For ValKat, this is for you.

('A Wolf in Crow's Clothing' with respect to 'Forever a Wolf' isn't a prequel but kinda is at the same time. The AUs where they each occur don't match. This is set in another AU from 'AWiC'sC' but I hope to follow this one as my basis for future Jon/Arya works)

(Read in 3/4 format)

JON

Feeling her shudder and squeeze around him, drawing him even deeper into her tight heat, he almost lost it then, his entire body tingling as the white hot sensation kept building. He continued to pump forward, desperate to go over the edge.

The sounds she made were drawing him higher, closer to his climax. His name on her moaning lips as he growled out hers, a sort of mantra.

'Arya. Arya. Arya. Arya.'

He willed himself to pull out, but she locked her legs around him, his seed spilling inside her. His hips bucked uncontrollably as he rode out his climax, slumping over her with their bodies slick and intertwined.

Other than whispered I love you's and each other's name, no other words passed between them. There was no need.

His lips found hers; pressing kisses as she kissed him back with a passion, as if she had not yet spent.

Her fingers continued to twist in his hair, carding his dark curls back, her eyes searching for his.

He loved her eyes, grey like a frozen lake but still expressive, burning with something that caused his stomach to flip, his cock already starting to harden again as he pulled out.

His brothers in black said they shared the same eyes, the same look of a Stark. He did not think his eyes could ever be as beautiful as hers.

He did not think himself vain and could not imagine he looked anything like her. She was beautiful, milk white skin flushed in their shared heat, lips that never failed to call him for a kiss.

She was lithe but he thought her curves perfect, his hands cupping the soft globes of her breasts. Her hips flared only slightly, not yet full as she was almost a woman grown.

He buried his face into her neck and wild dark hair, willing the ugly feeling that started again in his belly to go away. He did not want to face the sick feeling just yet.

Not yet.

He focused on the feel of her below him, beautiful and enticing, fighting the bile from rising to his throat.

Arya.

He felt her place kisses on his temple and hair, so lovingly, granting him momentary peace.

He did not deserve feeling so happy in her arms. He did not deserve the way she looked at him, as if he was all that anchored her to reality. To sanity. He did not deserve her love even when he was sure he loved her just as fiercely, and even maybe more.

Arya.

At first, he blamed their wolves, Nymeria in heat and Ghost complying, the other smaller wolves unable to tame their alpha female.

Then he blamed the cold of the Wall, the winter winds forcing them to one bed.

He blamed his not having taken a woman to his bed since Ygritte.

He blamed the fear of possibly losing her to the war, to winter, forcing him to have her in her entirety before the Others tried to take her.

He blamed his desperation to know she was still warm, heart pumping, eyes still grey and never turning blue.

He blamed everything and everyone.

He blamed her especially...

For making him feel so desperate to know she was his, to know he was hers. For making him feel so hungry to want to taste her, her smiles never intentionally coy. For making everything else seem inconsequential compared to her happiness, her safety, her life.

For making him hate and yet be grateful they shared the same blood, the first from the sick feeling in his gut, the second for the unbreakable link they had.

He blamed her for making him forget everything outside the small space they occupied, everything beyond the air she breathed.

But he blamed himself most of all...

For allowing himself to love her more than he should. For never forgetting her and his family and duty even as he took the black, as he took the spearwife to his bed.

For feeling desperate when he thought she was in the hands of a monster even when he vowed to never take part as a man in black.

For allowing himself to fall to the addiction for her taste, for the feel of her skin, for the feel of her heat around him. For allowing himself to need her as she needed him. For allowing himself to break his vows for her, all for her.

For making her believe he was dead. For letting her avenge his death, covering her hands in blood.

He felt her shift from under him then, allowed himself to be flipped onto his back as she draped her body over his.

He felt her graze his collarbone with her lips, her hot breath tickling his neck as she nuzzled closer to him. He relished in the heat they shared as his hands wandered over her body, tracing the curve of her spine to the soft swell of her buttocks.

He breathed as she exhaled, bemused that even air could not come between them. A silly thought, he knew. But he also knew he would not be able to take it if anything else came to pry them apart.

He felt her nip at his jaw line, his breath hitching as he felt her hands enclose him. His cock twitched and rose to her touch once again, her lips covering his own while his hands continued to explore her body.

She pulled away to sit up on his belly. He shivered at the loss of contact but also in anticipation. He watched her lips curl into a smirk, feeling her wrist flick behind her, still holding onto him, causing him to buck up into her hand, sliding against her soft cheeks.

His eyes never left hers that filled with pleasure as his hand cupped her breast while the other pressed against the mound between her legs.

He watched her throw her head back, exposing her neck, as he slipped his fingers between her folds, pressing against her little nub. She stroked him faster in retaliation while her other hand fondled her breast.

She rose to her knees as he pushed himself to sit up, kissing her fervently before finding purchase on her neck, his knuckles pressing against her nub. He felt her throat vibrate under his lips as fresh mewls spilled from her lips.

He felt her let go of his cock, opting instead to hold onto his shoulders for support. He pulled his fingers out, already coated in her wetness. He grasped her waist as she lowered herself onto him, slowly, painfully slow.

Even with her legs spread above his, she felt sweetly tight, pressing deeper trying to accommodate his girth. Her heat swallowing him whole as his fingers dug into her thighs. She moved, sliding faster, frenzied, before he steadied her into a slower rhythm, guiding them into unbearable pleasure.

He felt her trying to wriggle from his hold, aching for a faster pace. He kissed her with a smile, teasing, before she bit at his lip.

"Faster. Please."

Her growl made him smile wider before kissing her again.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her onto his chest as he found purchase for his hips to pump up at her, fast and hard.

Her cries gave him strength as he pounded harder up into her, cumming hard inside her again and biting her neck to keep from shouting out at the blinding pleasure. She moved frantically against him, not yet reaching her climax, before he slipped his hand between them and grasped her clit between his fingers, pushing her over the edge.

Her body lay limp, covered in a sheen of sweat, atop of him, breathing heavily. She slid off of him to lay at his side. He felt her shift as she guided his head to rest on her breast, his arm pulling her closer.

He felt he would go mad with the waves of emotion overcoming him as she drifted off to sleep. He felt complete, happy, but unable to deny the niggling worry at the back of his mind.

He knew she would not be able to stay long. He knew he would not be able to watch her every move as winter raged outside their very door. They had a war to fight, but he could not bear to think she would be in danger again.

He pulled away and sat up, watching her sleep quietly. Just as happy as he was a moment ago, painful thoughts plagued him as he took her body in, etching every curve, every line into his mind.

She was beautiful, yes, but still young. Young and yet, like him, baring scars of horrors unknown.

She had told him about her time in Braavos, in the House of Black and White, told him how she was shaped and trained into a weapon for death, but never would she tell him the number of people she was assigned to kill.

He lowered himself slowly down towards her, leaning to cup her face lightly.

Bloodraven had told him the truth about his parentage, about his blood of ice and fire. He had to die for the dragon to be set free.

He remembered waking up naked in a dark cave, the smell of smoke and dirt filling his nostrils. His blood felt as if on fire and for a moment did not know who he was. A spike of light invaded his sight as he heard noises and footsteps approaching, torchlight casting shadows falling away from the direction of the newcomers.

He was trapped in his own body, only seeing at the ceiling, his mind filling with alarm before he felt a warm body drape over him and teary grey eyes fill his vision.

"Jon."

He remembered the way his body seemed to jolt awake at the sound of her voice, at the sound of her broken sobbing. He remembered the way his memories came rushing back, wave upon wave breaking over him.

Bastard. Snow. Wolves. Ice. Winter. Pain. Blood. Fire.

He remembered how her warm tears felt like as they fell on his face, the feel of Ghost's cold wet nose nudging his cheek, the sounds of voices, human and not.

He woke and was brought before the three-eyed crow, stiff as he moved and hindered by an inconsolable Arya who clung to him as if her life depended on it. He knew now that maybe it did.

He was told that the long night had begun and three moons had passed since his believed death. He was told everything he needed to know, of his mission, of his duty, and all the while Arya clung to his side fearing he would disappear.

He had felt different yet the same. More alive than he realized. He had felt closer yet detached to Bran and the crannogmen and Hodor. He still did not understand his feelings towards the Children and the three-eyed Crow or how he felt about Bran deciding to stay and meld into the trees.

He had reached the Wall with Arya and the crannogmen in tow, protected by their direwolves and guided by a white raven.

He remembered little of the rest that followed. A whirlwind of death, wars, icy cold wights and the blue-eyed Demons. He did remember that Arya would disappear during the day, finding her in his bed at night.

They spent the nights sharing only each other's warmth, she, still the little sister in his eyes. The nights of only lying in the dark side by side slowly changed into something more.

Accidental touches, experimental kisses, and uncertain new feelings led to them spending every minute in the dark exploring each other's body. He was past the guilt of having taken her maidenhead but still weighed down by the shame of it all. Though he was no longer her trueborn brother, every morning was spent avoiding each other's eyes.

He would wonder, of course, if once the wars ended, would their complicated affair also end? During those times, perverse hope that winter would never end had him hating himself

He brushed a kiss on her cheek, then on her lips, leaving a trail of kisses as he moved down her body. Kissing every little silvery scar, every freckle, every mark on her otherwise perfect skin.

The men of the Night's Watch feared him now and many had taken a lot of convincing to believe he was not the Great Other walking among them. Others worshipped him as Azor Ahai reborn with frenzied encouragement from Melisandre and Stannis' men. All but the Red Priestess believed he had used strange magic against those who killed him by letting them fall to horrible deaths.

Melisandre had questioned him on who the Faceless Man accompanied by a direwolf was that kept appearing in her fires but he kept silent. No one noticed the figure that slipped into his chambers every night, silent as a shadow.

As his kisses drew closer to her belly, he felt her stir underneath him. He looked up to meet her sleepy gaze.

"Won't you let me sleep?"

He smirked at her in reply, continuing his previous ministrations. He felt her body hum under his fingers, pleased at his touches.

He remembered the day Arya had revealed herself to the men of the Night's Watch, rushing into the fray with Nymeria and a hundred other wolves and all manner of creatures in tow. He had watched as a wight took down her horse and she had disappeared in a sea of mired white. He did not remember anything else then other than waking to find her holding him, warm and eyes still grey as the winter sky.

It was whispered that it was his Targaryen blood that pushed him in taking his sister as his lover. Not one of his men could prove it of course; even Melisandre could not see Arya in her fires leading the Red Queen to fear his she-wolf.

Word had been sent south and east for help from the dragons and the rest of the realm but the Queen of the Dragons had not yet settled their dispute with her blue-haired nephew and news of his own heritage sparked a thousand different reactions. Good and bad.

He pulled away, giving her space to sit on her legs facing him. He kissed her again as her arms snaked around his neck, his hand running through her hair as the rested on the small of her back, pulling him closer. His tongue exploring her mouth as she tugged at his hair.

For now, he would be content to have her this close. For now, he would be content for the rest of the world to call him Snow or Targaryen or even Stark as long as her lips said Jon. For now as he kissed her, he was not the realm's wolf-dragon, not the Night's Watch's Lord Commander, not a pretender to the Iron Throne.

For now, he was hers and hers alone until the gods decided something else.