He stood still, watching her. He still couldn't quite believe it, when he was certain that he's lost everything he held dear, the Gods brought her to him. He knew she was alive, which was more than he could tell about any of his other siblings, and he used to assure himself that she was happy, back at the home they all left years ago. Now that she was here, even that illusion of small happiness shattered. He saw her bruises, he saw how her small fingers shook as she held the bowl of hot stew when she took her first supper at Castle Black. And now she stood at the courtyard staring lengthily at the four dangling figures.

Jon knew he's got to order them to be cut down. They hung there for two days now, dangling in the wind. What ever they've done against him, they deserved a burial. Their bodies to be burned, none had the right to a burial other than that anymore. Yet they deserved it and Jon knew, and still, he couldn't give the order. It was just another thing he couldn't bring himself to do. So they were left there, to remind him, to drill into his head what they've done. What they thought of him, what they decided he deserved. His gaze settled on the boy. Olly was even younger than Bran and he hung him for mutiny. For shoving his knife into his Lord Commander's heart. His fists wanted to hit something, to break something, let go of all the boiling anger he desperately held inside, and just feel it, allow it to rage until it would hopefully give way to relief. Jon liked the boy. It wasn't the smartest decision to appoint him as his steward but Jon Snow didn't make smart decisions. The Jon that got murdered, he thought bitterly. Jon Snow, honourable fool, made decision after decision following his honourable heart and got murdered for it. Honour was only worth a knife in the heart, after all.

"Don't go near, my lady." He heard the guard. Sansa stood in front of each, studying their faces as if she wanted to remember them. She grew up, Jon thought. This girl - woman grown - who came to Castle Black wasn't the spoiled child who he knew from their younger days. Part of Jon wanted to know every detail behind the constant sadness in her eyes. A certain cold settled in her gaze and it seemed to him that no one ever will be able to melt the ice inside her again. He wanted to kill them all, for hurting her. Yet another part of him reasoned that it is better left unsaid, perhaps as an excuse to why he couldn't bring himself to ask. Knowing himself, he would go an kill them all, no matter what it took. It was yet another thing he couldn't bring himself to face just yet.

Earlier today they received a messenger from Winterfell and Sansa argued with him bitterly. She wants her home back, it's only natural, he reasoned to himself. But Jon was tired of fighting, of living. Yet deep down he knew that it wasn't his decision at all, the illusion of a peaceful second life, to go south and get warm as he sarcastically summed it, was nothing more, just an illusion. He will fight their wars forever, Ser Alliser said. The man now hung lifelessly in front of Sansa. He was right, Jon knew now.

"Lord Commander..." he heard behind him.

"I'm not the Lord Commander," Jon spit out the words as if they were poison.

"Jon," Edd begun again. "Help me, what to do with this?"

Jon turned towards his friend with a look of apology. Edd held a small wooden box in his hands, now holding it up in front of him to emphasise his words. "There are scrolls in it but you know I can't..." Jon nodded, as he took the box and opened it.

"It was under the floorboard Jon, in Maester Aemon's chamber. Perhaps something important, about them..."

Old scrolls, with broken seals - letters that the beloved maester probably cherished. A newer one, sealed still with that of a black lizard - The Reeds of Greywater Watch. He pushed it aside as a seal caught his eye. Direwolf. Broken. He took the letter and gave the box back to Edd, hastily rolling out the scroll in his hands to read.

Suddenly he grabbed the whole box from Edd and rushed into his chamber. There, he emptied its contents on the table. One by one, he broke the yet-intact seals, read them all, then the old ones, all of them. He didn't notice Sansa standing in the door.

"What are those?" She asked finally breaking the silence. She startled as he turned towards her, his eyes brimming with tears. She rushed to the table, reading the first, then the second, the third.

"Seems to be old letters to a maester Aemon."

"Aemon Targaryen." Jon whispered, handing her the scroll with the direwolf seal.

She read it carefully.

Maester,

I write to you to confirm that the child has been brought to Winterfell by me as you enquired. I must however decline any notion of his upbringing according to his status. The country may be at peace once more, yet I assure you that the child would never be safe if anyone knew. If he knew. He shall be brought up as one of mine, a bastard, and will learn nothing of the circumstances of his birth. Once he is of age, I shall send him to the Nights Watch where he'll take the oath and be beyond the reach of kings. I trust you to be blessed with a long life, Maester, and perhaps one day you shall tell the boy yourself of your relation. I bid you not to, until he's taken his vow. Until that time comes, let me assure you that he shall have no want, and will be cared for, educated alongside my own son. He is of my blood, Maester, and I shall do what all I can to keep him safe.

Eddard Stark

Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

"Aemon Targaryen... was your maester?" Jon nodded.

"Father wrote about a child to be raised alongside his own son... Robb. That boy is you, the one brought to Winterfell as a bastard." Jon nodded again, finally sinking into his chair in obvious dispair.

"Who am I?" His words were merely a whisper. Sansa rushed to his side, knelt in front of him. "You're Jon. You're my brother."

"No, according to fa... Lord Eddard I am not. This is his handwriting." Sansa studied the rough letters. 'Father was never one for writing letters.' - the scribble was instantly recognisable as that of Lord Eddard Stark.

"Read this..." Jon took an old dusty scroll from the pile and handed to her.

Uncle

I trust the summer sun shines upon you at the wall as it does on Dorne, if a bit colder. It is way too strong here. I write to thank you for your guidance, and advise you that I did as you bid me. I followed my heart.

She is of ice, and yet she awoke in me a fire that I never felt before. She is beauty itself, wild, untamed, stubborn and free, and I am finally free by her side. She is with child, and the happiness in her eyes melts my heart each time my own find her gaze upon me. She loves me, and I love her. We are one, in the eyes of the gods and that is what matters the most.

Trouble is brewing, uncle. Her kin demand that I release her back to them and I cannot do that. For all I know, the child growing in her womb is the prince promised, of ice and fire. Cold winds are rising, blood will be spelt. I must haste my plans to put an end to the misery brought upon the realm by my father's malady, and perhaps I shall be able to put my new family at ease and gain their forgiveness for the manner by which I went about taking my bride. I must be on my way come morning and leave her, and I know not when I will return or write again. I hold no illusions that war may be entirely avoided, yet I trust that in the end we shall all prevail. Your words are always with me, uncle, and your warning of what lies beyond the wall are ever more on my mind. I have done my part. Pray I have the strength to protect the treasure I have gained, the life we both hoped to bring to this world to one day defeat that darkness lurking under the layers of snow even now. Pray my plan succeeds.

With love

R

"Jon..." Sansa only noticed her hand covering her mouth as her eyes met the dark grey gaze, full of sadness and confusion. She quickly grabbed his hand, squeezing it in hers as if to provide some assurance amidst of this all.

"What do you make of it?" Jon asked in a thin voice.

"His bride who's kin demanded her return to them... his initial is R, and he writes to Aemon Targaryen. This was written by Rhaegar Targaryen." Tears began to slowly roll down Jon's cheeks, watching Sansa as she scanned through the scroll once more. "We are one in the eyes of the gods... they were wed? That is impossible, Prince Rhaegar had a wife. Elia Martell. But he writes that she loves him and he loves her. If that is true, he didn't kidnap aunt Lyanna, Jon." Sansa looked up, her hands cradling Jon's face and the scroll fell onto her lap then the floor. "You are the child, that is what I make of it. The child brought to Winterfell when father brought home Lyanna's bones, who could not be told of his relation to a Targaryen." Her voice was soft and soothing as she tried to calm him.

"Does it not anger you?" Jon asked, louder than he intended. His confusion began to give way to frustration and red hot anger burning ever so fiercer in his core.

"I... you are still Jon. This changes nothing about who you are. They are letters. If they are true, you know now who your parents were."

"There is one from Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. He tells Maester Aemon of a child born in a tower of Dorne defended by three of the Kingsguard. He names the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne as one they slew there. That's what father told us they did when he found... Lyanna. Reed writes the child was brought north and urges the maester to enquire the warden of the north." He sighed.

"I thought I knew who my father was..." Jon continued as a matter of fact, "and he lied to me. All my life, he lied to me. As I sat alone in the far corner during feasts, as I stood aside every time Lady Catelyn looked at me with her hatred, because all I knew was that I was Lord Stark's bastard. He lied to me!"

Sansa shook her head, for a moment surprised at how unaffected she felt by these revelations.

"He protected you. Jon, I was in Kings Landing when Joffrey hunted down and murdered all his father's bastards. They even cut down a babe in his mother's arms. King Robert would've done the same. Father protected you from that."

"There are other letters, all from him. R. You say it's Rhaegar Targaryen. He writes of prophecies, he writes of a northern threat that Maester Aemon seem to have warned him about. He writes about his father's deeds and how he disgusts for them. He... he writes of a plan to set it right."

Sansa shook her head once more.

"Whatever that plan was, I don't think he got to carry it out. King Robert killed him in single combat at the Ruby Ford."

"Aye. Then he took the throne for himself. They sacked Kings Landing."

"Tywin Lannister sacked Kings Landing. Gregor Clegane murdered Elia Martell and Rhaegar's children. If they knew, Jon... if they knew of you, they would've murdered you as well."

"Maester Aemon knew this..." Jon whispered with a sigh, wiping his tears off his face. "He knew who I was, or thought he knew. He never told me."

"What was he like?" Sansa tried to steer his attention away from what obviously pained and angered him.

"He was old, over a hundred namedays old. And blind, too. He was kind and wise. He told me to kill the boy and let the man be born, that was the last thing he told me. To do what I think was right. I wasn't here when he died. I was at Hardhome trying to save the freefolk because that's what I thought was right and I got murdered for it..." he shook his head in his disbelief.

"Gods, they knew. They knew what's coming before we were even born and none did anything to stop it!" He was almost shouting as he finished, anger alight in his eyes once more. "All those lives they could've saved! Men of the nights watch, and freefolk, countless wasted lives..." his voice faded into a whisper as he held his fist to his mouth, as if preventing the chain of thought to take the form of words, to get out there and gain life between them.

"We must take these, Jon," Sansa stood and hastily threw the scrolls back into the box. "Whatever the truth of them, we must keep them. If Rhaegal married Lyanna Stark and you're their son... you're the rightful king of the seven kingdoms!"

"Sansa..." he grabbed her wrist. "Don't tell anyone, please, I can't believe..."

"I agree, and I will not tell. Only you and I shall know." She raised a scroll. "And Lord Reed, if he lives still. When we have the North, we shall send for him to explain it to us himself. But until then, no one shall ever know. Promise me."

Jon nodded, albeit confused. She looked so adamant now. "Why?"

"Because we mean to fight. For our home, for Rickon..." Sansa said in that icy tone so new and uneasy for Jon to hear from her. "Even if they would believe, no one would fight beside you if they knew. No one would fight beside a Targaryen, let alone Rhaegar's brood."

"You mean to fight."

"I mean to take back what is ours," Sansa sighed. "Jon, I know I said I'll do it alone if I have to, but I can't. I can't lead an army. I need you..." she stood still now, her eyes piercing his. "Please, Jon. Help me. Teach me how to use a sword and help me take back Winterfell, please."

He stood slowly, as if the act took a great deal of strength. His mind was racing. "I promise you. I promised you that I will always protect you and I promise you, we will take back the North." He said softly. "Not because it is ours..."

The door slammed open.

"You must see this," Davos stood, his expression laden with dread. They rushed to the door.

The four bodies that hung still and lifelessly before were now very much awoken. Ice blue eyes stared at Jon as one, limbs trying to break free from the hook on the necks. Sansa let out a barely sound scream. Jon just stood next to her, frozen.

A man draw his sword.

"Wait!" Jon shouted, rushing across the rampart and down the stairs. Ice blue pairs of eyes followed his every move, undead hands reached toward him.

"Gather the men," He ordered.

Within minutes the yard filled with men, sleepily walking out to the open and suddenly quickening their steps to get a glimpse, shaken awake by the sight and the sound of those terrible screams.

"Do you believe now?!" Jon shouted, and their rumbling fell silent. "This is what becomes of everyone if we don't hold back the army of the dead! This is what we fought at Hardhome, this is what became of every men, women and child we left behind! They all march on the wall now to recruit each and every one of you this way!"

He was the leader once more, Sansa could see on his hardened face, fire in his eyes that she's not seen before. Suddenly she understood, the threat lying under layers of snow was no longer asleep. Tales of old and long forgotten, of a night longer than a generation, death crawling in the shadows hunting the living. Old Nan's bedtime stories suddenly seemed more real than anything she's ever known. Chill ran down her spine.

"Cut them down, carefully," Jon instructed Dolorous Edd. "Put them into crates and seal them in."

He left the crowd towards Sansa and she ran, straight into his arms. She needed to feel the safety that only his arms could provide her, that she only knew that one time when he held her in this very courtyard just days ago.

"This is why we must take back the North," he whispered into her hair. "Because I promised to protect you and we need the North behind us to defeat this. We have to defeat this," His voice chuckled, "the dead are coming, Sansa."