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Chapter Text

When she had come back, she wasn't her.

Well, she was, Jon mused. But that was only in looks, if it could count for anything at all.

Because the little girl who'd chased the dogs around Winterfell with him was now long since a woman, with a woman's body and features that looked so shockingly like his own that it made him pause.

This stranger that was both familiar and foreign made him want to cry some days when he could not-and would not be allowed to- bridge the ravine between them now, when before all this-before the War- there wouldn't have been even a gap to jump. She had been his favourite of Lord Stark's other children, one of the few in Winterfell that did not treat him as if his bastard status meant anything.

Lady of Winterfell, now she was. Her younger brothers either still missing or too young to rule by themselves as Kings in the North.

But, for a time, she had her Lady sister's help with the etiquettes of court; but Sansa too had to leave to her new life as Lady of the Flowers.

She hadn't kicked and complained as he had first thought she would; ruling or being a Lady was not something a younger Arya Stark would have accepted gladly. But this woman-this warrior-Queen- took control of armies larger than even King Aegon's and the Little Queen's, and she sat alone atop the throne in Winterfell's hall.

Chin raised haughtily, she denied marriage to the new Lord of Storm's End. And again she rejected the new Prince of Dorne.

She did, however, start a liaison with the 99th Lord Commander.

Mayhaps it was the familiarity of the relationship she sought; something safe in a world full of danger and lies.

But it most certainly wasn't love that drove them to it, or anything truly close to what they had as children. Not, that it was not.

Their couplings were always fierce and hard and angry, as if they took their loneliness from the past six years out on each other in those few moments they had to spend away from court.

His brother, King Aegon, had once tried to court her.

She had called him a ponce and poured wine over his head when he had called her comely.

Jon knew that if they had not already been allies with a long-standing friendship, that night would have given the young Queen in the North no small amount of ill tidings.

The King had not been pleased though, and had asked Jon to bring the matter of both the marriage and insult up one day.

He hadn't. Because he knew that Arya would not care-she never cared anymore.

Jon thought that maybe it was his second month there at Winterfell when he was called back to the Wall to negotiate with the Freefolk again.

She did not seem to care about that either, and he did not see the way her grey eyes tightened, or the way she held herself even tighter, if it were possible, when he told her that he made for the Wall.

Or at the very least, he pretended. Theirs was a destructive relationship, one that brought out the worst in the other, and he had no right to be in her life anymore.

Least of all as her lover.

But gods he loved her. And she did not feel the same; he was not even sure she could love anymore. That for her to love something openly now would be to admit weakness.

So he bowed before her feet at court, as others, strangers who barely knew what either of them had been through, watched on silent and stony-faced.

And he left.

Chapter Text

A raven came a year or two later, when the war between the Free Folk had died down and the court matters of the Southron's had been settled.

What startled him most was that it did not bear the symbol of the King, but of Stark.

It told of the heir to the North, the Lady Arya's own daughter. A bastard Stark child, birthed by the Queen herself. Though the letter was not written by her, but by her brother Rickon.

No doubt the court in King's Landing weren't too happy about their counterpart kingdom being lead by an out-of-wedlock mother, or the fact that the North would be lead by a woman, and a bastard no less, one day.

But what hurt Jon the most was that he knew, he knew that the babe mentioned was his, and she had not sent him a raven before this. Did not ever mention before he left that she was with child at all.

And it was also the fact that he knew Aegon would be persuaded by his Council to renounce Arya of her claim as Queen, that she would be married off to some Lord of somewhere not important and her little brother would be placed upon the throne to the North so that she could be forgotten.

Arya knew that Rickon was too wild, despite his betrothed's influence, and Jon knew that that was why she was fighting so hard to stay as Head of the House Stark.

The poor boy deserved freedom, and now that Jon thought back on it, Arya had been doing that for Rickon since she had returned to Westeros six years ago.

She had freed him of Lord Stannis, but had spared the faux king's daughter Shireen for the sake of her brother. She had destroyed House Bolten and picked off the Freys so that her family would be safe; and there were only two Starks left to the world.

Now lived a third, young and new and innocent.

.

.

When Aegon had announced that he was visiting Winterfell, Jon's heart dropped.

When the King had sent a raven for him, Jon Snow was as nervous as a green boy wielding a sword the first time.

So he had ridden south with a few of his best men, leaving Sam to lead the men at the Wall in his absence.

The first person to greet him was a little girl in a muddy gown. It had showered a little prior to Jon arriving, and this child was covered from head to toe in muck.

Dark hair a mess and eyes so blue they were almost violet in the lame light. But it was the long face that made him pause.

She curtsied before him and rose with a awe-struck smile. "Welcome to Winterfell, My Lord."

He gave her a smile and she giggled before disappearing into the throng of people awaiting him.

"Jon!" Aegon greeted, arms raised and a grin plastering his face. He pulled his brother into a hug before stepping back and allowing his wife Arianne Martell to curtsy and have her hand kissed.

"It is a pleasure to meet you again, my Lady." Jon said with practised ease.

Arianne smiled, a flash of wicked teeth. "And to you, Lord Commander."

Aegon steered him back towards Winterfell Castle, greeting Rickon along the way; the boy long since losing the fat around his face, making it seem longer; almost looking like his elder sister.

The hall was lively, hosting some of Aegon's finest knights and almost all of Arya's.

The Queen sat on the tier with Aegon's aunt and wife, Lady Daenerys, and a handful of other ladies and lords, her plate untouched.

She stared with hard, grey eyes across the crowd; searching.

A cry of child's laughter rang high and true through the hall, and a small body weaved itself in between drunken men and smiling women.

The little girl in the mud-caked dress came to a stop before the platform and curtsied before the High Ladies of Westeros.

Arya's mouth pulled down in a scowl, and Jon noticed that the ruckus had died down.

"You are late," the Queen in the North admonished.

The little girl blew a stray lock of dark hair from her face and smiled sheepishly. "I was greeting the Lord Commander, mother."

Jon froze and watched as the girl turned to gesture to him, talking herself out of trouble in a way he'd seen Arya do when she was a child.

Arya did not even bother to comment on her child's state of attire, and instead waved her away.

"Brya, go sit with your cousins."

When it looked as if the girl would argue, an older child beckoned her over to their table nearest to the platform.

"Come, Brya."

The boy's sister joined in quick enough, her curly red locks swirling around her round little face. "Yes, sit with us!"

Brya's face fell at the lack of emotion, it seemed, that her mother showed towards her, and trudged over towards the Tyrells.

Jon followed Brya's movements to the table and locked eyes with Sansa. Her bow mouth pulled down at the sides ever so slightly into a look of displeasure, and Jon wondered just what he was being judged for.

It was much like seeing a ghost of Lady Catelyn, the way she sat with her back straight and fire-kissed hair pulled back.

He nodded towards her, pushing away the memory.

But as soon as he did, she glanced away to scold her brood for being loud, and did not turn back towards him.

Arya then turned her attentions from chatting with Daenerys to looking at Jon, face lean and chin held high.

Whatever chatter had begun were once again silenced simply by her posture.

"My Lords and Ladies," she said, glancing left and right, and then down to where the Tyrells were seated with her daughter. "My Northmen," she gestured with her chin to the people gathered in her hall. "Tonight we welcome not only the Southron Court and their King and Queens, but also the 999th Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, into Winterfell's walls."

A cheer ran up and down the mob around him, and when Arya raised her thin hands they quieted.

"So we will celebrate!"

The music and noise started anew.
.

.

"Why was I not told?"
Arya turned from the railings, face twisted unattractively. "She is mine and mine alone, Jon." She snapped. "She knows little of you. Brya does not need to know that he father could've also been her uncle."

That slap hurt him more than any physical one could, and he sighed angrily. "How will you explain away her eyes should they lighten, Arya? What will you do then?"

Arya pursed her lips, her anger gone, and cocked her tightly braided head to the side. "I suppose I could wed Edric Dayne," she mused aloud. "Ask it of him to claim my child. " She paused. "But that will be long after Rickon is King. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Jon's hands clenched so that he did not reach out and touch her. Shake her, anything to stop her from being so cold.

She saw the look on his face and chuckled unexpectedly; it unnerved him. The sound was too brief to be a real one, and he could see her composure slipping.

"I was japing," she told him, and then frowned. "I suppose I would have to tell all of Westeros that I am a whore, though they know this fact already."

Jon sighed tiredly and raked a hand through his hair. "You're not a whore."

Arya's mouth pulled down, and she turned from him. "Yes," she snapped quickly. "Do you not think I don't know that?"

Jon fell silent, as he usually did when they argued; it mostly gave her time to calm herself or figure out how next she wished to abuse him.

"Arya-"

She growled in frustration, and the sound was echoed a few feet away where her wolf lay. "Oh hush, Nymeria."

Jon gave her a look. "Mayhaps if you weren't so worked up, she wouldn't act as such."

Arya scowled at him. "It is entirely your fault that I am."

Jon's brow rose. "Oh?"

The vulpine look came back to her features, and then disappeared into a calm mask. "Bryanna does not need to know, nor will she. You coming back has complicated everything."

Jon felt anger and an overwhelming sense of guilt prick at him, and he made to grab for her. He should have known better than to think he would even touch her.

Arya danced out of the way silently, and Jon came face to face with her direwolf instead.

She wasn't snarling per se, but the way the she-wolf held herself was a warning, blocking his view of her mistress.

Jon wasn't in the mood for his cousin's ire. "Arya?" he asked the dark.

But she was already gone.

Chapter Text

The morning was cold and snow fell to cover the stone ground Arya walked upon. Sleep had evaded her the night before, and Nymeria tagged along her heels now, nose to the ground.

At that particular moment of morning, though, Arya was searching for her brother; who had made himself suspiciously scarce at breakfast. She knew it to be Rickon who'd sent the raven to Jon, and though she also knew that bad decisions were made when in bad moods, she wanted to strangle him.

The least the stupid boy could've done was give her a warning. But Rickon was too much like she; wild and wilful. The one thing that was his and his alone now was that more oft than not he acted upon impulses before thinking. This made Arya want to hit him more oft than not. But it was no matter, she would find him eventually.

Winterfell only had so many nooks and crannies.

A scrape of claws not belonging to Nymeria came from the side and Arya stopped. Said direwolf's slim ears pricked at the sound, golden eyes watching the runt's movements intently.

But Jon was not with him. Arya let out a breath and listened.

"I do not have the time nor the patience for this," she snapped as she spotted him. He was perched upon the stone barrier, his profile shown to her, but he made no move to acknowledge her or that fact that she had spoken.

And despite her words, she waited, boots seemingly stuck to the stones beneath her feet.

He turned his face towards her, grey eyes tired. "Well then it is best you make time, my lady," he told her not unkindly. Always so generous with her. He pushed himself to stand, and stepped towards her, dark head bent towards hers as if to whisper secrets. Anyone stumbling upon them would not think it odd; they the two of them had always been close. But it was the warmth she felt from him and the way her skin still shivered in his presence that gave them away to each other.

His eyes were always so honest, and it hurt that small part of her heart that still felt to think that she had planted the tiredness within them.

Jon searched her face, orbs much like her own roaming her features. "I would talk about what lie between us, Arya."

Arya stepped back from the warmth he offered, a strange emotion twisting her gut. "What lays between us, Jon, is thin air and a few bricks."

Nymeria bared her teeth, though no true anger lay behind it. A warning. Ghost watched from where he lay in the snow; red eyes glinting intelligently.

Jon did not falter, did not even blink at her words. It irked her. "Arya, please do not be difficult in this."

But her mind had been set the moment she left for Winterfell six years ago. When she had forced him to leave her at Winterfell, alone and angry. She cast her eyes to the stairs that lead to the kitchens. Jon followed her eyes, but made no move to stop her; his eyes losing that small flame as he let her go.

It was stupidity that had her fleeing him, a strange fear that made her eyes sting. But that wasn't entirely it, she reasoned as she rounded the corner, back thumping against the rough stones. It was a strange sort of guilt that licked at her as Nymeria did her chin now. She had a rage in her heart that could not be quenched with his calm gentleness, and she did not deserve such.

Her life had not been gentle to her-she had the scars on her body to prove it-and he did not have the right to give her the soft touches she wanted after so long apart.

Lifting from the wall, Arya smoothed her hair down, pushing back the emotions running rampart through her. Taking a moment to collect herself, she would only allow this one moment of weakness. Tears never helped a situation, only made things worse and invited embarrassment.

She used Nymeria for support for a bare second before pushing away from the she-wolf and stalking past the kitchen, the cooks sending both Arya and her wolf silent looks of fear.

She caught a flash of red curls and a grey cloak in Wintertown, and she snatched at her brother's shoulders, anger renewed.

Rickon spun around, Tully-blue eyes wide on hers. "Hello sister," he greeted with false cheer. "Fancy meeting you all the way out here." The grin on his face was one of fear, for sure, his shoulders were hunched like a wolf submitting.

Arya smiled pleasantly back, spinning her brother around once more and tucking her arm in his.

"Indeed," she agreed, fingers digging into the flesh of his wrist. Rickon winced. "Fancy that."

Rickon worried the inside of his cheek, legs moving in time with hers as she steered them back into Winterfell's walls. "You know why it is I did it, no?" he asked her, voice soft as if to temper her anger.

Arya did not respond for a second or two, and saw him glance over to her. With a sigh she said, "To some extent," she sniffed. "But mostly I think it was to spite."

Rickon ignored the barb, and instead turned his eyes heavenward. "I did not," he snapped and stopped walking, pulling Arya to a stop with him. For a boy of only five and ten, he looked so much older at that moment than she had ever seen him. "I sent the raven for you," he told her, and it was truth. Arya paused and stopped herself from interrupting him. She nodded that he continue. Her brother sighed. "You are not getting better, sister. I thought that mayhaps after you birthed Bryanna that you would snap out of the sickness in your mind…"

Arya knew of the sickness he spoke of. She wasn't blind to think the rage in her breast to be normal, for the days she did not wish to leave her chambers to be simple sleepiness.

Still, "I am not deficient in the matters of ruling," she snapped.

Rickon's eyes widened. "I- I did not mean to offend, that was not what I meant to imply, sister."

Arya frowned, but took the apology. She poked her brother's middle. "Then why did you bring Jon to Winterfell, Rickon?"

His eyes were sad as he looked at her. "Jon was the only one you truly cared for, sweet sister. I had thought to tell him of what has happened since the war," he told her. "What has happened to you."

Arya snorted. "I am fine, Rickon. You needn't worry."

The look her brother gave her made her grin. A dragon's screech filled the air, and both Stark's whipped around at the sound. The distinct sound of fire leaving a dragon's maw whispered to them, and then roared as the flames licked at stone and flesh. Voices began to rise, and a child's scream sounded clear into the morning.

Rickon's face paled, and Arya moved towards the sound. Rhaegal, Aegon's beast, stood poised to strike at the little bodies on the ground, but paused as one of them stood-naked and skin unmarred-and commanded the beast to stop.

"Brya," Arya breathed, heart hammering like a bird's in her breast as she recognised her daughter. The other child, smaller than she, was wailing. His arm had been burned, but the girl had shielded him from the brunt of the inferno.

Sansa pulled her eldest son away, and he clung to her skirts as she called to Arya. Rickon touched her arm. "Sister?"

Arya pulled in a quaking breath. "The boy upon the ground is the Lady Arianne's son, Doraen."

Rickon frowned. "But it was Brya who did not burn." And indeed the girl-child had not. Though the thick, dark locks had been burned away, her skin did not.

Arya nodded. "Yes." She glanced around, looking to see if Maester Albyn were about. Sansa made her way over, her son trembling at the smell of burning flesh.

"Arya," she started, eyes filled with fear. "Arya what of the boy? I dare not go closer."

Arya reached out to focus Sansa's attention propperly on she and not on the smell of charred flesh. "Please see to it that Brya is clothed. I am going to fetch a Maester." Sansa blinked, mouth thinning, but then nodded. To Rickon, Arya said, "Please get the little lord inside, the cold will be good for the burns but it shall all be for naught if he freezes to death."

Sansa nodded and began towards her niece, little Mace trailing on after her, while Rickon started towards a few of the men surrounding Doraen.

Arya spun and ran towards the maester's chambers, panic blooming in her ribcage. She took the steps two at a time, boots echoing down the halls. She rapped upon the smooth wood of the door and it was opened almost immediately.

Maester Albyn's weathered features tightened into a small smile at the sight of her. "My Queen," he addressed her. "How may I be of service to you?"

Arya nodded quickly and gestured to the main hall. "There has been an accident, ser. Prince Doraen has been badly burned."

As both she and the maester stepped inside the cold hall, Arya spotted where the little boy lay, his mother already seated at his bedside, tears shining in her large dark eyes. Daenerys was on the other, silver-blonde head bent, her fingers clutching her skirts.

As the boy was being tended to, Arya felt a familiar warmth press against her side. She did not have the anger in her at that moment to push Jon away. If anything, she leant into his form, the thick fur of his cloak brushing against the side of her face as she pressed it to his shoulder.

It was she who spoke first, soft words slipping from her mouth. "This could have been so much worse," she said. "If Brya was not…"

Jon nudged her. "But she is, Arya."

She did not reply, instead choosing to glance about for Sansa and her brood. To see if her daughter was in their company.

Jon's hand came to rest upon her arm, his grip loose but demanding. "She is and she knows what it means, Arya. She will ask of her parentage if she is anything like you and I."

Arya met his gaze, felt the heat of his eyes in her bones, the hope that lay in them, and the trepidation. He feared that she would brush him off, cast him away as she had many times before. And oh, how she was tempted to take the path of least resistance. He would let her push the situation away, let her send him back to the scattered remains of a once incredible Wall.

But being a coward about this would bring her nothing but grief all of her own making.

Arya closed her eyes and took in a breath. She did not meet his gaze when she opened them, not at first. Jon's fingers loosened and his hand fell away. She caught it though, just above his wrist, and she met his eyes once more. "I know she shall," she agreed, eyes flicking up to his. "And I shall tell her, Jon. I will."

It was more than that, and he knew. He knew and that was why he was pushing so insistently against the walls she'd built around herself. He wanted to be a part of this little girl's life, and wanted Arya to let him love her.

Arya did not quite know why the idea of doing such a thing was so hard in her mind. She had let him during the re-conquering of Westeros; Brya had been the product, all the proof he needed to show her that she could still love.

If they hadn't been in Winterfell's main hall with their family about them, Arya was sure she would've kissed him. As it was, they were standing much too close to be considered seemly.

Glancing away and stepping back from him, Arya heard Maester Albyn say, "The little Prince will have scars, Your Graces." Arya moved to the old man's side, looking down at the boy, eyes flicking to his mother and then to Jon's brother. "I do not know if he will have use of his right arm, Your Graces. The burns are so severe that I fear he will not wake for a long while. But when he wakes, I will have to test the muscles."

Arianne Martell's tears had been tucked away before Arya set her eyes on her, though the other queen's eyes were rimmed red from her earlier weeping.

Maester Albyn took his leave, and Arya pulled her mouth into a polite, soft smile. "I wish for your boy to wake soon, my Lady." She offered Arianne, the Martell woman gave a smile in return. "I will pray for him also."

Sansa would have been proud.

Daenerys lifted her eyes from her nephew's prone form. "But you do not hold belief in our Gods, Lady Arya. You believe in Him of Many Faces."

Arya tilted her head, she felt Jon's stare on the back of her neck. "There is only one god, and his name is Death. And I shall pray that he not take the young prince just yet, my Lady."

Aegon bowed shallowly before moving to sit beside his wife. Arya could see that there was a redness to his eyes as well.

The Lady of Winterfell left the hall in favour of the Godswood. She traced the lines of the face that wept sap as red as blood, her fingers becoming sticky before she stepped over to the pool to wash her hands.

Arya looked up when Nymeria noticed a person on the edge of the clearing. It was Sansa.

She had changed from her thick and heavy day skirts to the thin ones used for sleeping in. The green material blended with the grass of the Godswood as she glided over to her.

"Jon told me that I would find you here." Arya nodded and sat back on her bottom, legs stretching out in front of her to dip slightly into the water. Sansa sat upon the ground at her side, soft hands combing through the grass. "I had my suspicions, I did."

Arya sighed and rolled her grey eyes skyward. "Seven hells."

Sansa's bow mouth pulled down in an irritated expression, but it was quickly smoothed away. "I came here, sister, to say that it would be best to persuade Jon from the ruins of the Wall."

Arya sent her sister a glare, to which Sansa began playing with her loose locks. "And what, pray tell sweet Sansa, would this accomplish?"

Sansa's eyes were guarded. "It would give your child the father figure she has been craving and it would bring you happiness. Do not look at me with such false hate, Arya. You deserve happiness after all the horridness of the War."

They talked for a few more hours after that, Arya with her head resting against Sansa's own, as they talked over the last six years. Arya did not tell her everything, as she was sure Sansa did not spill all of her secrets to her.

And when the sun had set, they lifted themselves from the floor of the Godswood and brushed themselves off.

Sansa pressed a gentle kiss to Arya's brow and wandered back to the chambers she shared with her lord husband. Arya watched her leave, Nymeria pushing her snout under her palm.

Arya stroked the she-wolf's head, before turning back to the weirwood tree. "Hullo Bran," she started, and the godswood was silent. Arya moved to crouch before the weeping face, lithe legs tucked under and her hands resting upon her knees. "It has been a while, no?"

The leaves sung softly in return, and she smiled. "I've borne a child, Brandon. I've named her after you and aunt Lyanna both." Nymeria sunk to the ground, strong jaws opening to yawn widely. "Though, perhaps you already knew."

Arya lightly ran her fingers against the smooth bark. "I wish you happiness wherever you are, brother. I wish to visit you one day." The red leaves whispered back, the breeze decidedly warmer than it had been a few moments ago. A smile stole across her face and Arya let it lay there. Rising, she kept her palm upon the tree. "I will leave you now, Brandon. Farewell."

The tree sung to her as she walked. Something warm and familiar and very similar to her name.