Jon did not move at first.

  From the edge of the shadows, he watched the small figure in the far corner of the yard. The moonlight barely reached her, thinning into darkness, but it was enough. Enough to see the wooden sword rise and fall. Enough to count.

  One swing.

  Two.

  Three.

  Her movements were uneven. Too much force, not enough control. She put her whole body into each strike, shoulders tightening, feet planting too hard against the stone. Not training — not truly. Playing. Effort where precision should have been.

  The little girl was very young — an age where play wore the mask of practice, and effort mattered more than form.

  But she kept going.

  “You’re not getting past me.”

  She slashed at the empty air, feet planted too hard, talking to her imaginary enemy.

  Another swing, wild but earnest.

  “You can’t touch anyone in Winterfell while I’m here.”

  She lifted the wooden sword higher, almost solemn now.

  “I won’t let you.”

  Jon found himself counting without intending to. The rhythm wasn’t steady, yet there was stubbornness in it.

  And he knew her.

  Arya Stark.

  He focused on her and noted the resemblance — more than he expected. Dark, untamed hair. Grey, restless eyes like his own. No softness to the face, only the innocence of childhood. Boyish, some would say. Jon saw something else.

  She looks like me.

  The thought came uninvited. Same coloring. Same restless energy. Same sense of being slightly out of place. Looking at her felt like glimpsing a younger reflection.

  A sister, the word surfaced quietly.

  Not by blood. By something closer.

  Arya swung again, overcommitting, nearly stumbling. She recovered with a huff of breath and tried once more, jaw set, grip tight. Too tight. Jon noticed that too.

  He almost spoke.

  The words rose easily — a correction, a habit, something Ser Rodrik would have said: Bend your knees. Don’t force it. Let the blade move.

  Jon opened his mouth.

  Then stopped.

  Something about the moment held him still. The night. The silence. The moonlight. The way she thought she was alone. Words would break it. Words would change it.

  So he stayed quiet.

  And watched.

  Silence, for now, was enough however Jon’s scalp prickled suddenly, He could not help but remember what she would become. Not a knight. Not a lady.

  An assassin.

  The thought landed hard. The small hands gripping that wooden sword would one day hold real steel, and she would use it not in battle, but in silence. Faces would change. Names worn like masks. Death would come without warning, without witnesses.

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  Jon swallowed, a cold weight settling in his chest. He forced the thought away, but the shadow of it lingered — a warning and a promise, both at once.

  Jon stayed half in shadow, leaning against the edge of the wall, eyes fixed on the little figure swinging the wooden sword. He made no effort to hide himself. He didn’t need to.

  Arya’s rhythm faltered all of a sudden. Her head snapped up. Her eyes noticing Jon's presence while she was changing her stance and body position.

  Two pairs of grey eyes locked with each other in this gaze.

  Arya's eyes sharp, calculating.

  Not fear.

  Not surprise.

  Suspicion.

  Jon was amused at that moment.

  She planted her feet firmly and straightened, the small wooden sword tight in her hands.

  Jon tilted his head slightly, letting her take in his presence fully. He said nothing.

  “You watching me?” Her voice was calm, almost accusatory.

  Jon’s lips twitched. “Yes.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to tell on me?” the girl was smart enough to know what she was doing was wrong and it can get her a harsh rebuke from her mother.

  “No,” Jon said.

  A pause. The night stretched between them, thick and quiet.

  “You shouldn’t be out here,” she said after a moment, voice softer but still wary. “It’s late.”

  Jon shrugged. “Neither should you.”

  A flicker of something like a smirk crossed her face. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  “I know,” Jon replied, studying her. Her stance, her focus, the way she overcommitted swings and corrected herself. “You fight like your life on the line.” Jon said teasing her a little.

  Her grip on the sword tightened, but she didn’t move. she said quietly. “maybe I just like the sword.”

  Jon let the silence return. He noted her posture, the boyish tilt of her shoulders, the way her eyes didn’t waver from him. There was stubbornness there. Grit. A spark he recognized.

  “You’re still too small,” he said finally, almost a statement. Not teasing anymore, just observing.

  “And you’re tall,” she replied, eyes sharp, “but that doesn’t mean you hit harder.”

  Jon’s lips twitched, resisting the urge to facepalm “Point taken.”

  A few seconds of quiet passed. No one moved. No one spoke. The moonlight penetrating the sky, casting shifting shadows over stone and frost.

  “You’re different from befor.” Arya said after a pause.

  Jon tilted his head. “People change.”

  She stared for another long moment, then nodded once, just slightly. Not a sign of surrender. Not acceptance. But acknowledgment.

  Then she swung the wooden sword once, more controlled this time, and went back to her playful practice, though her eyes never left him.

  Jon stayed where he was, silently counting her swings again, as he had before. This time, however, it wasn’t just play he was watching. Something else was beginning to stir.

  Jon watched her overcommit a swing once more, the wooden sword tilting just slightly too far. He frowned, stepping closer, taking the wooden sword from her hand, his body still relaxed.

  Arya narrowed her eyes at him, gripping her empty hand as if the sword were still there. “What do you think you’re doing with my sword?”

  “Your grip,” he said quietly.

  Arya looked at him confused, she thought he will ask her to go back to her room after taking the sword.

  “My… grip?” she asked, suspicious.

  Jon knelt slightly, showing her how his hands wrapped around the hilt, thumb resting just so, fingers firm but not stiff. only demonstrating once — slow, precise, deliberate.

  “Like this,” he said. “Less tense. Let the sword move with you, don't let the sword guide you, you are the one who guides it.”

  Arya stared at his hands, then at her own. Jon gave her the wooden sword back.

  She mirrored him, copying the adjustment, letting the sword settle in her fingers. She swung.

  Cleaner.

  Jon’s eyes flicked up. She looked at him. Their gazes met, just for a heartbeat. No words. No smiles.

  That small swing carried more than technique. More than practice.

  Recognition.

  Something unspoken passed between them — a spark of understanding, a moment where neither needed to explain. The girl who had always been stubborn, restless… the boy who had always stood apart, silent, guarded… they saw each other.

  Arya tried another swing, sharper this time, hitting closer to where she intended. Jon didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched.

  The night held them both in stillness.

  Jon didn’t offer praise. She didn’t ask for it.

  Yet in that quiet, a first seed was planted. A recognition of someone who mattered. A bond that didn’t need words. Just awareness.

  Arya kept swinging the wooden sword, and Jon knew — she would learn. He would watch. And in that watching, for the first time in this world, he felt something akin to family.

  Not belonging. Not trust. Just knowing.

  And that, he realized, might be enough for now.

  The wooden sword rose and fell again.

  Jon watched one last swing before stepping back, the shadows reclaiming him as easily as breath leaving lungs. He turned without ceremony, boots quiet against the frost-bitten stone, and moved toward the archway leading back into the keep.

  He didn’t hurry.

  “You going back to your room?”

  The voice came from the yard, sharp and small, carrying over the quiet of the night. Arya, still in the moonlight, her hair loose and restless, watched him with narrowed eyes.

  “Yes,” Jon replied, without turning.

  Jon didn’t stop. He didn’t turn. She watched him go, Arya’s eyes followed him for a moment, grey and thoughtful. Should I have asked him to play? The thought passed as quickly as it came, and she tightened her grip on the wooden sword instead.

  the distance growing until only the shadowed archways marked where he had passed.

  “Good night, Jon,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

  And then, silence.