Esoteric

"Jon."

He jumped, startled, but tried not to show it. He was ten, now; almost a man grown. He could not work up a fright at his own shadow. Except this was no shadow. It was his half-sister, Arya, who was half his age and hated sitting in one place for too long. They had that in common, along with their looks.

Jon turned around and saw her standing in his doorway, one hand on the knob like she was ready to bolt. He frightened her, Jon realised, even though when she had been a babe, he had been the only person to ever get her to stop crying — along with Father, that was. The thought saddened him.

He tried for a smile but it faltered. "What is it?" He asked, instead.

Arya scuffed a foot on his floor, which was dusty and worn. "Sansa said I was replaced by grumpkins," she blurted suddenly, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. Jon didn't know what to do. "She said I'm not her real sister."

So Jon knelt in front of Arya, matching her height. He saw that her eyes were the exact same colour as his. "That's not true."

"She said that I look just like you," his half-sister went on. "Does that mean I'm a bastard, too?"

There was her real woe; not Sansa's distain or her own looks, but being like him. Being a bastard. Never being good enough.

Jon sighed deeply. He did not know how to explain this to her without divulging certain adult truths that she was definitely not ready for. And so he took her hand and led her over to the bed where they sat side by side on the edge, looking out the window at the snow covered yard. "You aren't a bastard, Arya."

"But how do you know?!" She demanded, voice almost a squeal.

He quickly shushed her. "Because I do," he said firmly. "You are a trueborn daughter of Lord and Lady Stark."

"But if I was replaced by grump—"

"Arya," he interrupted, almost laughing, "you weren't replaced by grumpkins. Sansa only said that to tease you."

Immediately her face lit up. "For true?"

"For true," he nodded. She relaxed and grinned in a sharp way that made her look so much like him it was scary. A normal person might not see it, for Jon did not often grin, but there it was plain as day; even they smiled the same way. Jon matched it. "Do you know what a bastard is, Arya?"

"No," she admitted. "Is it bad?"

Jon thought for a moment, not sure how to reply. Being a bastard was not necessarily bad for him, but it did have certain discomforts. He would never feel at home. Never have a true family. "Not always," he found himself telling her. "Often it has it's advantages. But anyway... I'm a bastard because I'm Father's son, but not Lady Stark's."

"How is that?" Arya asked.

Jon chewed his lip. "My mother is not your mother," he said. "I have a different one. But that doesn't mean Father doesn't love Lady Stark." It was clear for all to see that he did. Often times Jon felt jealous on behalf of a mother he didn't even know.

"Who's your mother, then?" Arya scooted closer, excited.

"I dunno," he admitted solemnly. "Father never told me."

"Oh," her shoulders sagged in a defeated way; they both knew how stubborn Father could be. If he would not tell Jon, he would not tell Arya, either. Most like they would never know. Arya's head suddenly shot up. "Is that why Mother hates you?"

Jon blinked. "You think she hates me?"

"Well, she always frowns when she sees you. Maybe she just doesn't like you..." Arya but into her lower lip. "I think Sansa hates you, too."

Jon found himself smiling a little, though he wasn't sure why. "Do you hate me?"

"Oh, do I have to?!" She whined, frowning deeper than he knew she could. Tears were falling suddenly and she wrapped her arms around his middle. "I don't want to hate you! I love you! You're my brother!"

"You don't have to hate me," Jon whispered. "Have no fear on that account, little sister." Before he knew what he was doing, he reached up and mussed her hair gently.

At least he had Arya.