27 jonrya i am so trash for that ship, and I love your work! So good 🙌🏻💙❤
A few notes to situate y’all: More ASOIAF ‘verse. Age up the characters obviously; I always assume a five year gap in the timeline happened. Also, this would be before Jon’s parentage reveal. I think that should cover it.
Her fingers dig into his flesh further with every thrust,and surely her nails will draw blood from his thigh before they are through.The tent smells of sex, thick and heady. His grip on her hips is bruising, butshe welcomes it, encourages it.
Arya will not let him treat her like a noble lady whosehusband is only there to do his duty. Though her mother had tried to groom herfor such a life, the ladies of Braavos had taught her much and more of love. Shewants and lusts and yearns for histouch; he has spent too long afield, away from her and their bed. Arya thinksto remind him why they should not be parted. With her lips, with her breasts,with her cunt. Without him, she burns hot. She needs him to temper her, toquash the flames licking her from the inside.
Each time he enters her, she answers with Jon whether as a gasp or a low moan.It’s as sweet as a maiden’s song, a melody that brings his mouth to hershoulders. He presses frantic kisses there and whispers his love against hersweat-slicked skin. If asked, he will take his teeth to her flesh, marking herin pain. But it is sweet too because they are pack, and Arya long ago neverthought to see him again.
“Arya,” he moans as she twists her hips. “Arya, I—“
She shakes her head, her dark hair falling over her face.“Not yet.”
She feels it coming, the way she twitches around himtelling it true. He has brought her to pleasure twice tonight, her generousking. And he will again before he finds it himself. His fingers fumble aroundher hip, trembling for want of release. He slips between her folds, seeking outthose places that drive her half-mad. Though it takes him a moment, he findsher, and Arya sucks in a breath, her thighs quaking. She feels it cut throughher belly—a feather-light sensation, almost a tickle, that sends her body tobreath-taking spams.
Arya buries her face in the pillow, moaning loudly intothe fabrics so that they might not draw unwanted attention. As she fights tohold onto the lingering sensations pooling between her thighs, Jon pushes intoher with little grace. Arya smiles, a smile that only grows wider when shehears his gasp and feels him spilling his seed inside her.
As he comes back to himself, Jon withdraws from her,kissing her thrice on her back before lying at her side on his camp bed. His eyesshut slowly and breaths even out; he has found contentment. Usually, she curlsup against him, burying them beneath furs for a few hours’ sleep before she muststeal away into the night back to her chambers. Though the men might thinklittle of her sharing Jon’s tent for her own safety in the camp this night,Arya cannot rest. Jon tries to pull her to him, but Arya quickly escapes hisarms.
She stands, naked as her nameday, and takes a few stepsto the flagon of wine still left from supper. It’s only after she’s drainedhalf her glass that she turns back to Jon, watching him watch her with awide-eyed curiosity.
“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voicerough.
Arya follows his line of sight back to her body, to hermiddle that has begun to softly curve outward since the last moon. She bringsher hands there, shielding or cradling she cannot say.
She has not been ableto say her will since her moon’s blood stopped several turns ago after Jon hadlast left Winterfell to treat with Southron lords. In that time she has bothtried to acknowledge it and ignore it, neither quite satisfying her. And hersilence does not seem to satisfy Jon,she realizes, as he sits up in their bed, his eyes filled with worry.
“I had not planned to,” she admits. “Not yet. I haven’tdecided…”
It’s sounds half an admonishment. The other half shecannot quite place. Pity, perhaps. Or disappointment. She knows she must decidesoon. Her belly continues to swell as she thinks of the choices to be made, andsoon the decision will be made for her as she takes to the birthing bed. Thoughtorn, Arya knows it must not come to that.
She chances a look at his face, to see if she shouldtruly be ashamed. His expression is soft—kind.He does not hate her then. He does not want her to put on her clothes and leavehis tent. And any doubt Arya may have had is removed when he reaches for her.
Arya allows him to pull her to him as if she were a doll.She stands before him, feeling more exposed than ever as he tries to look ather, only for his eyes to drop to her belly. His proximity makes her skinprickly as if under the midday sun, and there is a twinge between her legsagain. In her new condition, she finds herself burning hot at the thought ofJon, as if she carries a fire in her womb instead of a babe.
When his fingertips find her skin, Arya wants again. Judging from his looksnow—some fear, some reverence—she does not think she can sit in his lap and endthis conversation for better things. He will want to discuss this, whateverthere is to discuss. For all that shethinks there may be options, deep within her Arya knows better. She knows intruth that this only ends with her squatting and bleeding alone in some forest,a bitter taste lingering on her tongue.
Jon allows himself to splay his hand across her belly,pausing and searing her, before withdrawing.
Arya settles next to him, her own hands finding hermiddle. Perhaps for the first time—fool that she is, now of all times—she allows herself to feel like any woman might inher position. Maybe it is safer now—now that she knows what must be done—to allowherself to properly feel what’s happening, to her swelling breasts and newlystretching skin. To the roundness of her middle. To her womb filled with Jon’sgrowing babe. Her babe. Hers and Jon’s.
In another life perhaps this changing body of hers wouldnot be so bad. She could bear it, she thinks, for a little one with the looksof the North. For the weighty-feel of a babe mewling in her arms for herbreast. It is a strange thought—her as a mother. Once, at a crossroads longago, it might have been a happy strangeness. But she is on another path now,and motherhood ill suits her, she is certain.
“I will not have a bastard, Arya,” Jon says, though itclearly pains him. “I can’t.”
Despite knowing better, Arya thinks of a little boy withdark curls and gray eyes, his cheeks chubby and sweet. Or a girl, swaddled infurs and sleeping soundly in her father’s arms. It is not the first time shehas thought of them. Long ago, as a little girl herself, she knew she would bemade to marry and have children. Back then she had thought, I will have Jon’s children. Everyone hadtold her it was impossible, that brothers and sisters don’t wed or havechildren. Arya had not understood then why it couldn’t be so. In her heart, sheis not so certain she understands any better now.
“It would not live as you did. You are a king. It’s inyour power to legitimize bastard children.”
The words slip past her lips intentionally, as if shemust hear them voiced herself to know them false. Of course Jon had the powerto do so if he wished, but there was so much more to it than that. There wasWinter, and war, and the dead walking Beyond the Wall. Jon fights on valiantly,but they both know that man is poorly equipped to defeat the undead. Though shecarries within her the heir to the North, a prince or princess of Winterfell,it would only be an heir to ruin.
“This is not any bastard. We are brother and sister,” heanswers her.
Arya’s head swims with thoughts of Targaryens and Lannisters,of families who have thought themselves above the laws of nature. Though herstomach churns violently, Arya for a moment admires the strength it must havetaken to remain steadfast in love and find comfort when others looked on withdisgust. But she and Jon are different. They are Starks. Winter is Coming—ishere. They cannot give into desire so easily when her father’s people dependon them both if they are all to survive this. Robb had, and he had paid thegreatest price.
Reaching out, she takes his hand into her own, meetinghis gaze. His eyes are filled with worry, with fear, with want. Despite explainingwhy she cannot go through with this pregnancy, Arya can tell he’s found no joyin such a position. Since she was old enough to understand, Arya has known thatJon wants to belong. His childhoodhad been a lonely one despite having five siblings. Together, she and he, theyhad found something akin to their own pack; they belonged to one another. Inanother life perhaps, they could have looked upon her growing belly withhappiness.
But, she knows, so deeply that it terrifies her, not inthis one.
“I’ll see to it. On the morrow.”
Jon’s sigh is not one of relief. Perhaps because she’shad more time with this, Arya feels an empty sort of resignation. But Jon. His eyes tell tales of one and ahundred emotions brewing in light of this decision. He brings his warm hand toher jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek tenderly.
She shakes her head. “Don’t be stupid.”
But, sometimes Jon can be so very stupid. He’s a fool tolie back in their bed, to pull her to him so that she’s nestled against him,back to front. He buries his nose in her hair, breathing deeply, and Arya findssome sort of peace in that. But then he does something very foolish, so foolish that she wants to bite her lip in sadnessor in fury. He places his hand against her belly, rubbing soft circles into herskin. And perhaps she could have survived that still had he not begun to hum alullaby from their childhood against her skin.
I loved a maid aswhite as winter, with snowflakes in her hair.
Yes I know the official lyrics to “Seasons of My Love” from ASOIAF is “I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair,” but fuck me if Leonard Snow’s version isn’t perfect:
I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunrise in her hairThere lived no other in the world could in my heart compareHer eyes were stars of midnight bliss, her laugh a meadow breezeI would have done all that she asked, so quick was I to please
I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hairEmbraced in velvet lullabies, such sweetness did we shareWe were all we ever had but we were wild and freeAnd in the lands you would not find a soul as lark as me
I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hairThe seasons of our love had both a beauty and despairTwo hearts that beat as one were we, our song was meant to beAnd in the skies you would not find a dove as spry as she
I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hairI loved her fierce, I loved her true, we were doomed; we did not careThe hands of time would take from me, even she was not to spareIn the whispers of my dreams, I still see my maiden fair
