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When news comes that the Starfall Starks will be coming to King's Landing, Jon Targaryen can barely contain his eagerness. He's never met any of his mother's family, and few in the city will speak of the late queen. They will speak of the beauty of Ashara Dayne though, and Ser Eddard's steadfast honor; Ser Arthur has said that their daughter, Arya, is the very picture of Lyanna Stark as a girl.
It is Arya that Jon is most excited to meet, this cousin said to be so like his mother. Perhaps she will understand having the blood of the north, always, even born and raised in the south, never knowing snow save in the mind's eye. She's lived in Dorne all her life, just as Jon has never been past the Neck, but he wants to ask if she dreams as he does, of running four-legged through deep drifts of white, with the sound of brothers and sisters in full cry.
The rumors spoke true: Arya is dark-haired and grey-eyed, tall and slender just as Lyanna was, as Jon himself is. She's not precisely pretty, her features a shade too angular than is fashion, but there's something compelling about her nonetheless. She smiles at him, says “Well met, cousin,” and perhaps she's like his mother was and perhaps not, but he thinks 'this girl could be my friend.'
Arya makes friends easily, always full of questions and curiosity for their answers; she asks her uncle if she could become the next Sword of Morning, and plys Aegon for tales of Jon when he was young, utterly brazen in her plans to tease him. She seems to have an endless thirst for knowing, and she wishes to know Jon. It's a heady thing, Arya's attention, her eyes steely grey as a blade and her smile just as sharp.
Jon wonders what it is about him that keeps her at his side, when most call him too serious, too dull. She's unperturbed by his awkwardness, delighting in provoking him to fun. No adventure is too small for Arya to leave him behind for, whether it's eavesdropping on servants in the kitchen or sneaking out dressed as commoners to explore the city incognito, Jon is with her, chasing the dark tail of her hair.
A trunk full of Dornish silks accompanied Arya to King's Landing, but Jon doesn't think he's seen her in them since her presentation to court. She scorns gowns for breeches and tunics, with a boiled leather jerkin thrown over it all when she plans to spar. Fighting seems to please Arya like nothing else, not a day passing that she doesn't try to prod Jon into crossing blades with her.
Fighting pleases Arya like nothing else, but it raises a strange and unfamiliar want in his blood as well, for Jon never refuses her if he can help it, as hungry for it as she. She was trained in the water dance, her graceful parrys and fluid strikes weaving some strange spell on him despite his own skill with a blade. He is not so naive that he cannot understand what it is that moves them, that the way their bodies strain against each other in the training yard is an echo of their desire for a different sort of grappling.
Jon wishes he could set aside the feeling entirely, that he could keep his eyes set only to the future where his bride has long since been picked and promises made with it. She cannot be ignorant of his engagement, but it doesn't seem to stop her from holding his gaze with unmistakable interest, her touch always lingering a second too long. But he cannot set aside Arya, even as the heat in her eyes, the sway of her body into his threatens to undo him.
Arya doesn't make idle threats, and it's only a matter of time before the coils of tension they've wrapped so tightly around each other snap.
It's evening, the sounds of revelry from the feast they left filtering through the halls of the Red Keep. Arya is wearing her silks for once, but she manages to acquire a blade at some point during their path from the great hall. “Another bout, Jon,” she demands, her swaying steps part drink and part the sinuous steps of the water dance.
“You ought to have asked before the Dornish Sour went 'round the tables,” he chides, righting her with a hand on her shoulder. Jon can feel the warmth of her skin through the filmy material, and he has to take a steadying breath before he continues. “Besides, I am unarmed.”
Something sparks in her eye at that, flint cutting through the slight haze of wine. “I'd rather you were unarmored,” Arya says, and snake-quick her blade flashes to slice open his surcoat, careless of the rich embroidery. She drops her sword but her hands are not long empty, pressing him back against the wall as her hands slip under the ragged edges and grip tightly onto the thin shirt beneath and her hands are so hot and his hands must be on her.
He pulls her against him with one hand, the other moving from her shoulder to wind into her hair, tilting her head back as he bows his to kiss her. Arya doesn't wait, she twists up to meet Jon, their lips meeting with enough force that he feels breathless. She bites the edge of his mouth, sucks at his lower lip, and when he parts them she is inside him, her tongue teasing the join of their mouths and delicately stroking his own.
Jon groans into her mouth and holds her closer, her hands stealing up to hang onto his shoulders. Her feet are barely on the ground, her body straining on tip-toe to fit against his. He hitches her up to ride his thigh, feeling the heat of her cunt through the silk crushed between their bodies, barely a barrier at all.
Arya turns away from his mouth to make a harsh, choked sound into his ear, writhing against him as she tries to to find her pleasure. Jon leans a bit more heavily against the wall, gripping her hips with both hands to help her movements, guiding her in a steady roll that rubs across his cock as he raises his thigh to give more of the pressure she craves.
“Jon,” she breathes, begs “Jon, touch me.” He pushes the back of her skirts up, the silk frothing over his hands as he cups her bottom. Dornish smallclothes are considerably briefer than those he's used to in King's Landing, thin enough that he can feel the slickness of Arya's thighs where she's soaked through them, so wet that he can feel the outline of her sex almost as if she wears no smallclothes at all.
He edges his fingers under the clinging cloth, trailing up the back of her thigh and brushing past coarse curls to stroke at the slippery heat of her. A high gasp escapes her, and she grinds herself more frantically against him. "Turn around," he suggests, and helps her untangle from him before pulling her close again, her back flush to his chest, his cock pressing urgently at the small of her back.
Arya bunches up her dress to her waist, letting Jon slip his hand between her legs to cup her under her smallclothes. He traces her slit with one finger before slowly sinking it into her, both them fluttering their eyes closed at the sensation. He adds another, pumping them steadily in and out of her cunt as she makes soft chirps of want and pleasure.
"Jon, touch me," she says again, and Jon knows what she's asking for. He brings his thumb to the top of her sex, gently rubbing at the tiny bud there. Arya barely holds back her wail, her whole body arching back against him. "Jon, yes, oh Jon," she cries, her head thrown back till she's pressed to his shoulder. He brushes over her nub again, and she's finished; she rides out her orgasm with her thighs clenched tightly around his hand and her cunt clenched just as tight on his fingers.
Her next "Oh Jon," is a nearly breathless giggle, her body lax and sated in his arms. She lets go of her skirts to reach up and cup his face, drawing him down to kiss along his jaw with short pecks. Arya is languid but Jon is still wound tight, still hard for her. As if reading his mind, she pushes back onto him where he's tenting his breeches. He settles his hands on her hips, thrusting against her as he leans forward to scent her neck.
They're leaning into each other, Arya teasing him with small shimmies and Jon half-laughing, half-panting into her hair, when they hear voices coming closer. They part sharply, as if breaking out of a spell. She looks at him with some banked desire remaining in her gaze, but hearing other people, the court, their families approaching he can't meet her eyes without shame.
Her look turns hard, and she doesn't say anything other than a terse “Goodnight,” before turning on her heel and striding towards her rooms. Jon attempts to collect himself, tamping down lust and unrest alike before heading back to his own apartments, hoping not to run into any of the courtiers now wandering the halls in search of their beds.
He avoids Arya for several days after that, throwing himself into his responsibilities with twice the vigor he did before. He stays away from where she's likely to be, and ducks out of sight when he sees her striding about, her long braid twitching with irritation. She and her family will not be much longer in court, as they head North to see Ser Eddard's brother and his lady, and to meet the Stark children. Jon misses Arya's presence sharply, will miss her even more once she's truly left, but his desire cuts just as deep. He cannot make her promises anymore than he can accept hers.
Jon's avoidance comes to an end late in the night. He's stripped for bed when Arya slips into his room like a shadow. “I thought I had guards to prevent this sort of thing,” he japes, attempting to keep the air light.
“I told Uncle that Ser Jaime needed him, and that I promised I'd bring no harm to you, even if you richly deserve it,” Arya replies with a scowl, stalking towards with a feral look in her eyes. “You've been avoiding me, and I leave tomorrow! I thought we were friends, at least.”
Jon feels a pang of guilt, wondering if Arya's days had seemed as joyless and empty as his had without her. “We are friends,” he says firmly, “but Arya, my marriage has already been contracted. To be more than friends, nothing can come of it.”
“Pleasure can come of it,” she returns stubbornly. She draws close to him, and Jon aches to take her in his arms, to hold her, to press kisses on her brow and her cheeks and her lips, to bear her down on his soft bed and love her. “Contracts care nothing about the joy we find in each other, so why should our pleasure care about contracts? You are not married yet,” she says, and he reads in her eyes 'you can be mine, if only for a time.'
“But I will be. And when I am, I will need to give up the pleasures you are offering.” He closes his eyes, unable to stand her penetrating gaze. “And I fear that I won't be able to.”
“Jon,” she sighs, moving closer. “Jon, you're the best man I've ever met. How I will miss you in the North, and when I come home again!” Arya steps into his space, curling against him to murmur into his skin “Jon, I fear that I will spend the rest of my life wanting and wishing we had taken this time we've been given.
“Please,” Arya whispers, so softly he hears it more in the brush of her lips on his skin than in sound.
Jon is not a foolish man, but he is a young one, and men have been known to be fools in their youth. He takes her in his arms. He holds her. He kisses her: on her brow, on her cheeks, and on her lips. He bears her down on his soft bed and loves her.