A/N: This story is going through some editing. I should have the other chapters up soon, and then be able to continue on with the story! And for those of you on tumblr, I can be found under the url: bellegereotherys if you want to, you know, follow me. :)

Prologue:

Arya had scampered with breathless excitement into Jon's chambers, beaming with pleasure when her gaze found him lying on his back, arms cradled behind his head. He had been staring off at the stone ceiling above, lost in thought, until a loud squeal erupted from his right and something red and brown streaked across his floor like a bolt of lightning and catapulted itself onto the far side of his bed.

"Oompf," Jon gasped, the wind being knocked out of his stomach as the form laid itself down and snuggled up next to him.

"Aren't you supposed to be at needlework lessons?" Jon asked in his most contemptuous voice, looking askance.

Every time she rushed into his room brimming with news, this was a customary question; it was widely acknowledged amongst the denizens of Winterfell that all the winds of Winter could not dissuade the youngest female Stark from effecting her will once her mind was made up. Thus when captivated by a novel thought or idea (the latter typically of the mischievous sort), she would promptly abandon the task at hand and scurry away in a frenzy.

Her recurring sojourns to his room, curiously enough, transpired precisely around the time she had sewing lessons with the Septa.

"I'm called 'Arya Underfoot' for a reason, stupid. Septa Mordane was going on about how awful my poetry was so I gave her the fig and ran away," Arya said.

He could feel her smile from here. Suddenly he wished he could have borne witness to Septa Mordane's face at the sight of a scrawny little thing like Arya, proudly showcasing to all present company of ladies, one of the most vulgar hand gestures in all of Westeros.

At this image, Jon could not help but burst out into laughter.

He could feel her wrinkling her nose against his side in an attempt to stop a smile from spreading across her face at his reaction. She rolled over onto her back with an exasperated sigh and mimicked his pose. Her wine colored dress wore battle scars of dried dirt and mud streaked generously across her bodice. As she lay there, he swore he could see a twig tangled in her hair.

A tiny smile almost threatened its way onto Jon's face when he saw this and tried to stifle it to the best of his ability; he was told not to condone or encourage her wild ways by his Lord father and Lady Catelyn.

A pity, that.

Her antics were much and more of the reason why daily, sporadic bouts of laughter would erupt from the kitchens or the stables.

He glanced at her from his peripheral vision as she turned to her side, his grey eyes meeting her own.

She was tucked away against the crook of his arm, her face gazing somewhat down at him from being slightly propped up by her slender arm.

At the age of three years, Arya (though now she would vehemently deny any such accusation that questioned her bravery) had been terrified of sleeping alone in the midst of a storm. She would waddle into Jon's quarters, chucking herself onto his furs during the middle of the night as fast as her small, chubby legs would carry her, and curl up against him in fear, thumb in mouth. Sometimes, when the storm was a particularly unpleasant one, Arya would shake him awake and demand to hear a story in order to soothe her nerves. Every so often during those occasions, Jon would feel a little less than generous and try to scare her half-way through his tale (which would always be a frightening one) by making a loud noise or by abruptly clutching onto her arm. Jon had stopped after he had learned that Arya's first reflex, when startled, was a sound punch in the face.

Strangely, over the years, Jon found himself increasingly drawn to Arya out of all his brothers and sisters. True, he preferred Robb's company as they both were of the same sex and age, but it was always- to some initial surprise- his little sister he was closest to of mind and spirit. They shared a natural, intrinsic bond; mayhaps it was due to the similar dark hair and long, solemn faces they shared, a love for riding horses or their awareness of the fact that they never quite seemed to fit in with those around them. Jon did not know.

As for riding, he had learned never to expect winning whilst racing his little sister on horseback; she would outpace his own horse mercilessly and then trot little victorious circles around them both. It was difficult to be sullen at her for too long, as she would invariably wriggle back into his good graces much to his amused chagrin. After he and his brothers and oddly, Sansa, had gifted Arya with a new chestnut courser on her last name day, they had sealed her fate as the most competent rider amongst them. Arya was half-horse herself; something that he had once heard his Father say about his own sister, Lyanna Stark.

Father never talked about his younger sister but there had been one occasion, on Arya's last name day, when both he and Uncle Benjen had indulged the Stark children about the mystery that was their Aunt, a woman who had died so tragically young.

It had all started innocently enough a few months back when Arya turned a year older.