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whiskeycoffeeTitle: In Blindness and Longing
Author: m.jules
Rating: R
Pairings: Jon/Arya, Ghost/Nymeria
Written For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mercy in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
asoiaf_exchange
Wordcount: 7,667 (roughly)
Summary: A close scrape with trauma leaves Arya confused about her own identity and living by instincts she doesn't understand.
Author's Notes: Rack 'em up, we got squicks all around. Incest, gender issues, age issues, references to slash, possible loopholey and non-canon things (since I, um, can't find my books and had to go by memory), really coarse language, references to attempted non-con, warging. Sorry if I left anything out.
Also, spoilers up through A Feast For Crows.
It was in blindness that the House of Black and White faded behind her. She felt its presence in her mind though she couldn't see its familiar contours and angles.
"You will never learn what you need to know while you are blinded by what your eyes can see," he had told her. She hadn't known at first what he meant, and still didn't know, but she didn't have time to think about it. She already knew to listen with her ears, but she didn't realize how difficult it would be to see with them as well.
Before she left, she had found her sword, in blood and desperation, with hands that smarted from the cut of rough stones that she recklessly threw aside and fingers that stung from the slice of the blade. Like every other needle that ever pricked me, she thought, then shook her head. No, not like any other needle at all.
Blind and alone, and feeling more vulnerable than she would like to admit as she began the next phase of her training, she had clutched Needle and closed her eyes (though that wasn't necessary) and remembered. It was strange how easily she forgot herself until she touched that steel again. When she held it, she knew her name, though she never used it anymore; her parents (dead); her house (destroyed); her siblings (dead or missing); and Jon Snow, lost to her on the Wall. Winterfell was razed and burnt, her family was buried -- Arya Stark was alone in the world and she thought that maybe it was time to leave Arya Stark behind in her loneliness. She would have left Needle, too, but when she touched it, she could see Jon Snow's smile behind her blind eyes and she thought that maybe Arya Stark had a few memories worth keeping.
She wandered around the city for a while, found that it was more difficult when she couldn't see but got used to it soon enough. She knew the place like the back of her hand, knew most of its secrets, many of its people. She knew the docks like she'd known her own bedroom and kept having the feeling that she was getting out of this too easily, that she should go somewhere she didn't know, try to learn her way around a new place with new people. Maybe then that would be impressive, that would add to her training, that would earn her a place in the House of Black and White. She didn't see how just being the same old Cat, except blind, would help that at all.
She told herself she was just getting used to being blind, that was all, that as soon as she got the hang of seeing with her ears, she'd leave and find some place new. She learned to tell direction by the wind, to judge distance by sound, to navigate by smell, to tell the time of day by the nature of the bustle around her. The night she realized she had lingered too long in her town of water-streets and sailors was the night she ignored the peculiar crawl of her skin and twitch of her nose in order to sell a few clams to a man she should have avoided. She was still learning to sense movement without seeing it and by the time she knew he was reaching for her he had grabbed her by the back of her neck, his other hand clasping both her wrists together so she couldn't hit him and when she tried to kick him, he held her back by his grip on her neck as if she were a wayward kitten, a Cat declawed.
It was a stroke of incredible luck that one of her regular customers came along while the man's hands were still occupied with tearing off her clothes, his wet, slimy mouth latched over her own, smothering her with his foul breath. She wriggled out from under him while she could hear the dull sound of fists on flesh and she ran, trusting her memory of the city even in her confusion, trusting her legs even though they were shaking, even though she felt bruised all over and every breath she gulped in burned her lungs. As she ran, she thought she heard the man yell after her, "Stupid girl! Stupid blind, whoring cunt!" and it only made her run faster.
"Stupid girl!" It echoed in her ears and she felt rain on her face even though she hadn't smelled the storm coming in, hadn't heard or felt a change in the wind. Still the rain ran down into her mouth and it was salty and she thought, Not the rain, it's the ocean; it's just the seaspray, and thought, My brothers wouldn't have had to be rescued. Only Sansa would have to be rescued. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.
She found the next ship out of Braavos that said it was sailing in the opposite direction of Westeros and convinced them to take her aboard. She didn't want to find herself at the Wall and discover that Arya Stark really didn't have anything left at all.
"Gyl," the first mate's voice said, and Gyl sat up at attention, hands still on the soapy scrub brush in front of him, focusing his blank eyes toward the sound. "When you're finished with that, go to the galley and help them clean up."
Gyl nodded and listened to the sound of boots walking away before he went back to scrubbing, trailing his hands in front of the brush to feel for areas he hadn't yet cleaned, then again behind the brush to feel for any grime left behind.
Through a lot of pain and effort, Gyl had learned his way around the ship early on in their voyage out of sheer self-defense. When the crew had agreed to take on a blind boy, allowing him to work off his passage to whichever port he decided to make his final stop, they had warned him that they wouldn't go easy on him just because he was blind. "You'll have to do just as much work as everyone else or you won't get to eat as much as everyone else."
Gyl wasn't afraid of a little physical labor, but it was the blindness that got him. It was still new, this stumbling around in the dark thing, and he had the bruises to prove how much error figured into his trials. There had been moments, lying in his hammock below deck, when he had felt more like a frightened little girl than anything else, but there were plenty of creatures who could "see" in the dark. He would just have to become one of them.
When he'd finished with the deck, he threw the last of the soapy water across the planks and made his way down to the galley, one hand out slightly ahead of him to feel for anything the crew might have placed in his way along the familiar path. None of them ever bothered to warn him of the new hazards; he found those by encountering them for himself. The landscape of danger was always changing.
In the galley he was greeted by the scent of grease and fish and the peculiar curling stench of kelp and fresh seafood that at times turned his stomach as much as it piqued his appetite.
"There you are, boy!" the cook bellowed, and Gyl couldn't help a reflexive smile. Adan the cook was a big man, burly if the way his voice rattled out of his chest was anything to go by, and friendly. He was one of the few people who reminded Gyl that he could speak. Sometimes, in the darkness, straining to be so quiet that sounds could stand out and tell him what his eyes could not see, Gyl forgot he even had a voice. Adan reminded him with the casual way he spoke to him as if he expected Gyl to answer, unlike the first mate who just calmly doled out orders and never expected anything more than a nod in response.
"We've got fresh kraken tonight," Adan rumbled, sounding pleased, and something flickered in Gyl's memory that was altogether unpleasant, but it was a vague shadow, flitting behind the screens he'd put up between himself and his past, and he ignored it as he might consciously ignore the buzzing of a fly. "I'll save ye a bite if y'like; ye can have it after ye finish with those dishes there, yeah?"
Gyl grinned broadly and said, "Thank you," hearing the way his voice cracked from much disuse, and Adan laughed, full and rich, the belly-laughter of a man who found a joke in everything.
"Aye, the way you're squeakin' like a drownin' rat, ye'll be gettin' hair on that pretty smooth chest soon, boy," Adan said, his hand flicking out to tap Gyl on the shoulder. Gyl heard the sound the fist made cutting through the air and anticipated the touch, pleased that he had been able to sense it even while he had to keep himself from flinching at the contact. "Never fear, all boys become men someday."
Gyl just smiled and got to work on scrubbing the pans, ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was the disorienting feel of the way the ship listed a bit in the water as she turned, dipping across currents and dancing with the cross-wind, that woke Gyl in the middle of the night. He could tell morning was still lingering below the horizon from the peculiar quiet noise of the waves as they lapped against the sides of the ship; the ocean was gentler at night, unless there was a storm. The ship's crew was as loud at night as they were during the day, only it was different kinds of noises. Some of them sat up drinking their tankards of ale, playing cards, betting with chores and choice sleeping spots more than their wages; some walked the decks more quietly, keeping watch through the long night. The men swinging in their hammocks were noisy in a different sort, with snores that could rattle the walls or unmistakable groans of mingling pleasure and pain that had taken Gyl a while to sort out.
The latter noise had embarrassed him at first, brought blood rushing to his face and down through his stomach, lower, in places he hadn't thought of touching like that before, and he'd taken to sleeping with his hands curled against his chest to keep them away from that strange temptation. Maybe later, sometime when he was certain he was alone, but not when his blindness could betray him in new ways, not when someone might see, might discover his strange secret that, at times, befuddled even himself.
It was in that position, hands clasped over his chest, knees pulled up slightly in deference to a peculiar ache that pervaded his dreams (dreams of a brother not-forgotten no matter how many screens he put up in his memory), that he woke the night the ship turned into the wind and began sailing back the way it had come.
Gyl sat up in his hammock, heart pounding, stomach roiling like the seas in a high wind, and clutched at the woven ropes beneath him.
"Where are we going?" he said aloud, speech coming easily in his fear, forgetting what the noises were that he had been sleeping through. On the ocean, on a merchant ship with no women aboard, men were sometimes men and sometimes women, and none of them seemed to find much strange in this, no stranger than other certain necessities of being asea. It had bothered him at first in a way that felt far too personal to be prejudice, but in time he had learned that the sounds were more of pleasure than of pain and even found a certain comfort in the ritual of pretending to ignore them.
Four of them to a room and Gyl and Dea had been the only ones asleep; the other two, Rahu and Timpes, were very awake. It was Timpes who answered Gyl's question, hoarse and breathless, and Gyl heard Rahu groan under his breath and almost blushed.
"Westeros," Timpes rasped. "Orders from the owner. They're turning the ship around."
It was the first time in his life Gyl could ever remember being seasick.
The closer the Dancing Maiden came to Westeros, the stranger Gyl's dreams were. He dreamed of long days spent walking with other boys, of long nights running to the north with a pack of wolves, of high branches and swinging a sword at the sky, dancing on the limbs as if he were walking on water. The strangest thing about it was that he always dreamed he was a girl and when he woke it was in a state of confusion, feeling halfway between male and female, between day and night, between darkness and vision.
And when the ship docked one chilled, overcast afternoon, he felt halfway between an unremembered past and an uncertain future. He had no choice but to head north and west, to a mysterious place he knew in his dreams as The Wall.
He smelled her first, an unexpected shock of familiarity in the cold. His tail wagged and soundless whines strained at his throat as she came into view, sliding between the icy branches of the leaf-bare shrubs.
Sister! The man-word was clear in his mind and he opened his mouth, tongue lolling out in happy greeting that he couldn't vocalize. She made soft yipping sounds, a mixture of hello and a warning to stay away, her ears laid back and her tail swinging slowly from side to side. He tilted his head to the side, white ears perked forward in concern, and sat down in the snow. It had been a long time since they had seen each other, separated since they were pups, and it was obvious she was confused. He would wait for her to come to him.
Jon Snow awoke with a start, blinking as the candlelight blurred like spreading drops of gold water, and rubbed his sleep-filled eyes until the room was clear again. He looked down at the pages of the book that had been serving as his accidental pillow and frowned when the lines refused to come clear. "Take a break, Lord Snow," he muttered to himself, cynicism bleeding into his voice.
He leaned back in his chair and remembered the dream he'd been having. It had been a long time since he had warged into Ghost like that. It thrilled him and bemused him all at once, why now of all times he should be one with his direwolf again. He let his mind play over the dream, tracing its contours, and blinked when he remembered the other wolf. Nymeria? Had that been Arya's direwolf Ghost had encountered, all the way up here in the frozen north?
His chair rattled as he bolted upright, stumbling on legs gone numb when he tried to stand, and he was two shaky steps toward the door before he stopped, wondering what had gotten into him. It wasn't like he was going to go trudging through the snow just to find the direwolf that had belonged to his favorite little sister, was it? He shook his head, a dry, brittle chuckle in his throat. Arya was believed dead, and it killed him to think about it so he tried not to, but her direwolf had come to him -- well, to Ghost. That meant something, didn't it? He just didn't know what, and it wasn't like he had time to puzzle it out, not with everything else he had to do as Lord Commander of the Wall.
"Lord Snow!"
The voice coming up the stairwell was anything but welcome and Jon resisted the urge to beat his head against the wall. It wouldn't do any good; this was his life and he would just have to make the best of it.
I just wanted to be a Ranger, he sighed, indulging in a moment of self-pity before he shook himself and stepped into the stairwell.
"Yes? What is it?"
"There's someone just come in from the east," said a boy known as Frog, stopping two steps below Jon and tilting his head back to look up at him. "Says he wants to take the black." There was a pause that was heavy with hesitation and Jon arched an eyebrow, silently prodding for whatever information he wasn't getting. "He's blind."
Instantly, Jon thought of his mentor, sent away with Sam, and smiled just faintly. "Blindness isn't the worst handicap a man can have," Jon reminded Frog. "Where is he?"
"Standin' outside in the yard, sir," Frog said, sounding uncomfortable with this information. "We wasn't sure whether it was safe to bring him in or not."
"Yes, bring him in," Jon said. "Bring him in to the kitchen, give him a bowl of soup or whatever we have that's warm. It's cold outside and getting colder. I'll be down to see him momentarily."
It was strange that a man would come on his own to take the black but not unheard of. Men who had fathered bastard chlldren on women they had no desire to marry and were afraid of being forced into an unpleasant duty, men who had committed crimes that were as yet secret and wanted to be safe when they were found out - these were the kinds who ran to the Wall, thinking of it as a safe escape, a better existence. Obviously, if anyone at all has read our letters, tales of the Others have not spread as far as I would have thought or this one probably wouldn't be here.
Still, with Stannis and his frightening Red Priestess hovering over them all like a foul mist, Jon would be glad to have more allies of his own, more men loyal to only him and to the Wall, not to a would-be king or some god who claimed to bring light but only ever seemed to throw shadows on the walls. If it is light they bring, it is not light enough, Jon thought of the red woman and her god.
Thinking he had probably stalled long enough to give the man time to get a couple of mouthfuls of hot food in his belly, Jon took the stairs slowly, thinking of Ghost, thinking of Nymeria, and wondering what message they were trying to give him. It made his head hurt, made his stomach twist, and he paused to pinch his nose in frustration. You know nothing, Jon Snow. The thought rang in his head, bitter and sweet, and he sighed. It was true, and feeling truer by the day.
He stepped into the dining hall and turned toward the cluster of men and boys by the end of the table. He could tell that someone was seated in the midst and thought it must be the new volunteer. Frog and Pyp and the others were gathered around him, chattering like magpies, full of questions and exaggerated stories. Jon cleared his throat as he approached and they all turned, raising a greeting clamor and the man -- no, a boy; smaller than Jon himself, and younger -- stood, dirty brown hair falling into his face, obscuring his features. He seemed slender and delicate, as if he could pass for a girl if he tried hard enough. Not a specially pretty girl, but a girl nonetheless. Something about him seemed deeply familiar to Jon, and he tried to peer under the long, shaggy bangs for a clearer view of his features. Had it been someone he'd met at Winterfell? In one of the towns?
He almost asked the boy to look him in the eye before he remembered what Frog had said. He's blind. "I'm Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Wall," he said, wondering how his voice sounded to the boy, strangely concerned about the impression he was making on someone who couldn't see him. "What is your name?"
"Gyl," the boy responded, his voice hoarse and croaking as if he'd been long in the wind and longer without speaking.
The boys around him laughed in surprise and Pyp crowed, "You'll be takin' Frog's name away from him if you keep talkin' like that!"
Jon saw a flush creep down Gyl's neck and frowned at the others. They quieted sheepishly and Jon looked back at the new boy. "Where do you come from, Gyl?" he asked.
"I... I was on a merchant ship from Braavos," he said, hesitantly. "Before that... I don't remember." That set off a few alarms in Jon's head and just as he was about to ask how Gyl had come to hear of the Wall all the way in Braavos, the boy's hand reached for the hilt of his sword as if reassuring himself that it was still there in case he needed it, and Jon's eyes followed the motion.
He recognized the blade in an instant and his gaze flew to the boy's face. He still couldn't make out the features, but his mind was stumbling over itself, spinning in circles, and his mouth was cotton-dry. "Tell me," Jon said, cold as ice, "Did you know a girl? A girl with a sword?" Before Gyl could respond, Jon continued, voice sharpening with each word, "Did you take her sword? Did you kill her?"
"I - I don't know," Gyl said, sounding confused. He was still looking down at the table and Jon was beginning to grow irritated that he couldn't see the boy's blind eyes past that mop of hair. "I've killed a lot of people. What was her name?"
"Ar--" Jon choked, paused, cleared his throat. "Arya Stark," he said, voice dangerously low. "Did you kill Arya Stark?"
Finally, the boy looked up, hair falling away from his face, and Jon's breath left his lungs as if stolen by the cold hands of a wraith.
"Yes," said Arya, "I killed her."
Gyl heard the way everyone around him went silent when he confessed to killing the girl whose name sounded so familiar. He remembered running his blade in and out of many bodies, he remembered the blood on his hands, remembered the heat of it, the scent, the rich red stain that never seemed to come off. He didn't know who Arya Stark was, but he recognized the name and thought that it must be important. It must have belonged to someone, someone he'd known. Possibly someone he'd killed. If he had her sword -- and it hadn't escaped him that the man (Jon Snow, and why did that name make his heart beat triple time?) had asked him the question just when he'd been reaching for the sword -- then she probably was someone he'd killed. Maybe the first. Maybe the last. Maybe she was the one who had blinded him.
"Did you know her?" he asked, strangely calm. Even if this man was angry at him, Gyl had killed before. He could kill again if he needed to. He didn't take time to think about why he might not want to.
Lord Snow didn't answer and Gyl held his tongue, listening, feeling, trying to sense if he was about to die for his crime.
"Come with me," Lord Snow said, then there was the sound of footsteps retreating and Gyl swallowed. Following someone by sound through a new place was going to be a new challenge for him, but there was something that Gyl didn't understand that made him feel like he needed to. It didn't make sense, but the instant he had heard Lord Snow's voice, he'd felt... safe, warm, dizzy. He wanted to feel that again. More.
Stumbling, wincing when he bumped the table with his hip, more because of the obscuring noise than the pain, Gyl lunged after Lord Snow. He followed the sound of footsteps up a long stairwell, into the chill, chasing the flame that burned inside a man with a cold name.
He didn't understand why she didn't smell the same, why that familiar family scent was obscured. What he really wanted was to snuffle into the thick ruff of her coat just under her neck, bury his nose near her skin to search for her scent, the scent they shared, and mark her again with himself so that no one could think she belonged to a different pack.
That was what he wanted, but when he stretched his nose out to her, mouth open a little to taste the air near her, she growled and snapped, pulling away, and he stopped. Angering her wouldn't accomplish his purpose, wouldn't bring her into his fold. It was obvious she had a pack of her own, that she was used to running at the head, giving the orders, leaving herself open to no one and taking no mate for herself. As much as she smelled like her pack, she didn't smell mated. Still, she had left her pack and come to him. He would be patient. She couldn't leave, not now, not when she hadn't gotten what she'd come for - if she even knew what she'd come for.
He settled down into the snow, white paws calmly in front of him, head up, red eyes bright with anticipation. She sniffed the air and danced in the snow, turning up frozen mud beneath her paws as she tried to walk away once, twice, three times, and circled back around to him each time.
He simply lay still and waited.
It had been over a week since Arya had showed up at Castle Black claiming to be a boy named Gyl and Jon was no closer to figuring out the mystery than he had been at the moment he'd recognized her. At first, he thought she was in disguise for her own protection, but even when he had her in his private rooms she didn't let her guard down. She still claimed to be a boy, claimed her name was Gyl though she was at a loss for a family name, claimed she didn't remember where she'd been before Braavos, and never so much as let a glimmer of recognition into her eyes when she looked at him.
Jon guessed that something must have happened in Braavos -- an injury or a fever or something; and what was she doing in Braavos in the first place? -- to strip her of her memories and her sight. It still baffled him that she thought she was a boy, but then Arya had never been comfortable in the trappings of ladyship.
Though he was convinced of her identity, Jon noticed that anyone who didn't know what Arya looked like would never guess she was anything but what she said she was -- a blind boy from Braavos who had come to the Wall he'd heard much about. He didn't have as much time to observe her as he would have liked, but he knew how to keep his ears open and he knew enough to know that Gyl was an entirely different creature in many ways than his little sister had been.
Most notable was the fact that she never touched Needle and only participated in the swordplay because it was required of her to complete her training and take the black. When thrown into the sparring yard with the other boys, she used a spare sword from the smithy to trounce them, though she took her fair share of beatings. Jon was proud of her skill with a sword, curious to know where she'd learned it, and disturbed to think of why she'd had to.
"Yes," he remembered her saying, her blind eyes dull and eerily direct. "I killed Arya Stark. Did you know her?"
That night, the first night she'd come to Castle Black, he had asked her, "Why the Wall? Why now?"
"I don't remember who I was or what I did before I got on the Dancing Maiden and came here," she had said. "I don't know what I'm running from, only that I am."
"Fair enough," he'd told her, though he was worried and that concern hadn't faded. Now, on top of everything else, his little sister was here and she was all grown up, or nearly so. I don't have time for this, he thought. But I can't afford not to.
He sighed, putting aside the heavy tomes Sam had brought up for him to read and rubbing at his eyes. If only he could make her remember him, he had a feeling everything else might be all right.
The ground was cold under him and Gyl shivered as he felt around for his sword that had been knocked out of his hand. He was still grabbing handfuls of snow instead of steel when he heard the crunch of boots crossing the frozen ground toward the training area where he had been sparring until his arms were sore. He stilled, waiting to see what new threat was approaching, unsure if he should stand to greet it or wait until he located his sword.
"Stand up, Gyl," said the voice Gyl had learned belonged to Jon Snow. "I want to match with you."
"I can't find my sword," Gyl admitted. "I dropped it..." Something in him knew to lie on instinct, knew to never share everything, to keep a few secrets for himself, but something about Lord Snow made him confess truth in ways that even septons couldn't.
"Stand up," Lord Snow said again. "I have your sword."
Gyl obeyed, standing up slowly and holding out his hand, even though his sword arm ached and sent sharp pains radiating down his side. The weight of a hilt touched his palm and he closed his fingers around it, shivering at the perfect balance and grip. This was not the borrowed sword from the armory; this was his sword, Arya Stark's sword, and his mind said clearly, Needle. Jon Snow. Winterfell. Water. Dance.
He shivered, but before he could think any further, he felt Lord Snow shift stances and instantly crouched into a defensive position. When their swords clashed, it was like lightning shooting up his sore, fatigued arm and crackling into his brain.
Winterfell.
He gritted his teeth and parried, trying to anticipate Lord Snow's next move without being able to see him.
A dark-haired boy, standing in front of her, smiling fondly at her over a shining silver blade.
Valyrian. "Needle." Laughter.
Lord Snow's next blow caught him crosswise, forced him to bring his other hand up to brace his own sword, to push back against him to gain his ground. The heel of his boot skidded on the ice and he scrambled to stay upright, to stay protected.
A hand flicked out to ruffle her hair and it should have bothered her but it didn't. It made her smile and that always made him smile back.
Spinning away, he struggled to regain his footing, to catch his breath. He heard Lord Snow coming and brought his sword up, crossing blades with a jarring impact. He grunted and shoved back, going on the defensive when he felt Lord Snow falter, heard the way Lord Snow stumbled on the frozen grounds.
"Jon!" she called, and the dark-haired boy turned and smiled. Beyond him she could see other boys, a girl older than herself, a man with dark hair like the boy, a woman with red hair like the other children. The boy's smile widened and softened and he paused to wait for her.
"Hurry up, Arya."
Something in his head pounded as if lightning had gripped his sword and shot fire up his bones, and he dropped his blade with a cry, holding his hands up in surrender before he quite realized what he'd done.
As soon as the sword left his hand, his breath began to straighten and his mind slowly cooled, returning him to a state of hazy confusion.
"...Gyl? Are you all right?"
Lord Snow's voice finally filtered into his mind and he nodded, cradling his sword arm with his other hand.
"Yes, sorry," he murmured. "I'm tired and I don't think I'm used to fighting in the cold like this." He bit his lip, ashamed. "My arm hurts."
"You have been practicing for a long time," Lord Snow said, but there was something lurking in his voice that made Gyl nervous. "Why don't you take a break and warm up a bit? Then I'd like you to come to my room. There are some things I would know of Braavos, if you can tell me."
"All right," Gyl said because he couldn't say anything else. Leaving the sword on the ground, clutching at his throbbing arm, Gyl made his way toward the kitchen by memory, sweeping out in front of him with his hand every few steps and thinking that, even if he weren't blind, he wouldn't be able to see where he was going.
Weeks passed in something of a routine. When Jon had a break in his duties, in his dance of avoidance with Stannis and Melisandre, he challenged Arya to a match in the yard. He always made her use Needle for their sparring and though she was a far sight better than some of his other black brothers had been or still were, their matches always ended with Arya dropping the sword and acting very disoriented. He wondered if it was him or the sword itself that confused her; if it was helping bring back the memory that she'd lost in Braavos.
After she had rested from their duels, he always had her come to his room, had her tell him stories of what she could remember. She talked freely during those times, though he noticed that once or twice she slipped into a form of recitation, telling him things had learned. She had learned that the decks of ships are wide and need to be scrubbed more often than she would like; she had learned that careful listening could tell her things her eyes had never been able to and that the feeling in the pit of her stomach could tell her even more than her ears could; she had learned that not all men love women and that some loved each other.
Jon wasn't sure what compelled Arya to tell him about Timpes and Rahu, her cabinmates on the Dancing Maiden, but at times when she was telling him things, she seemed to be in a trancelike state, unable or unwilling to censor herself to tell him only the relevant details. He never stopped her, never questioned her, never spoke to her except to make encouraging noises, though at times he suspected she would have known if he had simply nodded. He just listened to everything she could tell him, tried to piece together the mystery of why she didn't know who she was and kept an ear out for anything that might help him with his own political dilemma of would-be kings who wouldn't go away and the frightening red women they brought with them.
One night, when Arya had come to the end of her tales (and she was running out of things to tell him, he suspected, unless they could open her memory again), Jon was lost in thought, staring at the fire, and didn't respond. He realized his error when a shadow fell across him and he looked up, seeing Arya standing there, blind eyes looking down at him, hand reaching toward him. Startled, he reached up as if to stop her and caught himself at the last minute, capturing her hand gently in his. She was a dangerous fighter now, but she was still his little sister and he had never sensed that he was in any danger from her. He hoped something in her remembered him, remembered that he would not betray her.
"What is it?" he asked, having to stop himself at the last moment from saying her name. Ever since he had accused Gyl of killing Arya and Gyl had confessed to it, he was afraid of what reaction using that name would cause.
"You're worried about something," she said. "I can feel it. What concerns you?"
He took a deep breath and wondered where to begin. He knew that, in some ways, he was betraying his vows by taking so much time with Arya when he had so many other things to do as Lord of the Wall. He knew that when he had taken the black, he had sworn to have no family but his black brothers. But she was not Arya Stark now; she was Gyl, and she was a week away from taking her own vows and being one of his brothers instead of his sister, and he wondered if he was committing some grave sin by allowing this. Beyond this, he was certain that Gilly's babe, crying and small and refusing to eat, would be sacrificed by Melisandre by the time of the new moon. He wasn't as worried about that child as he had been about the other, but part of him was scared that Craster came from a blood line that included enough royalty to give the witch what she wanted. He wanted Stannis away from the Wall but didn't know how to do so without starting a war. He needed to know about the wights, about the Others, about the ice that burned.
He couldn't tell her all this, though, and he simply sighed and squeezed her hand. "I was thinking how best to help you," he said, and it was not a lie, only not the whole truth.
Her fingers curled around his and before he knew what she was doing, she was pulling off his leather glove, her small, calloused fingers skimming over the burned flesh beneath. Her forehead wrinkled for a moment before she said curiously, "You... you were burned."
"A long time ago," he admitted, remembering how he'd looked at his scarred hand and thought of Arya, thought of the way that hand had ruffled her hair, thought of how much he missed her. It seemed like a trick of the gods that she was touching those scars now. Almost without thinking, he reached up and touched the ends of her hair where it hung over her shoulders, unable to reach further. Leaning into the touch, she curled her legs beneath her and knelt beside his chair. Swallowing, he pushed the injured hand through her hair, alike and yet unlike their familiar old gesture. She closed her blind eyes and hummed and he realized that he had missed her more than he'd thought, needed her more than he had ever admitted.
Before he even knew what he was doing, he tilted her chin up, leaned over, and kissed her lips.
Ghost woke to the strange sensation of sharp nips at his face, followed by the warm laving of a gentle tongue, and tried to shake his head free when sharp teeth clamped down on his ear. He snapped at the air in warning, but his sister didn't move away. In fact, she came back again, moving in on him with the bulk of her body, teeth scraping over his face and neck. He rolled over onto his back, displaying his belly in a show of submissiveness, but she didn't stop. She pinned him in the snow, still licking and biting, and it was then he caught the peculiar edge to her scent.
The surge of instinct pushed at him, making him lick her in return, love-bites on her jaw and ears and throat. She was aggressive in her wanting and he tried to wrestle her to the snow, prove his strength and mate her like she was asking for, but she only pushed him down harder, asserting her dominance, and he pinned his ears back in confusion. She was going about this all wrong -- she was trying to mate him.
It wasn't until Lord Snow's mouth touched his that Gyl knew what he'd been wanting, why he was always so, so eager after the duels even though he lost all their matches. Finally, it made sense, the way Gyl measured his days and weeks by how long it had been since Lord Snow last summoned him, the way he listened every day at meals for the sound of Lord Snow's voice or else one of the boys saying how they were taking a tray up to him. He understood why Rahu and Timpes stayed awake into the night when they had worked so hard all day and why Gyl had told Lord Snow about them, testing the wind to say 'I don't mind, do you?'
When the warm lips on his retreated, guilt evident in their abruptness, Gyl chased them without thinking, mouth pressing, looking for something he didn't know how to find.
"Ar..." Lord Snow sounded strangled and stopped, hands coming to rest on Gyl's upper arms, holding him back but holding him just the same. "I shouldn't have --"
"No, it's all right," Gyl told him, voice rasping with hunger. "I want... I want it, too."
Lord Snow seemed frozen and Gyl leaned up again, wanting, wanting, and so confused. The reckless acquiescence to his aggressiveness tasted so very sweet beneath the salt of kisses. Eagerly Gyl climbed into Lord Snow's lap, knees on either side of the man's hips, and moved his mouth clumsily, trying to taste, trying to eat him alive.
"Wait," Lord Snow said, and Gyl nearly panicked. Bits of dream flashed through his mind, dreams of a girl, dreams of her brothers, her sister, her family. It felt warm and it felt like home and it was all inside of him, the man he was kissing. Somehow, Gyl had to get at those dreams. "Slow down a bit. Here, let me..."
The kiss this time was gentle and exploring, and it felt and tasted so good, and behind closed eyelids (not that it mattered), Gyl could see wolves in the snow, one grey and one solid white. They were wrestling and it seemed the grey one had the upper hand, but as Lord Snow's hands stroked gently across his back, he saw the grey one begin to back away uncertainly, ears flicking in distress and confusion.
Gyl could feel a rising hunger in his body and he wrapped his arms around Lord Snow's neck, pressing their cheeks together and whispering in his ear, "Please." He wanted without knowing what, but he hoped Lord Snow would know. "Please," he said again.
The grey wolf lay down in the snow as the white one moved in.
Jon wasn't sure what he had expected, but he tried not to think about things too hard. When he did, his head felt like it would burst from the rush of guilt and confusion and rebellion. He hadn't expected to actually do anything, much less have made love to Arya like he would to a man. She had guided him at first, guided herself by the rough talk of her sailor bunkmates, and he had been uneasy but Arya didn't know she was a girl. How would he make love to her like that?
And then there had been the wolves. The entire time he was with Arya, he kept flashing into Ghost for moments at a time, registering little things like the scruff of Nymeria's neck between his teeth, the warmth of her beneath his body, the urge to mate. It was confusing, baffling, overwhelming and more than a little unnerving. Were he and Arya influencing the direwolves or the other way around? Or was it simply synchronized coincidence?
Stop thinking, he told himself, tightening his arms around Arya's slim body. This was getting strange. Maybe it would be easier if he thought of her as Gyl, too. Maybe Gyl had killed Arya after all; maybe Jon had helped. He kissed the top of the head tucked under his chin and wondered if it would make a difference if she ever knew who she was again. She'd lost everyone in her family except him, and she didn't need to call herself Arya or even a girl for him to still love her, want her. He would always long for Arya's company, and there would always be a place in his heart for a blind boy from Braavos named Gyl.
He remembered at one moment, the way she'd arched into him and, for the first time, called out his name. She'd sounded like Arya then and the sound had been almost too much for him. He sighed and nuzzled her hair, stroking a gentle hand down her back. No; despite the affection he'd developed for Gyl, he needed Arya too much to simply let her go. He didn't know how or when, but somehow, he would fix things.
He chose not to question whether he could.
She lay beside him, calm and breathing, and he nuzzled into her grey fur, licking her ear. She had accepted most of his love play but in the end, wouldn't let him mate her. He could smell the uncertainty on her, the reluctance to surrender her position as dominant for any reason at all. It was all right, though; she hadn't left him. She had stayed and as long as she was there, they had time to figure things out. In the meantime, he was just happy not to be alone.
THE END
Author: m.jules
Rating: R
Pairings: Jon/Arya, Ghost/Nymeria
Written For:
mercy in the asoiaf_exchangeWordcount: 7,667 (roughly)
Summary: A close scrape with trauma leaves Arya confused about her own identity and living by instincts she doesn't understand.
Author's Notes: Rack 'em up, we got squicks all around. Incest, gender issues, age issues, references to slash, possible loopholey and non-canon things (since I, um, can't find my books and had to go by memory), really coarse language, references to attempted non-con, warging. Sorry if I left anything out.
Also, spoilers up through A Feast For Crows.
It was in blindness that the House of Black and White faded behind her. She felt its presence in her mind though she couldn't see its familiar contours and angles.
"You will never learn what you need to know while you are blinded by what your eyes can see," he had told her. She hadn't known at first what he meant, and still didn't know, but she didn't have time to think about it. She already knew to listen with her ears, but she didn't realize how difficult it would be to see with them as well.
Before she left, she had found her sword, in blood and desperation, with hands that smarted from the cut of rough stones that she recklessly threw aside and fingers that stung from the slice of the blade. Like every other needle that ever pricked me, she thought, then shook her head. No, not like any other needle at all.
Blind and alone, and feeling more vulnerable than she would like to admit as she began the next phase of her training, she had clutched Needle and closed her eyes (though that wasn't necessary) and remembered. It was strange how easily she forgot herself until she touched that steel again. When she held it, she knew her name, though she never used it anymore; her parents (dead); her house (destroyed); her siblings (dead or missing); and Jon Snow, lost to her on the Wall. Winterfell was razed and burnt, her family was buried -- Arya Stark was alone in the world and she thought that maybe it was time to leave Arya Stark behind in her loneliness. She would have left Needle, too, but when she touched it, she could see Jon Snow's smile behind her blind eyes and she thought that maybe Arya Stark had a few memories worth keeping.
She wandered around the city for a while, found that it was more difficult when she couldn't see but got used to it soon enough. She knew the place like the back of her hand, knew most of its secrets, many of its people. She knew the docks like she'd known her own bedroom and kept having the feeling that she was getting out of this too easily, that she should go somewhere she didn't know, try to learn her way around a new place with new people. Maybe then that would be impressive, that would add to her training, that would earn her a place in the House of Black and White. She didn't see how just being the same old Cat, except blind, would help that at all.
She told herself she was just getting used to being blind, that was all, that as soon as she got the hang of seeing with her ears, she'd leave and find some place new. She learned to tell direction by the wind, to judge distance by sound, to navigate by smell, to tell the time of day by the nature of the bustle around her. The night she realized she had lingered too long in her town of water-streets and sailors was the night she ignored the peculiar crawl of her skin and twitch of her nose in order to sell a few clams to a man she should have avoided. She was still learning to sense movement without seeing it and by the time she knew he was reaching for her he had grabbed her by the back of her neck, his other hand clasping both her wrists together so she couldn't hit him and when she tried to kick him, he held her back by his grip on her neck as if she were a wayward kitten, a Cat declawed.
It was a stroke of incredible luck that one of her regular customers came along while the man's hands were still occupied with tearing off her clothes, his wet, slimy mouth latched over her own, smothering her with his foul breath. She wriggled out from under him while she could hear the dull sound of fists on flesh and she ran, trusting her memory of the city even in her confusion, trusting her legs even though they were shaking, even though she felt bruised all over and every breath she gulped in burned her lungs. As she ran, she thought she heard the man yell after her, "Stupid girl! Stupid blind, whoring cunt!" and it only made her run faster.
"Stupid girl!" It echoed in her ears and she felt rain on her face even though she hadn't smelled the storm coming in, hadn't heard or felt a change in the wind. Still the rain ran down into her mouth and it was salty and she thought, Not the rain, it's the ocean; it's just the seaspray, and thought, My brothers wouldn't have had to be rescued. Only Sansa would have to be rescued. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.
She found the next ship out of Braavos that said it was sailing in the opposite direction of Westeros and convinced them to take her aboard. She didn't want to find herself at the Wall and discover that Arya Stark really didn't have anything left at all.
"Gyl," the first mate's voice said, and Gyl sat up at attention, hands still on the soapy scrub brush in front of him, focusing his blank eyes toward the sound. "When you're finished with that, go to the galley and help them clean up."
Gyl nodded and listened to the sound of boots walking away before he went back to scrubbing, trailing his hands in front of the brush to feel for areas he hadn't yet cleaned, then again behind the brush to feel for any grime left behind.
Through a lot of pain and effort, Gyl had learned his way around the ship early on in their voyage out of sheer self-defense. When the crew had agreed to take on a blind boy, allowing him to work off his passage to whichever port he decided to make his final stop, they had warned him that they wouldn't go easy on him just because he was blind. "You'll have to do just as much work as everyone else or you won't get to eat as much as everyone else."
Gyl wasn't afraid of a little physical labor, but it was the blindness that got him. It was still new, this stumbling around in the dark thing, and he had the bruises to prove how much error figured into his trials. There had been moments, lying in his hammock below deck, when he had felt more like a frightened little girl than anything else, but there were plenty of creatures who could "see" in the dark. He would just have to become one of them.
When he'd finished with the deck, he threw the last of the soapy water across the planks and made his way down to the galley, one hand out slightly ahead of him to feel for anything the crew might have placed in his way along the familiar path. None of them ever bothered to warn him of the new hazards; he found those by encountering them for himself. The landscape of danger was always changing.
In the galley he was greeted by the scent of grease and fish and the peculiar curling stench of kelp and fresh seafood that at times turned his stomach as much as it piqued his appetite.
"There you are, boy!" the cook bellowed, and Gyl couldn't help a reflexive smile. Adan the cook was a big man, burly if the way his voice rattled out of his chest was anything to go by, and friendly. He was one of the few people who reminded Gyl that he could speak. Sometimes, in the darkness, straining to be so quiet that sounds could stand out and tell him what his eyes could not see, Gyl forgot he even had a voice. Adan reminded him with the casual way he spoke to him as if he expected Gyl to answer, unlike the first mate who just calmly doled out orders and never expected anything more than a nod in response.
"We've got fresh kraken tonight," Adan rumbled, sounding pleased, and something flickered in Gyl's memory that was altogether unpleasant, but it was a vague shadow, flitting behind the screens he'd put up between himself and his past, and he ignored it as he might consciously ignore the buzzing of a fly. "I'll save ye a bite if y'like; ye can have it after ye finish with those dishes there, yeah?"
Gyl grinned broadly and said, "Thank you," hearing the way his voice cracked from much disuse, and Adan laughed, full and rich, the belly-laughter of a man who found a joke in everything.
"Aye, the way you're squeakin' like a drownin' rat, ye'll be gettin' hair on that pretty smooth chest soon, boy," Adan said, his hand flicking out to tap Gyl on the shoulder. Gyl heard the sound the fist made cutting through the air and anticipated the touch, pleased that he had been able to sense it even while he had to keep himself from flinching at the contact. "Never fear, all boys become men someday."
Gyl just smiled and got to work on scrubbing the pans, ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was the disorienting feel of the way the ship listed a bit in the water as she turned, dipping across currents and dancing with the cross-wind, that woke Gyl in the middle of the night. He could tell morning was still lingering below the horizon from the peculiar quiet noise of the waves as they lapped against the sides of the ship; the ocean was gentler at night, unless there was a storm. The ship's crew was as loud at night as they were during the day, only it was different kinds of noises. Some of them sat up drinking their tankards of ale, playing cards, betting with chores and choice sleeping spots more than their wages; some walked the decks more quietly, keeping watch through the long night. The men swinging in their hammocks were noisy in a different sort, with snores that could rattle the walls or unmistakable groans of mingling pleasure and pain that had taken Gyl a while to sort out.
The latter noise had embarrassed him at first, brought blood rushing to his face and down through his stomach, lower, in places he hadn't thought of touching like that before, and he'd taken to sleeping with his hands curled against his chest to keep them away from that strange temptation. Maybe later, sometime when he was certain he was alone, but not when his blindness could betray him in new ways, not when someone might see, might discover his strange secret that, at times, befuddled even himself.
It was in that position, hands clasped over his chest, knees pulled up slightly in deference to a peculiar ache that pervaded his dreams (dreams of a brother not-forgotten no matter how many screens he put up in his memory), that he woke the night the ship turned into the wind and began sailing back the way it had come.
Gyl sat up in his hammock, heart pounding, stomach roiling like the seas in a high wind, and clutched at the woven ropes beneath him.
"Where are we going?" he said aloud, speech coming easily in his fear, forgetting what the noises were that he had been sleeping through. On the ocean, on a merchant ship with no women aboard, men were sometimes men and sometimes women, and none of them seemed to find much strange in this, no stranger than other certain necessities of being asea. It had bothered him at first in a way that felt far too personal to be prejudice, but in time he had learned that the sounds were more of pleasure than of pain and even found a certain comfort in the ritual of pretending to ignore them.
Four of them to a room and Gyl and Dea had been the only ones asleep; the other two, Rahu and Timpes, were very awake. It was Timpes who answered Gyl's question, hoarse and breathless, and Gyl heard Rahu groan under his breath and almost blushed.
"Westeros," Timpes rasped. "Orders from the owner. They're turning the ship around."
It was the first time in his life Gyl could ever remember being seasick.
The closer the Dancing Maiden came to Westeros, the stranger Gyl's dreams were. He dreamed of long days spent walking with other boys, of long nights running to the north with a pack of wolves, of high branches and swinging a sword at the sky, dancing on the limbs as if he were walking on water. The strangest thing about it was that he always dreamed he was a girl and when he woke it was in a state of confusion, feeling halfway between male and female, between day and night, between darkness and vision.
And when the ship docked one chilled, overcast afternoon, he felt halfway between an unremembered past and an uncertain future. He had no choice but to head north and west, to a mysterious place he knew in his dreams as The Wall.
He smelled her first, an unexpected shock of familiarity in the cold. His tail wagged and soundless whines strained at his throat as she came into view, sliding between the icy branches of the leaf-bare shrubs.
Sister! The man-word was clear in his mind and he opened his mouth, tongue lolling out in happy greeting that he couldn't vocalize. She made soft yipping sounds, a mixture of hello and a warning to stay away, her ears laid back and her tail swinging slowly from side to side. He tilted his head to the side, white ears perked forward in concern, and sat down in the snow. It had been a long time since they had seen each other, separated since they were pups, and it was obvious she was confused. He would wait for her to come to him.
Jon Snow awoke with a start, blinking as the candlelight blurred like spreading drops of gold water, and rubbed his sleep-filled eyes until the room was clear again. He looked down at the pages of the book that had been serving as his accidental pillow and frowned when the lines refused to come clear. "Take a break, Lord Snow," he muttered to himself, cynicism bleeding into his voice.
He leaned back in his chair and remembered the dream he'd been having. It had been a long time since he had warged into Ghost like that. It thrilled him and bemused him all at once, why now of all times he should be one with his direwolf again. He let his mind play over the dream, tracing its contours, and blinked when he remembered the other wolf. Nymeria? Had that been Arya's direwolf Ghost had encountered, all the way up here in the frozen north?
His chair rattled as he bolted upright, stumbling on legs gone numb when he tried to stand, and he was two shaky steps toward the door before he stopped, wondering what had gotten into him. It wasn't like he was going to go trudging through the snow just to find the direwolf that had belonged to his favorite little sister, was it? He shook his head, a dry, brittle chuckle in his throat. Arya was believed dead, and it killed him to think about it so he tried not to, but her direwolf had come to him -- well, to Ghost. That meant something, didn't it? He just didn't know what, and it wasn't like he had time to puzzle it out, not with everything else he had to do as Lord Commander of the Wall.
"Lord Snow!"
The voice coming up the stairwell was anything but welcome and Jon resisted the urge to beat his head against the wall. It wouldn't do any good; this was his life and he would just have to make the best of it.
I just wanted to be a Ranger, he sighed, indulging in a moment of self-pity before he shook himself and stepped into the stairwell.
"Yes? What is it?"
"There's someone just come in from the east," said a boy known as Frog, stopping two steps below Jon and tilting his head back to look up at him. "Says he wants to take the black." There was a pause that was heavy with hesitation and Jon arched an eyebrow, silently prodding for whatever information he wasn't getting. "He's blind."
Instantly, Jon thought of his mentor, sent away with Sam, and smiled just faintly. "Blindness isn't the worst handicap a man can have," Jon reminded Frog. "Where is he?"
"Standin' outside in the yard, sir," Frog said, sounding uncomfortable with this information. "We wasn't sure whether it was safe to bring him in or not."
"Yes, bring him in," Jon said. "Bring him in to the kitchen, give him a bowl of soup or whatever we have that's warm. It's cold outside and getting colder. I'll be down to see him momentarily."
It was strange that a man would come on his own to take the black but not unheard of. Men who had fathered bastard chlldren on women they had no desire to marry and were afraid of being forced into an unpleasant duty, men who had committed crimes that were as yet secret and wanted to be safe when they were found out - these were the kinds who ran to the Wall, thinking of it as a safe escape, a better existence. Obviously, if anyone at all has read our letters, tales of the Others have not spread as far as I would have thought or this one probably wouldn't be here.
Still, with Stannis and his frightening Red Priestess hovering over them all like a foul mist, Jon would be glad to have more allies of his own, more men loyal to only him and to the Wall, not to a would-be king or some god who claimed to bring light but only ever seemed to throw shadows on the walls. If it is light they bring, it is not light enough, Jon thought of the red woman and her god.
Thinking he had probably stalled long enough to give the man time to get a couple of mouthfuls of hot food in his belly, Jon took the stairs slowly, thinking of Ghost, thinking of Nymeria, and wondering what message they were trying to give him. It made his head hurt, made his stomach twist, and he paused to pinch his nose in frustration. You know nothing, Jon Snow. The thought rang in his head, bitter and sweet, and he sighed. It was true, and feeling truer by the day.
He stepped into the dining hall and turned toward the cluster of men and boys by the end of the table. He could tell that someone was seated in the midst and thought it must be the new volunteer. Frog and Pyp and the others were gathered around him, chattering like magpies, full of questions and exaggerated stories. Jon cleared his throat as he approached and they all turned, raising a greeting clamor and the man -- no, a boy; smaller than Jon himself, and younger -- stood, dirty brown hair falling into his face, obscuring his features. He seemed slender and delicate, as if he could pass for a girl if he tried hard enough. Not a specially pretty girl, but a girl nonetheless. Something about him seemed deeply familiar to Jon, and he tried to peer under the long, shaggy bangs for a clearer view of his features. Had it been someone he'd met at Winterfell? In one of the towns?
He almost asked the boy to look him in the eye before he remembered what Frog had said. He's blind. "I'm Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Wall," he said, wondering how his voice sounded to the boy, strangely concerned about the impression he was making on someone who couldn't see him. "What is your name?"
"Gyl," the boy responded, his voice hoarse and croaking as if he'd been long in the wind and longer without speaking.
The boys around him laughed in surprise and Pyp crowed, "You'll be takin' Frog's name away from him if you keep talkin' like that!"
Jon saw a flush creep down Gyl's neck and frowned at the others. They quieted sheepishly and Jon looked back at the new boy. "Where do you come from, Gyl?" he asked.
"I... I was on a merchant ship from Braavos," he said, hesitantly. "Before that... I don't remember." That set off a few alarms in Jon's head and just as he was about to ask how Gyl had come to hear of the Wall all the way in Braavos, the boy's hand reached for the hilt of his sword as if reassuring himself that it was still there in case he needed it, and Jon's eyes followed the motion.
He recognized the blade in an instant and his gaze flew to the boy's face. He still couldn't make out the features, but his mind was stumbling over itself, spinning in circles, and his mouth was cotton-dry. "Tell me," Jon said, cold as ice, "Did you know a girl? A girl with a sword?" Before Gyl could respond, Jon continued, voice sharpening with each word, "Did you take her sword? Did you kill her?"
"I - I don't know," Gyl said, sounding confused. He was still looking down at the table and Jon was beginning to grow irritated that he couldn't see the boy's blind eyes past that mop of hair. "I've killed a lot of people. What was her name?"
"Ar--" Jon choked, paused, cleared his throat. "Arya Stark," he said, voice dangerously low. "Did you kill Arya Stark?"
Finally, the boy looked up, hair falling away from his face, and Jon's breath left his lungs as if stolen by the cold hands of a wraith.
"Yes," said Arya, "I killed her."
Gyl heard the way everyone around him went silent when he confessed to killing the girl whose name sounded so familiar. He remembered running his blade in and out of many bodies, he remembered the blood on his hands, remembered the heat of it, the scent, the rich red stain that never seemed to come off. He didn't know who Arya Stark was, but he recognized the name and thought that it must be important. It must have belonged to someone, someone he'd known. Possibly someone he'd killed. If he had her sword -- and it hadn't escaped him that the man (Jon Snow, and why did that name make his heart beat triple time?) had asked him the question just when he'd been reaching for the sword -- then she probably was someone he'd killed. Maybe the first. Maybe the last. Maybe she was the one who had blinded him.
"Did you know her?" he asked, strangely calm. Even if this man was angry at him, Gyl had killed before. He could kill again if he needed to. He didn't take time to think about why he might not want to.
Lord Snow didn't answer and Gyl held his tongue, listening, feeling, trying to sense if he was about to die for his crime.
"Come with me," Lord Snow said, then there was the sound of footsteps retreating and Gyl swallowed. Following someone by sound through a new place was going to be a new challenge for him, but there was something that Gyl didn't understand that made him feel like he needed to. It didn't make sense, but the instant he had heard Lord Snow's voice, he'd felt... safe, warm, dizzy. He wanted to feel that again. More.
Stumbling, wincing when he bumped the table with his hip, more because of the obscuring noise than the pain, Gyl lunged after Lord Snow. He followed the sound of footsteps up a long stairwell, into the chill, chasing the flame that burned inside a man with a cold name.
He didn't understand why she didn't smell the same, why that familiar family scent was obscured. What he really wanted was to snuffle into the thick ruff of her coat just under her neck, bury his nose near her skin to search for her scent, the scent they shared, and mark her again with himself so that no one could think she belonged to a different pack.
That was what he wanted, but when he stretched his nose out to her, mouth open a little to taste the air near her, she growled and snapped, pulling away, and he stopped. Angering her wouldn't accomplish his purpose, wouldn't bring her into his fold. It was obvious she had a pack of her own, that she was used to running at the head, giving the orders, leaving herself open to no one and taking no mate for herself. As much as she smelled like her pack, she didn't smell mated. Still, she had left her pack and come to him. He would be patient. She couldn't leave, not now, not when she hadn't gotten what she'd come for - if she even knew what she'd come for.
He settled down into the snow, white paws calmly in front of him, head up, red eyes bright with anticipation. She sniffed the air and danced in the snow, turning up frozen mud beneath her paws as she tried to walk away once, twice, three times, and circled back around to him each time.
He simply lay still and waited.
It had been over a week since Arya had showed up at Castle Black claiming to be a boy named Gyl and Jon was no closer to figuring out the mystery than he had been at the moment he'd recognized her. At first, he thought she was in disguise for her own protection, but even when he had her in his private rooms she didn't let her guard down. She still claimed to be a boy, claimed her name was Gyl though she was at a loss for a family name, claimed she didn't remember where she'd been before Braavos, and never so much as let a glimmer of recognition into her eyes when she looked at him.
Jon guessed that something must have happened in Braavos -- an injury or a fever or something; and what was she doing in Braavos in the first place? -- to strip her of her memories and her sight. It still baffled him that she thought she was a boy, but then Arya had never been comfortable in the trappings of ladyship.
Though he was convinced of her identity, Jon noticed that anyone who didn't know what Arya looked like would never guess she was anything but what she said she was -- a blind boy from Braavos who had come to the Wall he'd heard much about. He didn't have as much time to observe her as he would have liked, but he knew how to keep his ears open and he knew enough to know that Gyl was an entirely different creature in many ways than his little sister had been.
Most notable was the fact that she never touched Needle and only participated in the swordplay because it was required of her to complete her training and take the black. When thrown into the sparring yard with the other boys, she used a spare sword from the smithy to trounce them, though she took her fair share of beatings. Jon was proud of her skill with a sword, curious to know where she'd learned it, and disturbed to think of why she'd had to.
"Yes," he remembered her saying, her blind eyes dull and eerily direct. "I killed Arya Stark. Did you know her?"
That night, the first night she'd come to Castle Black, he had asked her, "Why the Wall? Why now?"
"I don't remember who I was or what I did before I got on the Dancing Maiden and came here," she had said. "I don't know what I'm running from, only that I am."
"Fair enough," he'd told her, though he was worried and that concern hadn't faded. Now, on top of everything else, his little sister was here and she was all grown up, or nearly so. I don't have time for this, he thought. But I can't afford not to.
He sighed, putting aside the heavy tomes Sam had brought up for him to read and rubbing at his eyes. If only he could make her remember him, he had a feeling everything else might be all right.
The ground was cold under him and Gyl shivered as he felt around for his sword that had been knocked out of his hand. He was still grabbing handfuls of snow instead of steel when he heard the crunch of boots crossing the frozen ground toward the training area where he had been sparring until his arms were sore. He stilled, waiting to see what new threat was approaching, unsure if he should stand to greet it or wait until he located his sword.
"Stand up, Gyl," said the voice Gyl had learned belonged to Jon Snow. "I want to match with you."
"I can't find my sword," Gyl admitted. "I dropped it..." Something in him knew to lie on instinct, knew to never share everything, to keep a few secrets for himself, but something about Lord Snow made him confess truth in ways that even septons couldn't.
"Stand up," Lord Snow said again. "I have your sword."
Gyl obeyed, standing up slowly and holding out his hand, even though his sword arm ached and sent sharp pains radiating down his side. The weight of a hilt touched his palm and he closed his fingers around it, shivering at the perfect balance and grip. This was not the borrowed sword from the armory; this was his sword, Arya Stark's sword, and his mind said clearly, Needle. Jon Snow. Winterfell. Water. Dance.
He shivered, but before he could think any further, he felt Lord Snow shift stances and instantly crouched into a defensive position. When their swords clashed, it was like lightning shooting up his sore, fatigued arm and crackling into his brain.
Winterfell.
He gritted his teeth and parried, trying to anticipate Lord Snow's next move without being able to see him.
A dark-haired boy, standing in front of her, smiling fondly at her over a shining silver blade.
Valyrian. "Needle." Laughter.
Lord Snow's next blow caught him crosswise, forced him to bring his other hand up to brace his own sword, to push back against him to gain his ground. The heel of his boot skidded on the ice and he scrambled to stay upright, to stay protected.
A hand flicked out to ruffle her hair and it should have bothered her but it didn't. It made her smile and that always made him smile back.
Spinning away, he struggled to regain his footing, to catch his breath. He heard Lord Snow coming and brought his sword up, crossing blades with a jarring impact. He grunted and shoved back, going on the defensive when he felt Lord Snow falter, heard the way Lord Snow stumbled on the frozen grounds.
"Jon!" she called, and the dark-haired boy turned and smiled. Beyond him she could see other boys, a girl older than herself, a man with dark hair like the boy, a woman with red hair like the other children. The boy's smile widened and softened and he paused to wait for her.
"Hurry up, Arya."
Something in his head pounded as if lightning had gripped his sword and shot fire up his bones, and he dropped his blade with a cry, holding his hands up in surrender before he quite realized what he'd done.
As soon as the sword left his hand, his breath began to straighten and his mind slowly cooled, returning him to a state of hazy confusion.
"...Gyl? Are you all right?"
Lord Snow's voice finally filtered into his mind and he nodded, cradling his sword arm with his other hand.
"Yes, sorry," he murmured. "I'm tired and I don't think I'm used to fighting in the cold like this." He bit his lip, ashamed. "My arm hurts."
"You have been practicing for a long time," Lord Snow said, but there was something lurking in his voice that made Gyl nervous. "Why don't you take a break and warm up a bit? Then I'd like you to come to my room. There are some things I would know of Braavos, if you can tell me."
"All right," Gyl said because he couldn't say anything else. Leaving the sword on the ground, clutching at his throbbing arm, Gyl made his way toward the kitchen by memory, sweeping out in front of him with his hand every few steps and thinking that, even if he weren't blind, he wouldn't be able to see where he was going.
Weeks passed in something of a routine. When Jon had a break in his duties, in his dance of avoidance with Stannis and Melisandre, he challenged Arya to a match in the yard. He always made her use Needle for their sparring and though she was a far sight better than some of his other black brothers had been or still were, their matches always ended with Arya dropping the sword and acting very disoriented. He wondered if it was him or the sword itself that confused her; if it was helping bring back the memory that she'd lost in Braavos.
After she had rested from their duels, he always had her come to his room, had her tell him stories of what she could remember. She talked freely during those times, though he noticed that once or twice she slipped into a form of recitation, telling him things had learned. She had learned that the decks of ships are wide and need to be scrubbed more often than she would like; she had learned that careful listening could tell her things her eyes had never been able to and that the feeling in the pit of her stomach could tell her even more than her ears could; she had learned that not all men love women and that some loved each other.
Jon wasn't sure what compelled Arya to tell him about Timpes and Rahu, her cabinmates on the Dancing Maiden, but at times when she was telling him things, she seemed to be in a trancelike state, unable or unwilling to censor herself to tell him only the relevant details. He never stopped her, never questioned her, never spoke to her except to make encouraging noises, though at times he suspected she would have known if he had simply nodded. He just listened to everything she could tell him, tried to piece together the mystery of why she didn't know who she was and kept an ear out for anything that might help him with his own political dilemma of would-be kings who wouldn't go away and the frightening red women they brought with them.
One night, when Arya had come to the end of her tales (and she was running out of things to tell him, he suspected, unless they could open her memory again), Jon was lost in thought, staring at the fire, and didn't respond. He realized his error when a shadow fell across him and he looked up, seeing Arya standing there, blind eyes looking down at him, hand reaching toward him. Startled, he reached up as if to stop her and caught himself at the last minute, capturing her hand gently in his. She was a dangerous fighter now, but she was still his little sister and he had never sensed that he was in any danger from her. He hoped something in her remembered him, remembered that he would not betray her.
"What is it?" he asked, having to stop himself at the last moment from saying her name. Ever since he had accused Gyl of killing Arya and Gyl had confessed to it, he was afraid of what reaction using that name would cause.
"You're worried about something," she said. "I can feel it. What concerns you?"
He took a deep breath and wondered where to begin. He knew that, in some ways, he was betraying his vows by taking so much time with Arya when he had so many other things to do as Lord of the Wall. He knew that when he had taken the black, he had sworn to have no family but his black brothers. But she was not Arya Stark now; she was Gyl, and she was a week away from taking her own vows and being one of his brothers instead of his sister, and he wondered if he was committing some grave sin by allowing this. Beyond this, he was certain that Gilly's babe, crying and small and refusing to eat, would be sacrificed by Melisandre by the time of the new moon. He wasn't as worried about that child as he had been about the other, but part of him was scared that Craster came from a blood line that included enough royalty to give the witch what she wanted. He wanted Stannis away from the Wall but didn't know how to do so without starting a war. He needed to know about the wights, about the Others, about the ice that burned.
He couldn't tell her all this, though, and he simply sighed and squeezed her hand. "I was thinking how best to help you," he said, and it was not a lie, only not the whole truth.
Her fingers curled around his and before he knew what she was doing, she was pulling off his leather glove, her small, calloused fingers skimming over the burned flesh beneath. Her forehead wrinkled for a moment before she said curiously, "You... you were burned."
"A long time ago," he admitted, remembering how he'd looked at his scarred hand and thought of Arya, thought of the way that hand had ruffled her hair, thought of how much he missed her. It seemed like a trick of the gods that she was touching those scars now. Almost without thinking, he reached up and touched the ends of her hair where it hung over her shoulders, unable to reach further. Leaning into the touch, she curled her legs beneath her and knelt beside his chair. Swallowing, he pushed the injured hand through her hair, alike and yet unlike their familiar old gesture. She closed her blind eyes and hummed and he realized that he had missed her more than he'd thought, needed her more than he had ever admitted.
Before he even knew what he was doing, he tilted her chin up, leaned over, and kissed her lips.
Ghost woke to the strange sensation of sharp nips at his face, followed by the warm laving of a gentle tongue, and tried to shake his head free when sharp teeth clamped down on his ear. He snapped at the air in warning, but his sister didn't move away. In fact, she came back again, moving in on him with the bulk of her body, teeth scraping over his face and neck. He rolled over onto his back, displaying his belly in a show of submissiveness, but she didn't stop. She pinned him in the snow, still licking and biting, and it was then he caught the peculiar edge to her scent.
The surge of instinct pushed at him, making him lick her in return, love-bites on her jaw and ears and throat. She was aggressive in her wanting and he tried to wrestle her to the snow, prove his strength and mate her like she was asking for, but she only pushed him down harder, asserting her dominance, and he pinned his ears back in confusion. She was going about this all wrong -- she was trying to mate him.
It wasn't until Lord Snow's mouth touched his that Gyl knew what he'd been wanting, why he was always so, so eager after the duels even though he lost all their matches. Finally, it made sense, the way Gyl measured his days and weeks by how long it had been since Lord Snow last summoned him, the way he listened every day at meals for the sound of Lord Snow's voice or else one of the boys saying how they were taking a tray up to him. He understood why Rahu and Timpes stayed awake into the night when they had worked so hard all day and why Gyl had told Lord Snow about them, testing the wind to say 'I don't mind, do you?'
When the warm lips on his retreated, guilt evident in their abruptness, Gyl chased them without thinking, mouth pressing, looking for something he didn't know how to find.
"Ar..." Lord Snow sounded strangled and stopped, hands coming to rest on Gyl's upper arms, holding him back but holding him just the same. "I shouldn't have --"
"No, it's all right," Gyl told him, voice rasping with hunger. "I want... I want it, too."
Lord Snow seemed frozen and Gyl leaned up again, wanting, wanting, and so confused. The reckless acquiescence to his aggressiveness tasted so very sweet beneath the salt of kisses. Eagerly Gyl climbed into Lord Snow's lap, knees on either side of the man's hips, and moved his mouth clumsily, trying to taste, trying to eat him alive.
"Wait," Lord Snow said, and Gyl nearly panicked. Bits of dream flashed through his mind, dreams of a girl, dreams of her brothers, her sister, her family. It felt warm and it felt like home and it was all inside of him, the man he was kissing. Somehow, Gyl had to get at those dreams. "Slow down a bit. Here, let me..."
The kiss this time was gentle and exploring, and it felt and tasted so good, and behind closed eyelids (not that it mattered), Gyl could see wolves in the snow, one grey and one solid white. They were wrestling and it seemed the grey one had the upper hand, but as Lord Snow's hands stroked gently across his back, he saw the grey one begin to back away uncertainly, ears flicking in distress and confusion.
Gyl could feel a rising hunger in his body and he wrapped his arms around Lord Snow's neck, pressing their cheeks together and whispering in his ear, "Please." He wanted without knowing what, but he hoped Lord Snow would know. "Please," he said again.
The grey wolf lay down in the snow as the white one moved in.
Jon wasn't sure what he had expected, but he tried not to think about things too hard. When he did, his head felt like it would burst from the rush of guilt and confusion and rebellion. He hadn't expected to actually do anything, much less have made love to Arya like he would to a man. She had guided him at first, guided herself by the rough talk of her sailor bunkmates, and he had been uneasy but Arya didn't know she was a girl. How would he make love to her like that?
And then there had been the wolves. The entire time he was with Arya, he kept flashing into Ghost for moments at a time, registering little things like the scruff of Nymeria's neck between his teeth, the warmth of her beneath his body, the urge to mate. It was confusing, baffling, overwhelming and more than a little unnerving. Were he and Arya influencing the direwolves or the other way around? Or was it simply synchronized coincidence?
Stop thinking, he told himself, tightening his arms around Arya's slim body. This was getting strange. Maybe it would be easier if he thought of her as Gyl, too. Maybe Gyl had killed Arya after all; maybe Jon had helped. He kissed the top of the head tucked under his chin and wondered if it would make a difference if she ever knew who she was again. She'd lost everyone in her family except him, and she didn't need to call herself Arya or even a girl for him to still love her, want her. He would always long for Arya's company, and there would always be a place in his heart for a blind boy from Braavos named Gyl.
He remembered at one moment, the way she'd arched into him and, for the first time, called out his name. She'd sounded like Arya then and the sound had been almost too much for him. He sighed and nuzzled her hair, stroking a gentle hand down her back. No; despite the affection he'd developed for Gyl, he needed Arya too much to simply let her go. He didn't know how or when, but somehow, he would fix things.
He chose not to question whether he could.
She lay beside him, calm and breathing, and he nuzzled into her grey fur, licking her ear. She had accepted most of his love play but in the end, wouldn't let him mate her. He could smell the uncertainty on her, the reluctance to surrender her position as dominant for any reason at all. It was all right, though; she hadn't left him. She had stayed and as long as she was there, they had time to figure things out. In the meantime, he was just happy not to be alone.
THE END
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