He said her title with such reverence, as if he was finally eating after a long bout of starvation. Like he was in disbelief that she was actually in front of him.
A different Jon stood in front of her. Red eyes, dark brown hair with a singular white streak slicked back into a tie. His face was gaunt, eyes hollow, but she could see the flicker of life dancing in them, perhaps of her own doing.
How she longed to hear those words fall from his lips. How she dreamed of it for years.
She wanted to move, to run, to leap in his arms and never let go, to fall apart, to sob, to be whole. She couldn't. She stood knee deep in the snow, standing beside her wolf, watching Jon the way Nymeria watched Ghost.
Tears stung her eyes. Gooseprickles danced over her cloaked flesh.
He stepped forward, just one pace, a cautious one. His gait had an overstep that was more animalistic than human, and it made her think of Ghost. Mayhaps the rumours were true. Mayhaps he did die and rested in Ghost, in the way Old Nan always said was the fate of dead wargs in her tales.
Arya closed her eyes, waiting for the collision. Of Jon running his hands through her hair. Of his fingers ghosting the shells of her ears. Of his rough whispers of welcome home and I missed you.
Maybe he would even shower her face with kisses like she had done to him a lifetime ago, uncaring of the courtyard of people watching their every move.
A sharp inhale led to the faint smell of cold, rotting heads that floated to her, the scent of death not unfamiliar to her nose.
Didn't you hear? The innkeep questioned. Arya focused on the way her weathered hands filled the tankard with a practiced ease. Bolton's heads, on Winterfell's gates and their bodies, given to the trees. A welcome home gift for the Princess Arya, from the new King Jon, so the words be.
She wanted to ask about it, but that was a question for later. She still had the letter she wrote to him about Wylla being his mother, that was for later, too. And the sacrifice was enough, it seemed. The old gods called her back, making her their own gift to the new vengeful king.
She didn't let the tears fall until she was wrapped in his arms, her head firmly against his chest. He sighed like a weight dropped off his shoulders, broken away like ash from hollowing wood. The fingers of his left hand burrowed in her hair, caressing her scalp. Tingles burst all over. This felt different somehow, yet she could not pinpoint where the difference truly was. Yet she knew one thing...
The warmth from his chest was the realisation that she was well and truly home.