AN: I've gotten some mixed feedback on this chapter so I'd love to know what you guys think! Let me know, and I hope you enjoy!

Olly

The relief he felt when Arya slipped into his room at the tavern was more palpable than any he'd ever felt before in his life. He had thought for sure she was done – Ramsay's men at arms had even paid for his drinks and board in consolation – and that he was going to have to go back to the Lord Commander and tell him that his precious newly returned sister had been ravaged or worse by the Bolton Bastard. He would've gone already, except that he knew exactly how Jon would react, and he couldn't quite work up the will to deliver his master news that would surely result in his Lord Commander's death. So instead he'd waited at the inn like she'd indicated he should, holding out until the morning with little hope in his heart.

But she'd come, and apart from her change of wardrobe, which he'd pointedly not asked about, had seemed no worse for wear. She'd told him they needed to leave immediately and he'd been happy to oblige. Truth be told he wanted to be rid of the place for good and get back to his Lord Commander and the Wall where they both belonged.

As they rode out north of the town she spurred her horse into a trot, looking over at him and saying, "We have to hurry, he'll likely be after us when he wakes."

"You didn't kill him?" Olly said, surprised.

She gave him a quick pointed look to see if he was teasing her but then she seemed to decide that he wasn't and answered, "No. Never kill when you're wearing your own face if there are people around who have seen you. We were too big a spectacle tonight in the tavern tonight for people not to piece two and two together if he turned up dead. As it is we'll have a hard time getting away unnoticed."

They rode through the night, swiftly and silently, and he found himself watching her face trying to make out a trace of what she'd just been through. She seemed lost in thought, incapable of giving attention to anything but the mysteries in her own head and the road ahead. About half way through their ride it began to snow, and by the time they got close to camp it was coming down in great white clumps from the sky. Olly sent a silent prayer up to which ever god was responsible for snow. After an hour or two of this, their path would be entirely covered under a blanket of pristine snow. Which meant if no one found Bolton until day break they were in the clear. For now, anyway.

He was just starting to feel some of the tension leave him, starting to put the eventful night to rest, when they came into the clearing and he say the Lord Commander, more grim faced and imposing than he'd ever seen him, staring in their direction like a waiting statue. Olly wondered how long he'd been there, waiting just like that, and realized that he had had no idea what he was getting in the middle of when he volunteered to travel with Arya to Baldread. Relief streaked across Jon's features at the sight of them but then his eyes locked upon Arya's newly acquired trousers. He shot a look at Olly, asking for an explanation and in spite of himself Olly found himself looking down, unable to meet the Lord Commander's eyes. The Lord Commander made a sort of strangled sound in his throat that he managed to turn into a dignified clearing sound, but Olly knew that he'd never yet seen his master this beside himself with rage and worry. Arya spurred forward then, coming between them and dismounting right in front of her brother. She returned his cold stare measure for measure, not flinching at all from the clear tempest of rage that stood a foot from her waiting to go off.

"Would you mind unsettling my horse Olly? I need to speak to my brother."

Jon

He could not believe her. After ordering about his steward at if he were he own she'd brushed right past him, going to the fire to collect a brazier of coals before marching into their tent without a backward glance. He followed her his ears ringing with a million unanswered questions.

What took you so long? Where have you been all this time? Are you hurt? Is Olly hurt? What happened?

Instead, as he stormed through the flap of the tent to see her bending over and stoking the coals in the brazier almost absent mindedly, his mind formed around one, rather stupid query.

"Who in the seven hells do those pants belong to?" He asked his voice rough with fury. She continued to stare into the brazier but shrugged slightly and answered him in a light casual voice.

"Ramsay Bolton."

"And how did you get them?"

"I took them off him."

Jon felt as if a cold hand had seized his heart in his chest. Still he pressed on, his voice low and almost casual in his rage.

"Hmm. And your skirts, where are they?"

"Still on the floor in his rooms I expect."

How much clearer could she make it? A voice in his head admonished. Still he refused to believe it. Never in his life had his feelings felt so physically discomforting. His chest, his stomach, even his limbs seemed to be burning with rage. The tent was painfully silent, as he fumed and she just continued to stare into the brazier, seemingly enthralled by the glowing embers.

He found that he couldn't take the tension and in a fit of absurdity he seized upon the nearest breakable thing, seizing his bow from his pack and snapping it stupidly over his knee, the monster inside him roaring with pleasure at the shear destructiveness of it. He was bending down to pick up a blanket, preparing to rip it to shreds when she spoke.

"Jon?" she said lightly, her voice eerily calm?

"WHAT?" he roared his fists balled into the blanket he was preparing to eviscerate.

"Catch."

With the flick of her wrist she sent a coal sailing towards him. He didn't think just dropped the blanket and snatched the thing out of the air before it landed on his pallet and set the whole thing alight.

"WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS—" he bellowed, looking up incredulously. She'd crossed to him and was standing a hairsbreadth in front of him her eyes wary and filled with something like disbelief.

"Show me."

"What?" he was genuinely confused now. What in the name of the Gods had gotten into her?

"Your hand. Show me."

He realized then that he'd completely forgotten about the coal and released it with a jolt, letting the glowing ember fall to the dirt floor with a soft thud.

She didn't wait for him to comply, but grabbed his hand and twisted it, forcing his palm upwards.

To his amazement, his flesh was sooty but otherwise unmarred. He stared at it, then glanced down to the floor where the coal sat still glowing softly with heat. What in the name of the mother…

He glanced up at his sister who still held his hand and found her eyes narrowed filled with suspicion and disbelief.

"Targaryen."

Arya

He looked well and truly astonished at her accusation but she still felt herself filling with rage and bitter disappointment.

"What?" he said in utter disbelief.

"You're a Targaryen. Ramsay told me."

"Oh Ramsay told you did he? What were you whispering about me between beddings?"

"There were no beddings."

"You expect me to believe that when—"

"Believe what you like, but I'm telling the truth. I didn't fuck Ramsay Bolton, and you're not my brother."

That struck him silent momentarily, and he stared at her his eyes wide. Her temper cooled somewhat as she realized that he genuinely had not known. The worst part of the ride back had been the constant thoughts flitting through her mind, that he had known, perhaps all this time, and not told her.

She reached out, resting her hand on his cheek peering into his stormy Grey eyes. Was it just her imagination or were there tints of purple in their steely depths. She couldn't tell.

She sighed, withdrawing her hand and sank onto the pallet.

"I've heard about it in the free cities I don't know why I haven't thought of it before. I was so stupid, playing No One not paying attention. God's what an idiot I've been. All those rumors about the Mother of Dragons seeking her nephew being whispered in alehouses in Braavos and I was too busy learning to mimic whores to pay attention…"

He sunk down into a squat in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her lightly so she met his gaze which was so intense that Arya felt as if she was naked and exposed before it.

"I don't understand. What are you saying?"

She sighed again. "They're saying that our… my aunt Lyanna had a child by Raegar Targaryen before she died in the Tower of Joy. They're saying that the child was a boy, that he was dark like his mother. The black dragon they call him, for no one knows his name."

"Arya…"

"You're him Jon. You're the lost Targaryen. That's why they want to kidnap you, that's why Stannis wants you dead rather than in the Bolton's hands. They're going to take you and give you to Daenerys, and secure their position under the Targaryens for when they take Westeros."

"That's insane, Arya—"

"LOOK AT YOUR HAND JON!"

Her voice shook with emotion.

"You're not… you're…" her voice actually broke in a sob and he reached for her pulling her against her chest. She was so confused so conflicted. Gods her brother her favorite person in the world and he wasn't even her family, not as closely as she'd thought anyway.

I can't lose him to her. The thought burned in her mind as she buried her head in his chest, so familiar and yet so different than it had been when they were children. She looked up into his face and saw that he was watching her, his eyes filled with as much confusion and loss as she was feeling. And before she knew what she was doing she tilted her head up and kissed him.