A/N: Unbeta'd, but if anyone is interested, I'd love to have one. I haven't written ANYTHING in forever, so excuse the rust and be nice! There just isn't enough AryaxJon out there and this idea has been eating at me for weeks now.

There is a bit of a build up before JonxArya actually reunite but I did think it was important to include some triggers for certain events/feelings. As hard as I tried to avoid running my mouth (my thoughts? Words? Whatever) I couldn't help it, so please be patient! If you're looking for a quick read, this is not for you! Sorry

**AU & Arya is 16**

Aaaaand… I own nothing. Well, Wilar is my baby, but all other canon folks are GRRM's, I just borrowed them for the evening. Hope you enjoy!

EDIT: I had originally written one long chapter, then it seemed to long so I published it as two, but… then they seemed too short, so I've edited them back into one! Sorry for any confusion!

Chapter 1

The boat rocked back and forth as the storm's waves crashed against the hull. Wedged tightly into the cubby where their bedrolls sat, Arya rhythmically drew the whetstone over her blade. They had boarded The Daft Weasel this morning, her and Wilar.

On his last trip to the taverns, he had come back with rumors from Westeros. Stannis Baratheon was King at the Wall and a Stark bastard, Jon Snow, was Lord Commander.

Her heart had lurched at the mention of Jon. She missed all of her family, there was no doubt, but Jon had always been special. There had always been a deeper connection between her and her half-brother. She could never really explain or fully understand it, but it was always there. She remembered the day he left for the wall, he had given her Needle and mussed up her hair, hugged her so tight she could barely breath and reminded her that he loved her, forever and always. And then he left. Just like everyone else, they all left.

But it was the last rumor that had cut Arya the deepest. Wilar had no idea who she truly was, he had always simply known her as Cat, an orphan girl from Westeros whose father had brought them over to Braavos and died shortly after. So when he nonchalantly threw out that Arya Stark had married Ramsay Bolton and turned Winterfell over to them, he had not been prepared for the fist that connected square with his jaw. She threw everything she could grab at him and called him a filthy liar, until he had finally managed to catch her wrists in his hands and still her long enough for her to regain some sense. Still, she had stormed out of her rooms and roamed Braavos through the night.

She had given up being No One a long time ago, but never reclaimed Arya Stark, she had remained Cat and lived in her rooms above a tavern. She worked odd jobs and used the skills she had learned at the House of Black & White to support herself. But in that moment, when she heard that her family's home belonged to someone else now, and it was her that had given it away (or at least that's what everyone believed), she felt a possessive need to reclaim herself, to be Arya Stark all over again. She had decided that night that she would reclaim her home. She would take back Winterfell. It had been without a Stark for too long and she was the only one left.

And now here she was, on a ship bound for White Harbor. Wilar had his blankets pulled up to his chin, snoring like an aurochs, and Arya couldn't help but smile at her friend, remembering fondly how they'd met.

Coming out of a tavern in Ragman's harbor, a drunken fool thought Arya easy prey and tried to sneak up on her, dagger drawn, as she walked down an alley to her room above Moroggo's. She knew he was there all along, of course, waiting for the man to inch close enough before she reacted. But just as she was drawing her own dagger, the drunk man reaching a grubby fist to snatch a handful of her hair, another man barreled into her assailant sending all three of them tumbling to the ground. The drunk man stumbled to his knees, his dagger stabbing at everything and nothing, while the other man could only scramble out of reach, the blade missing him just barely with each thrust. Arya moved quickly, dropping to her knees just behind their attacker. Reaching one arm around the man's fat neck, she cupped his chin and jerked his head up, her other hand deftly drawing her dagger across his clammy skin. She released the man and he slumped forward, face first into the muddy dirt of the alleyway. She quickly went about stripping him of his weapons and rummaging through his pockets, cutting away at his purse strings, completely ignoring the man panting on the ground behind her. She knew if she acknowledged him right then, as angry as she was, he would likely end up dead too. She wiped her dagger on the dead man's cloak and tucked it back into her belt, emptying the contents of his purse into her own. As she was making to turn and leave the alleyway, she felt a hand on her shoulder and whirled around.

"Are you all..?" the man began but before he could finish, Arya slammed both her hands into his chest, pushing him back against the wall.

"Am I what? Am I all right?", she screamed, "I'm bloody fine! I was bloody fine before you showed up! You stupid!" She jabbed at his chest with her finger as if punctuating each word. The man, well, boy now that she had a better look at him, just stared at her, confusion on his face. He couldn't be more than four and ten, though his broad shoulders and muscular body made him look much older. She turned from him and paced around the alley.

"What were you trying to do, get yourself killed?", she demanded, but she got no answer. She turned back to the boy. "Well?", but when she made to look where his face had been a second ago, she found only a stone wall. Her eyes quickly traveled down and saw the boy heaped over on the ground, clutching at his side.

"Seven hells..." she grumbled to herself as she quickly drew the boy's arm over her shoulder. "Get up you Aurochs, come on, I'm not going to do all the work. This is all your stupid fault, you know…"

The boy could only mumble as he struggled to his feet and was lead back to Arya's room where she tended to his wounds and let him rest a few days. In that time, she had come to know Wilar better than anyone else in the years she'd been in Braavos. He was a crewman on a Westerosi ship, but he had stayed behind from the last voyage. He wanted some adventure and excitement and Braavos had always seemed like the best place for that.

"Well you've found your adventure and excitement, you clod," she remembered mocking him.

He had smiled at her, his big toothy grin, and smugly replied "More than I'd bargained for... and hardly worth the trouble, if you ask me".

He'd ducked out the way as she threw a nearby pillow at him, then chased her out of her room, through the common rooms and into the streets. Arya had laughed that day, truly laughed, more than she had in years. They became fast friends and spent most of their free time together. He had even insisted on following her when she told him she was leaving for Westeros. He never asked why and she never told him.

Although Arya had outwardly chastised Wilar for following her across the world "like a lost little pup", she was secretly grateful. She hadn't been home in years, she wasn't even sure she would recognize anything or remember how to get where she was trying to go. Wilar wouldn't have much better luck she was sure, but the thought of a companion made the task ahead seemed just a little less daunting.

Tucking her whetstone away, she carefully placed her dagger under her pillow and crawled into her bedroll. Just then, the ship lurched and her bag fell from its hook, knocking her on the head. Grumbling, she hung the bag back up and tied the straps on the hook over and over, sure it wouldn't slip off again. She turned her back to the wall, scowling, and gave her pillow a punch for good measure before tucking back into her bedroll and closing her eyes.

"Good night, stupid", she mumbled and exhaustion took her.

She lay under a towering sentinel, her golden eyes gazing over the snowy landscape. She could hear her pack mates fighting over the last scraps of their kill at the bottom of the cliff as she licked the blood from her paws. The tangy metallic taste had made her cringe at first, but the more she dreamt as Nymeria, the less it seemed to bother her.

She stood to rejoin them, shaking the falling snow from her fur, when she caught a strange scent. Stalking closer to the edge of the cliff, she raised her nose to the wind. Men. Many men. And horses. But something else, something familiar but too faint, hidden amidst the stench of so many bodies. Crouching low in the snow, she watched the horizon and waited as the scent grew stronger.

In little time, she could see a blackness creeping out of the Northern mountains, over the untouched snow, like spilled ink seeping into a crisp white fabric. She stood and watched the mass that approached. She could see them now, hundreds of men, head to toe in black, followed behind by hundreds more. Some covered in grey and brown furs, some with the sigil of a black stag on golden tunics, red flames dancing around it. Others still bore sigils of houses she had once recognized but long forgotten. They were Northmen, that much she was certain, but her years away had dulled her memories of Maester Luwin's lessons.

She watched the army march past, angling east as they approached the edge of the forest. She followed, stalking quietly along the ridge, looking down on the intruders. Distracted by her curiosity, she missed the scent, missed the approaching sounds. She turned, teeth bared, as the snow crunched behind. Too late. A huge weight slammed into her and she tumbled to the snow. All she saw was white, above her, below her, around her. White, and two red eyes staring into her own.

Arya jolted awake. Sitting up, she drew her knees to her chest. I need air. On her feet, she tiptoed over Wilar's body, now splayed across his own bedroll and half of hers, still sound asleep. She rolled her eyes. He could sleep through a war, curled up in the middle of a battlefield.

She quietly closed the cabin door and made her way to the deck, her bare feet stepped lightly over the wood beneath her making no sound. Up on deck, she wandered lazily to the rail, dragging her fingers over the wet wood until she reached the stern of the ship.

Finding some crates anchored to the deck, she leaned back against them and closed her eyes. The sea mist splashed lightly over her skin, the breeze cooling her, and she almost forgot why she was up there. But the red eyes, staring, as if into her very soul, would not leave her.

Ghost. He was the familiar scent. It had to be. There were hundreds of Night's Watchmen. Why wouldn't Jon be with them, and if Jon was, so was Ghost. But in the Wolfswood? No, that doesn't make sense. Jon should be at the wall. Or beyond it even. But then, was Nymeria beyond the wall too? It's been so long since my last wolf dream, she could have moved anywhere by now. And Stannis's men? He's King at the Wall, his men would be there too.

It hurt Arya that she knew so little about Nymeria, about Jon. It hurt more to know that, wherever they were, Nymeria was so close to Jon and she wasn't. She wished that she had run to the army of men in her dream. She wanted so desperately to see him, it didn't seem to matter right then that they would have most likely killed her. If she had gotten just one glimpse of Jon, to know he was alive and ok, she knew it wouldn't have mattered.

She leaned over the rail and watched the waves crash against the hull. It was easier to forget when she was far away, nothing reminding her of home. But now, she was less than a fortnight from White Harbor, on her way to reclaim her family's lands, and her wolf dreams had come back. The closer she got to Westeros, the less was left of Cat, No one, Beth, and everyone else she had become to push away Arya Stark.

She knew she had to be Arya again, it was the only way. She was ready to go home, ready to avenge her family and make them proud and reclaim Winterfell. But she was not ready for the hurt. The deaths of most of her loved ones, the not knowing of the others, the reminder of all the people who had left her. And there had been many. But Jon had hurt the most.

She knew it wasn't right or fair, to feel that way, but she did. If anything she had been leaving Jon when she went to King's Landing. He would have been left behind with a woman who hated him, a brother whose new responsibilities would keep him very busy, and two others who were too young to be any real companionship. She and Jon had been each other's closest companions. They had shared secrets, fears, triumphs and failures with each other that no one else had been privy to. While most of the Stark children had been close to each other, none had been closer than Arya and Jon. And she had left him. He had to leave, there was nothing left for him at Winterfell.

Her mind was so wrapped up in her thoughts of Jon that she had not heard Wilar approaching.

"Cat?" He squinted into the shadows where she stood.

"Here, Wil"

"Ugh.. don't disappear that like, you scared me half to death. In case you forgot, we're on a ship full of sellswords and shady folks. " he drew his blanket tighter around himself, shuffling over to stand beside her. No merchant ship had been willing to give them passage to Westeros for the amount of coin they had, so she had bartered their way onto a smuggler's ship.

"So sorry, father. It won't happen again!" she threw her hands up in mock surrender before rolling her eyes.

"Har har, you're not as cute as you think, you know…"

"No? You must follow me around for my cooking then", she smirked.

"Of course! There's nothing like a severe case of gut-rot to keep me coming back for more!" he rubbed his stomach and licked his lips, bursting into laughter when Arya elbowed him in the stomach before laughing herself.

After a few moments they grew quiet again and Arya leaned back over the railing, watching the water. Wilar eyed her curiously.

"You ok?"

"Sure"

"Uh huh…"

Arya scowled at him. She shivered as the wind picked up.

"It's nothing"

"C'mere, you stubborn mule", Wilar wrapped the blanket around both of them and pressed Arya close to him. "You can tell me, Cat, please."

Arya remained quiet, staring off into the sea.

"Right. Well, if you won't tell me then I'll have to guess. Here we go… Your favorite dolly fell overboard. Hmm?"

Silence.

"You have a steamy crush on the potbellied captain, but he doesn't return your feelings because he prefers sheep?"

This time Arya eyed him sideways but still said nothing.

"Ok ok… look Cat. I know you want to be with me, but it just wouldn't be right. That time that I professed my feelings for you and you laughed in my face? A rouse. Clearly. I was trying to throw you off guard so you wouldn't realize why I truly stayed with you. You see… you are just so… proper, you know, ladylike." Wilar felt Arya tense a little in his arms. "I knew I could learn how to be a proper woman from you and go on to live out my dream in a traveling theater troupe as one of those prissy man-women who always play female roles".

The image of Wilar in an elaborate gown, face smeared in make-up, prancing around like a dainty woman forced a snort out of Arya before she could catch it.

"Gotcha", he beamed, tightening his arms around her, resting his chin on her head.

"You are so stupid."

"And you love me all the same."

The silence settled back in. Arya did love Wilar, she knew that much. Not the same way he loved her, of course, but he was her best friend. He had never pried into her past, never tried to force her to be someone else, to change her in any way. He had accepted her the way she was from the day they met and she would always be grateful to him. I've lied to him so many times, he doesn't even know my name. Suddenly it hit her. He was going home with her. Home, where people would know her, know Arya, not Cat. He would find out that she had lied to him. He can't find out like that, it wouldn't be fair.

"Wilar", she turned in his arms and pulled away. "Why did you never ask why I wanted to leave Braavos?"

"Not sure… Guess it never really mattered". He shrugged, sitting on the deck, his back against the rail.

"How could it not matter? We left our homes, everyone we knew, a decent life, to go back to a place neither of us should even recognize anymore." She kneelt on the deck beside him. "And you didn't even think twice about it. Seven hells, you were ready to go before I was!"

As she stared at him questioningly, she could faintly see the blush that crept up his cheeks in the pale lantern light.

"Erm, well," he stammered, staring intently at his feet as he toed a loose piece of deck. "Ugh, look. You're sort of the only person I've ever been this close to… You know I never had a family. The merchant ships were fun and all, but the crew was always changing. I always felt alone before I met you. Guess it wasn't really a question in my mind. I didn't leave my home, I'm following it to Westeros."

Arya could only stare at her friend, her silence causing him to shift uncomfortably, unable to lift his gaze from his feet. She knew in that moment that he would never betray her, no matter what she said or did, she could trust him with her life. He deserves to know.

"My name isn't Cat."

"Aurochs like lemon tarts." They stared at one another for a moment before Wilar continued.

"Well, I figured we were spitting out rubbish." Arya rolled her eyes at him.

"My name isn't Cat", she repeated. "I lied to you, I'm sorry."

Wilar stared off into the distance letting her confession sink in.

"So?" he finally answered, turning to look at her.

"So… what?"

"So who are you then?"

"My name is Arya."

"Arya." He let the name roll off his tongue, as if testing it. He repeated it again as he looked her over, making sure it suited her. "I like it, I guess."

"That's it? You like it? You're not mad?"

"I'm hurt. You lied to me. But it's just a name, Ca… Arya. It's not like you've lied to me about your entire past ." He chuckled a little. Arya stared at him, sadness and guilt painted on her features.

"Right?" he urged, concern growing as he waited for a denial that never came.

"I'm sorry", was all she could say, her eyes downcast.

Wilar bolted to his feet and stormed towards the cabin. Steps from the door, he whirled around and marched right back to her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, drawing her face to within inches of his.

"Why?" he demanded, squeezing her arm painfully.

"You're hurting me, Wil!"

"I'm hurting you?" he growled back, his grip tightening even more.

Arya drew her free arm back and slammed her fist into her friend's jaw. Wilar dropped her arm instantly and grabbed at his face, moaning in pain. She jumped back out of his reach and rubbed at her arm, waiting for him to recover.

"I'm.. . I'm sorry", he mumbled finally. His hands dropping limply to his sides, he leaned back into the rail.

"S'okay."

"No, it's not..."

"Wil, I didn't lie because I wanted to." She offered, as she moved to his side. "I had to. To stay alive. I became Cat long before I met you, and by then I had buried who I used to be so deep… I barely remember her. Myself."

Wilar turned to look at Arya, shocked to see a tear streaming down her cheek.

"The day you came from the tavern with rumors of Westeros. You spoke of Ramsay Bolton taking over Winterfell…"

"Aye," Wilar nodded. "You punched me when I told you he married Ary…" Arya watched as his face turned from confusion to realization. She smiled weakly at him.

"Arya Stark?", he almost yelled.

"Sshh! Stupid! Someone will hear!"

"Arya Stark", he repeated quietly. "But you've been with me, how could you have married the Bolton?"

"I didn't. They must have gotten someone to pose as me. And now they've taken Winterfell."

Wilar sat dumbfounded. He had lived in Westeros until his 11th name day. He'd spent time in the North and knew enough of its history, he had heard the stories of the War of the five Kings, he knew full well just who was seated next to him. The daughter of the once Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, sister of the deceased King in the North. His best friend, his Cat, was Arya Stark of Winterfell.

"Arya…"

"Hmm?"

"You better not be thinking of doing what I think you're thinking of doing." He scowled at her. "Arya?"

"It's my home, Wil. I won't let them use me to take it. They've taken everything from me. This time I'm taking it back.