he ask when all he had to do was follow his friend? He leaned down and scratched Ghost behind the ear, but the direwolf still had his teeth tightly hooked in his clothes. Jon sighed.
"Ser Davos." The man was beside him in seconds. "My bannermen are to gather in the Great Hall by afternoon. And I need to know how many swords have been forged."
"Yes, Your Grace." The man bowed lowly and left. The crowd also dispersed, going back to their early morning chores. The sound of clinking steel fell on his ears and Jon touched Ghost's fur again.
"Take me, boy," he whispered and the wolf whined. Jon followed Ghost up the stairs to the balcony, and from there down the corridors to the bedchambers.
He passed Sansa's. He had a mind to knock on it and ask if she was well, but he saw that it was ajar and that no one was inside. He looked ahead. Only three doors down was Arya's chambers. His heart sank. He knew she would be inside. He had seen Nymeria through Ghost's eyes, hunting around Winterfell, and the direwolf would never be there if Arya wasn't home. What wouldn't he do to see her face again and hold her in his arms and kiss her hair. He had even dreamt of her, while he had laid against his furs under the dark winter skies. He barely remembered what he had they had been about, but he could make out her face in his mind's eye. She was smiling. Or laughing. He did not really care which; but she was happy.
He released a breath, and it flew out of his mouth like smoke. Jon took another step when Ghost start becoming impatient, and he told himself that he would see her. Everything else could wait, even Ghost. He would enter her room like nothing had happened, and he would smile at her like he had not spent the last weeks being tormented by the thought of her. Like he had not prayed to his Gods and every other God's name he had ever heard to keep her safe. Like he had not felt daggers thrusting at his heart when he had heard King's Landing had burned, and thinking that she could have been there when it did. Sansa's raven had brought him peace, but not enough.
He would smile at Arya, and all would be forgiven and forgotten, because nothing else mattered when it came to her. He could live with his sinful thoughts and his painful heart if only she would always be with him. That was what he had always wanted.
But strangely enough, Ghost stopped at her door as well, his feet mimicking Jon's own as they both ceased their movement. Jon looked with narrowed eyes at his wolf, and then smiled. Perhaps Ghost had known what he truly wanted, and he had led her to him. Jon mussed his fur, and with his other hand, pushed open the wooden door.
It wasn't Arya he saw, however. Only red hair, only Sansa. But Sansa wasn't alone. Bran was there too, sitting beside the bed, and when Jon looked over Sansa's shoulder, he saw her, leaning against the headboard of her bed, her hair unkempt and flowing and a scar as blue as frost on her cheek, from under her eyelid down to her chin. Jon flinched. His hands fisted in rage and he clenched his teeth till his jaw hurt. Arya met his eyes, and suddenly, Jon felt terrible fear in his heart.
"What happened?" He asked aloud, to no one in particular. His eyes were fixed on her, and hers on his own.
"It was the Night King," Sansa whispered. Her voice was as much shaky as his.
"He was here?" He asked in shock. It wasn't possible. The Wall was still standing when he had left, and they couldn't be in Winterfell without crossing the Wall.
No one spoke, and Jon grew impatient. He finally took his eyes away from her, and placed them on Bran, opening his mouth to repeat his question.
"I had a vision," Bran explained, and Jon watched as Arya reached out to take his hand and squeezed it. Bran paused briefly, then seemed to swallow empty air.
"She happened to touch me while I was... inside. And she went in with me. But he saw her, and touched her and-"
Bran stopped. Jon felt coldness in his veins.
"It wasn't his fault," Arya spoke for the first time. "He didn't know, and neither did I." Her voice grew as she spoke. She was scared that Jon would say something to Bran, and Jon didn't blame her. If Bran was anyone else but Bran, he would have crushed him with this bare hands by now.
"She's been cold," Sansa told him. "Her skin was pale blue when we found her. But the color come back by the morning. She's still cold to the touch."
Jon's hands shook. His worst nightmare floated before his eyes: Arya, blue and dead and not warm. The knives were there again, stabbing at his heart and almost tearing it apart to pieces.
"I'm warm enough, Sansa." Jon wanted to applaud her for acting strong, but at the same time it infuriated him. "And it's over. I'm safe. He cannot reach me now."
No he can't. Not now. But he will.
"You must be tired," Sansa offered.
Jon shook his head.
"I want to stay," he said, again looking only at Arya. She looked away this time, but Jon was insistent as he walked over to her bed and stood.
Sansa hummed softly. She walked over to Arya's side and kissed her forehead gently. Arya smiled at her, and then she again squeezed Bran's hand in her own. A look passed between then, and Bran nodded at her before Sansa pulled him away. Jon avoided looking at them. His eyes were only on Arya, who had now sat up straighter in her bed. The door closed, and Jon heard her sigh, still avoiding his gaze. He pulled off the glove of his right hand, and gently passed the back of it over her cheek. The scar was cold to his touch and Arya hissed.
"Little wolf," he whispered in a breath. Arya's eyes fluttered and she looked up at him. Jon sat. Her bed was soft, and creaked when he laid his weight upon it. His hand never left her face.
"Do not blame Bran," she said. Her eyes looked greyer, Jon noticed. "He did not mean to. He would never hurt me. You know that."
Jon did not say anything, and only concentrated on the feel of her skin as his thumb traced the curve of her chin. She was cold.
"Did he frighten you?" He asked.
Arya nodded her head.
"He wasn't scary, not really. He was just cold. So cold that I felt like he had frozen the blood inside me. It wasn't him that scared me. It was realization that I couldn't move, or speak. I was numb. A horrible way to die, I think."
Jon moved his fingers down her neck, hearing Arya's catch of breath.
"You will not die like that," Jon promised, tasting the insincerity of the words on his tongue. "You will die warm and old, with Nymeria by your side. Perhaps even Ghost."
"Will you be there?" Arya asked. Her voice was a hush now. She had closed her eyes, and Jon's hand had not stopped moving. It was on her chest now, tracing small and feathery circles over her skin.
"I don't know." His hands stopped and he looked up. His heart ached as he smiled at her. "Do you want me to be?"
Arya bit her lip. An old habit, Jon knew. But all of a sudden, the act was so tempting to him that he ached to touch her lip with his thumb. He fisted his hand again, but when he opened it the ache was still there.
"I wish sometimes," he confessed. "That I had never put that sword in your hands. Now you run towards death with every step you take. And you won't listen to me if I tell you to stop."
Arya bit her lip again. Jon clenched his teeth.
"What do you want me to do then? Stay in my castle while everyone risks their lives to save the kingdoms? I would not let an icy bastard anywhere near Winterfell or my people. I have to fight for those who can't fight for themselves. We all do, don't we?"
"Not at the cost of you." Jon's voice broke. "Never at the cost of you. If you can run to your death for them, can't you be tempted to live? For me?"
Arya laughed, the sound falling like warm embers on his skin.
"Maybe I will live. Who knows? I have been helpless Jon, and I won't be that girl again even if it means provoking my death."
Jon should be proud of her. He could be, only if he wasn't so selfish. His hand resumed it's ministrations, but this time they were delving down the valley between her breasts, and Jon did it so slowly it was as if his hand didn't move at all. He was crossing an invisible boundary. He looked at her to find her stare transfixed on him. He found no reason to stop.
His hands rested there, anxious and careful. Arya had wriggled to make her furs fall from her body. She had also warmed, and her cheeks were glowing. Her tunic had bunched up below her breasts and Jon moved his hand downwards, touching the warm skin on her belly. It convulsed under him, and Jon had to grip the edge of the bed roughly with his hand when Arya arched her body just a little. She let out a gasp that travelled through him like shivers.
"Tell me of your scars," Jon whispered, playing with the silver marks with the tips of his fingers. They reminded him of his own, as deep as hers were. They were so familiar. And yet.
"An assassin stabbed me," Arya said, her eyes closed but Jon could hear her voice being distant. "She pushed me into the water."
"What happened then?"
Arya gasped again when Jon traced his fingernail over a healed scar.
"A woman helped me. She was kind to me, and reminded me of Mother. Her soup was terrible, but it kept me alive. Until-"
Jon looked up from her stomach.
"Until," she continued. "She was killed by the assassin. She chased after me too, and I ran all over Braavos, with open stitches and blood. But then I killed her. With Needle."
Jon clenched his jaw. Of all the ways he would have wanted Arya to grow up, this was not one of them. It pained him to think that she was alone in the world, fighting and bleeding and almost dying.
He stopped for a while. The story had clearly brought back memories, and Arya seemed to stare at thin air. But after a while she shook her head as if to scatter the memories away, and looked at Jon with eyes shining like glass.
"And this?" He asked, without looking away from her face. This time he touched the one on the side of her abdomen. One which was new. He knew where she must have gotten it, but he did not know how. He wanted to.
"It was the Mountain. His sword pierced me as I meant to escape. Sandor was there too. I left but he stayed. I couldn't save him."
Jon didn't know how close Arya and the Hound were. He had only ever seen them bickering and fighting. But Arya seemed to be hurt at the thought of him, and Jon understood that they must have been friends. He was in awe of her. She was a survivor. The scars were proof enough of that.
Jon leaned down and pressed a kiss against one of her scars. Arya seemed to be surprised, and her hand instantly went to his shoulder. Jon remembered the taste of her lips on his own. It was still so fresh in his memory, even if he had tried to forget it with all his will. He could even taste it anew on his tongue if he tried hard enough.
"Jon," she whispered. He remembered the scent of the rose he had once tucked behind her ear, and now he thought that he could smell it on her skin.
Jon kissed her again, softly, chastely, until he was pouring kisses all over her stomach. Arya pulled at his hair for him to stop. He didn't care.
"Stop this," she blurted suddenly, and Jon paused. He looked up at her, only to see her eyes now glassed over with tears. Her lips were drawn in a line.
"I will not do this to her," Arya said. Her eyes were shining. Jon wanted to kiss them. "Daenerys is your wife. And I'm not cruel."
Jon moved away. He almost didn't believe her words, but when Arya went deathly silent, Jon laughed.
"And you care so deeply for Daenerys?" He asked. He did not mean for the words to feel so bitter on his tongue, or for his voice to sound so biting. "Since when have you become so close?"
Arya's eyes flared.
"I do not need to be friends with her." She looked away from him. "Why can't we go back to being brothers? This thing between us- it's splitting my heart open. I'm going mad."
Jon caressed her face again. The scar made her look no less heavenly.
"And you think I want this? I've been tortured by my own mind for months. You are in my thoughts as much as in my dreams. I would change this if I could. But I can't."
"Try," she insisted. Her voice was small.
"We were never siblings," he said after a while. "Not in truth."
"What does that change?"
"Perhaps nothing." Jon pulled on his glove. "Perhaps, everything."
He stood up tall. Leaning down, he kissed her lightly on her brow, knowing that no matter how much Arya would insist, these kisses would never be enough for either of them.
"Husband," Daenerys greeted him. Jon kissed her cheek and she smiled. She looked the same but for the tired look on her face.
"Have you been well, Your Grace?"
She nodded.
"What happened to your third dragon?" Jon asked. He had noticed that she had only flown inside Winterfell with two: black and green.
"He's gone," she replied in a small voice. "Killed by his brothers because he tried to harm me."
Jon nodded. He did not know what else to day. Perhaps he should have taken her in his arms like a husband would, but that word had always left a bad taste in his mouth.
Jon kissed her cheek again, as a means of compassion. Daenerys seemed to accept that, as she took his arm and walked inside Jon's solar. Lord Tyrion followed shortly behind, accompanied by his brother, whom Jon had felt no joy to see.
Ser Davos was already there. And his cousins and Lady Brienne, Sam and Tormund. Jon looked at Arya through the corner of his eyes. She was leaning against the hearth, hands crossed in front of her.
Jon cleared his throat after he had seated.
"The swords, Ser Davos?"
"Four hundred, Your Grace. All Valyrian Steel."
Jon nodded. They would not be even nearly enough, but he did not have a choice.
"The Wall stands strong," he began. "But that will not be for long. They march towards Castle Black as we speak. We cannot let them take down the Wall and come down South."
"We will hold them off," Daenerys said. "I will fly with my dragons today if I have to."
Jon shook his head.
"We have to do it together. And my cousins will stay in Winterfell, with the army of the Vale. I hope it never comes to it, but Winterfell must not fall. If it does, we will have little chance of stopping them."
"Except Arya."
Everyone turned to her, and Jon did too. She looked at him with a brow raised. He did not say anything. Tyrion and Jaime Lannister looked amused.
"Except Arya," Daenerys agreed. They all paused for a while, surprised at her words, but Jon saw his wife nod slightly at Arya, and she nodded back. He had no say in it, not that he ever did. Arya had made up her mind, and everyone but him seemed to agree.
"Lady Brienne shall stay here to protect Sansa and Bran." The Lady Knight nodded. "Everyone else will come to Castle Black. And soon. Time is slipping."
And with every moment that passed, Jon dreaded more and more than nothing would be enough. Not wolves, not Valyrian Steel.
Not even dragons.