CaveLeather
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him.
The moment it did, Jon’s face changed.
The sorrow, the fatigue, the red-rimmed eyes—all of it vanished like smoke.
He wiped the fake tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, expression settling back into its usual cold, unreadable calm.
He straightened his shoulders and walked down the shadowed corridor without a backward glance.
Phase one had gone perfectly.
Now he just needed to keep feeding Ned’s growing distrust of Robert.
When the time was right, he would lay out the full truth—his claim to the Iron Throne, his revenge for Elia and the siblings murdered in King’s Landing.
With a living dragon as proof of his blood, even the honorable Eddard Stark would have no choice but to support a son seeking justice for his family.
The North would be dragged into war whether it wanted to or not.
And once Jon sat the Iron Throne, the North would serve as his unbreakable northern stronghold.
Everything was moving according to plan.
He just had to make sure he claimed the throne before the Night King and his army of the dead reached the Wall.
A small movement caught his eye.
Jon turned his head and saw a pair of wide, dark brown eyes peering at him from behind a stone pillar.
The moment their gazes met, the little girl abandoned all pretense of hiding.
“Jon!”
Four-year-old Arya Stark came running out, brown hair flying, and threw herself at him.
Jon caught her easily, lifting her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“If I didn’t know better,” he said with a teasing smile, “I’d think our dear Arya was supposed to be in sewing lessons with the septa right now.”
Arya’s excited face immediately soured.
She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“I hate sewing. The needles hurt.”
“I’m not a lady!” Arya declared at full volume, glaring up at him with all the fierce indignation a four-year-old could muster.
Jon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
He kissed her cheek again.
“My deepest apologies, great Arya Stark, legendary Queen Nymeria the Second.”
That did the trick.
Arya immediately puffed up with pride, looking down her nose at him like a tiny queen.
“I forgive you. Now carry me to my room. You should feel honored.”
Jon almost lost it right there.
This little hellion was going to be the death of him one day.
He started walking toward her chambers, still holding her.
After a few steps he felt the change in her mood—the small body in his arms had gone quiet and heavy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
“You look sad.”
Arya pressed her face into his shoulder.
“Sansa called me ‘horseface’…”
Her voice was small and miserable.
She wanted to be pretty like her mother and Sansa, with soft red hair instead of the plain brown she had inherited from their father.
Jon didn’t hesitate.
“You’re far prettier than Sansa.”
He meant it.
He knew how cruel childhood insecurities could be—he had lived them in another life.
A careless word from a parent or sibling could carve wounds that never fully healed.
He would not let that happen to Arya.
“Of course it’s true,” he continued, kissing her forehead.
Arya’s grey eyes went wide and bright, like someone had lit a torch behind them.
Jon could already tell she was going to be too excited to sleep tonight.
When they reached her door he set her down carefully and ruffled her hair.
“I’m leaving for the Wall soon. I’ll be gone for a few months. While I’m away, you have to behave. No sneaking out of the castle.”
Arya’s face fell for half a second—then lit up with sudden, desperate hope.
“Can I come with you?” she begged, grabbing his leg with both hands.
“Please, please, please!”
“No.”
Jon’s answer was immediate and firm.
The Wall was no place for a four-year-old girl, even if the Night’s Watch had its share of decent men.
And this journey had another purpose entirely—one he could never explain to her.
Arya’s shoulders slumped.
The light in her eyes dimmed.
Jon sighed and crouched down so they were eye to eye.
“I can’t take you, but I’ll bring you back gifts. And if you’re good while I’m gone… I’ll have the blacksmith make you a real sword. One fit for a warrior queen like Visenya or Nymeria.”
The transformation was instant.
Arya’s entire face brightened like the sun coming out from behind clouds.
She launched herself at him, hugging him so tightly he almost lost his balance.
“I’ll be good! I promise!”
Jon patted her back, smiling despite himself.
“Go on. Get some rest.”
Arya gave him one last brilliant, excited grin, then turned and ran into her room, already imagining herself riding into battle with a Valyrian steel sword in her hand.
Jon watched the door close behind her and felt something warm settle in his chest.
He would be a good father one day.
At least he would try like hell to be.