He had dreamed of this, of Arya coming home, of her returning to him. He'd often imagined it. In Jon's mind, his little sister would run to him and he would lift her up, swing her around, then muss her hair. Just like when they were the misfit children of Winterfell. Jon the Bastard and Arya Underfoot.
For years, he had wanted nothing more. Ever since he'd left for the Wall as a green boy of just fourteen years, he had yearned to see her again and recreate those moments. He longed to feel once again the tender, innocent love they had shared. The desire had only intensified since he'd returned to Winterfell. The castle felt empty without her. Maybe I feel empty without her, he thought.
However, now that Arya was here, Jon found that much to his disbelief, swinging her around or even mussing her hair was not what he wanted. Those things seemed childish and out of place. Something had changed. He was different. She was different. Maybe everything was different. Arya didn't feel like a child in his arms and certainly didn't look like one anymore. What he felt wasn't the same either, though he couldn't say quite how. Jon knew nothing other than he had to hold her, he had to touch her, and he intended never to let her go. Arya. His Arya.
She was smiling up at him, her hand now stroking his cheek gently, and Jon leaned his face into the gentle caress, savoring the warmth of her flesh against his. Arya was alive, and she was with him. She was finally home.
Jon relaxed his embrace slightly and took her hand, bringing the back of it to his lips. But it wasn't enough. He kissed the knuckle of each finger, slowly and methodically, certain that he had never known true happiness until this moment.
"Arya," he whispered her name in a slow sigh just to say it, just to hear it. Then he brushed his lips against her palm, wondering if anything would ever be enough.
