Chapter Text
I came to her that night.
We were on our way south to treat with Daenerys Targaryen and her allies when we were attacked by Lannister forces near Harrenhal.
I had been hesitant to bring Arya along, I wanted her to stay behind at Winterfell, safe behind its slate walls. We argued about it for days but in the end, I relented to her wishes as I had always done in the past.
Her safety was not the only reason why I wanted to leave her behind. I needed time away from her - from her all-too-perceptive grey eyes and beguiling smiles. From the moment I saw her at the gates of Winterfell with her grey direwolf by her side, I had felt off-balance. It was if my entire world has shifted off of its axis.
In the last five years, I've kept her memory close at heart. Whenever I think of Arya, I think of that scrawny little girl I bid farewell to that snowy morning in Winterfell. But gone was Arya Underfoot. In her place was this young woman with windswept dark hair and shining grey eyes.
My days became filled with visions of her. And I find myself thinking of her even at the most inopportune times. It was madness. And a man in my position could not indulge this kind of madness.
Love is the death of duty. It is a lesson I knew all too well. I had once turned my back on my duty for Arya and died in turn. I couldn't allow it to happen again. I could not let my emotions cloud my thinking. Not when thousands of lives depend on it.
At the start of our journey, I had given instruction to Brienne of Tarth to get Arya away at the first sign of danger. In hindsight, I should have known better. Arya would never turn tail and run from a battle.
While in the middle of a skirmish, I turned and saw her just as she savagely thrust her sword in a man's throat. She was wielding two short swords with Nymeria and a dozen or so lean wolves by her side.
My men were able to subdue the Lannister forces with minimal loss on our side. The Lannisters have endured battle after battle since the day the bastard king Joffrey ordered Ned Stark's death and their forces were sorely depleted.
Once the dead bodies have been burned and the captives secured in the prison pen, I went in search of Arya, wanting to make sure that she's not hurt.
I found her inside her tent, naked in a copper tub, the water tinged pink with the blood of her slain enemies.
There were a hundred different questions swirling in my head. What happened to you, little sister? Where have you been? How did you learn to fight like that?
As if she could read my mind, Arya looked up at me with a wry smile. "I know what you must be thinking. You must think me a savage little beast. I know what people call me behind my back... the she-wolf. They think I'm more beast than man and they're probably right."
I looked at her with wary eyes. "What happened to you, little sister?"
"Three years ago, I boarded a ship to Braavos with nothing but an iron coin and a little sword. There was nothing left for me here, you see. My pack was gone."
She hugged her knees to her chest, curling into a slender ball of silky dark hair and porcelain skin. "In Braavos, I served the Many-Faced God and gave His gift to many, many people."
"I've worn a hundred different faces and lived a hundred different lives. And in the process, I've lost the best part of me. All the good parts. It's all gone."
The Faceless Men.
In the past year, I had learned bits and pieces about what happened to Arya after father's death. There was Harwin, one of father's men-at-arms, who told me about Arya's time with the Brotherhood without Banners. And there was a plump baker named Hot Pie who traveled with her from King's Landing and around the Riverlands.
I had since wondered what happened to her in the years after she was separated from the Brotherhood. And now that Arya finally told me her story, I realize that it was a story that I wasn't quite ready to hear. Not now, maybe not ever. Because it was quite beyond my worst imaginings.
I remembered the days leading up to my death, how worried I was about her, my little sister, alone and helpless. How the thought of her in another man's bed nearly drove me mad with rage. And at that time she was in Braavos, training under the most feared guild of assassins in the known world.
I would have laughed if it wasn't so horrific.
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with unshed tears and her solemn face displaying all the hurt and pain she had tried so hard to keep from the world.
"Please don't hate me, Jon. I couldn't bear it if you hate me."
I took a couple of steps towards her until I'm standing by the tub. I reached out a hand to her wet strands and stroked her hair gently.
"I could never hate you," I said quietly.
I didn't know how long I stood there, stroking her head while she soaked in her bath, the water doing little to hide her nude form.
I traced the outline of her face with my fingers, lightly touching her eyebrows, the bridge of her nose, and her cheekbones. Until finally, I touched her lips, stroking it back and forth with my thumb.
She stared up at me, her grey eyes, so similar to my own, unblinking, as she opened her mouth and sucked on my thumb. The sensation drifted from my fingers to my groin as if she was sucking another part of me.
"Arya..." I whispered, my voice hoarse.
She continued sucking my thumb, nipping it gently, while my other hand grasped the back of her head, asking her without words not to stop what she was doing.
Would you bed your sister? Ygritte's words came back to haunt me. And it was as though I'd been slapped.
I wrenched my thumb from her mouth. I needed to get away from her. It was a matter of self-preservation.
"I need to go."
She stared back at me, with a confused look in her eyes. I took deep furious breaths, trying to control my arousal when she suddenly stood up from the tub.
She was entirely nude.
And in that moment, I felt every vestige of my control slip away.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.