Lady Wolf

She almost didn't recognize her brother at first. He was paler, his face somehow managed to become even more somber and grim. His build had more muscle, he was the image of a young Eddard Stark, no longer the slim youth from her last memory of him years ago.

But were those the only changes she still would've been able to place the man standing before her as Jon Snow. The reason she hesitated at first was the eyes. No longer the steel gray of countless Starks before him, now they were a cold, ice blue.

When he strode forward and swept her up into her arms, a brief shiver of fear ran down her spine. Fear at my own family, thought Sansa, ridiculous. But this blue-eyed stranger was not the same Jon she knew, another dark part of her whispered. Something has happened.

Her fears about Jon were allayed when he promised her his protection, in that same old solemn tone, and their shared laugh at old memories from Winterfell. Not everything had changed. However, mention of their ancestral home brought new fears about how they would retake it from the Boltons, if they even could. The force at Castle Black and group of wildings camping outside alike were devastated by some recent catastrophe, the details of which Jon refused to share with her. As it stood, they hadn't even half the men they would need to take Winterfell, even after they added the banners of the northern lords. Sansa almost laughed at Jon when he told her the 'Bolton numbers didn't matter anymore' with that serious countenance of his. The laughter died in her throat, replaced by the shivering fear, as Jon's eyes began to glow with unearthly blue light.

The fear grew when he lead her atop the Wall to show her what was gathered on the other side.

Then Jon demonstrated his newfound abilities.

"You have control of this power? You can… command them?" she asked.

"There is strain, and I am still exploring the limits of what I can do, but aye, I have control. Or I wouldn't have dared return south of the Wall." he replied. And then her fear froze into solid Stark determination to see justice done.

The Bastard of Bolton

They came in with the dark, a screaming tide of horror that flowed over the walls of conquered Winterfell, blue eyes in the night. The Bolton men hacked them down by the dozen, and the hundreds that followed buried them in a tide of bodies. When their fallen comrades rose back up with burning eyes, most of the men broke and ran.

"Cowards! Craven! Fight back you filthy fucking maggots!" Ramsay screamed as he slashed the head off the creature attacking him with his sword, sinking the knife in his offhand into the back of a fleeing man-at-arms, who promptly fell dead at his feet. His sword flashed down to decapitate the man a few seconds later when he rose up to grab at him.

An animal part of him broke gibbering with fear at the sight of these rotten things, told him to run away with his men. He shut that part of him down with the full force of his fury. These dead men were slow, he danced around them and cut them to bits with mad glee. Ramsay Bolton didn't fear corpses. These enemies sucked the joy out of fighting- no screams of pain, no blood. It brought back the disappointment of the wolf-boy's death hours before. Little Rickon Stark had faced his death in silence, devoid of reaction. Just like with his cunt of a sister, it took the fun away.

When he finally spotted some men in black cloaks and crude furs fighting along with the wights, he almost wept with relief. Finally, flesh-and-blood men. He knew how to hurt living men, and knew how to bleed them good. He dashed towards the nearest one, a black brother busy cutting down a Bolton soldier. His knife flashed up to the neck, and Ramsay hungrily awaited the splash of hot lifeblood.

With impossible speed, a hand shot out of nowhere to grasp his wrist. Immovable strength prevented Ramsay's arm from even twitching. He noticed the hand that restricted him was an immaculate white. White like fresh snow- as was the arm it was connected to.

He turned to fully see the thing that grasped him. And Ramsay Bolton felt fear.

Dragon Queen

Daenerys heard the rumors as soon as she landed on Dragonstone. She found them hard to believe, despite her own experience in bringing legends back to life. Dead men walking in the North. Wildlings, White Walkers, ice spiders, giants and mammoths come south of the Wall, and he who commanded them. The King of Winter. The King of Night. King Snow.

The servants in the castle whispered of his powers, that he could command the dead- wights, they called them. That the King of Winter could call down storms on his enemies, fought with a great sword of pure ice, and had at his side a white direwolf larger than a horse. Her own men spoke of him as if he where some kind of demon- or some kind of god.

"Just a man, Your Grace." Varys assured her, "Jon Snow, the bastard son of the late Eddard Stark. Last I had heard of him before now was that he had gone to the Wall to take the black."

"A son of the Usurper's most loyal dog." she replied.

"Harsh words, my Queen." Varys looked completely unruffled by the glare she shot him. "Eddard Stark was one of the most honorable men in the realm, and I had heard it said that the son was no less than his father in that regard."

"And what of the news about the dead men, these so called wights, dear Spider?" she asked.

"The songs my Little Birds sing to me of the North as been quite.. discordant of late. Recent rumors have been rather baffling. I will strive to bring the truth to you with haste, Your Grace." Varys then bowed and left.

The next morning, Varys presented her with his truth, the eunuch more shaken than Daenerys had ever seen him. The spymaster's little birds reported a contingent of Lannister soldiers marching up the Kingsroad days ago to establish a foothold in the North. As soon as they crossed into the Neck a horde of moving corpses tore them to shreds. The wights have been standing guard on the border of the North since, repelling anyone who came close. Already nearby villages of smallfolk have fled south in fear of these monsters from their bedtime stories come to life.

Daenerys gathered up her allies from the Reach and Dorne, along with the Greyjoy siblings and gave them their orders. Then she climbed atop Drogon and flew north. A flock of ravens kept pace with them, cawing at her until Drogon snapped his jaws at them and they dispersed in a cloud of black feathers.

The King of Winter

Jon flexed his hands as another wave of information flooded into him. He sat in the great hall at Winterfell, but his mind was far to the south, where wights under his direct control spread along the border between the North and the other six kingdoms. Soon they would reach from the western coast to the east across the thinnest part of the Neck, right over the castle-bridge of the Twins.

The Twins that had been curiously empty of inhabitants. Bran had told him the reason for its current state would soon be made clear to him, with a slight quirk of humor on his usually expressionless face. His greenseer younger brother was a bittersweet presence. The sweet young boy of the past was gone, in his place a stranger. Bran had been greatly changed by his journey past the Wall.

As had I, thought Jon.

Despite the differences, it was good to have the Stark children back in their home. Although the thought as always brought along with it the worry about where Arya was, and then the bubbling, raw rage at the fates of Robb and Rickon.

Little Rickon. Butchered by Ramsay Snow before their forces could broach the Winterfell keep. All this power at my fingertips, and unable to save a little boy. The Gods are cruel. All Jon had left was vengeance against the cause of all the pain inflicted upon his family.

Lannister. The name burned red hot with hatred in his mind.

One of his servants took notice of Jon's emotion and floated a query across his consciousness. The White Walkers thought in simple terms, but they were capable of independent action and could command the wights in Jon's stead. The one who contacted him was just as succinct as any other.

Obliteration? Followed by an image of a Walker and an army of wights moving south.

No. Jon commanded. His servant immediately sent a mental acquiescence and withdrew its presence from Jon's head.

He had to be careful of his fixation on revenge. There was no telling how much his wrath came from righteous reasons to see justice for his family, and how much came from the influence of the Night King's power and its sinister original purpose: the destruction of mankind.

When Jon had first claimed the power of Winter, months ago, he had briefly considered throwing himself off the Wall. But he quickly realized that without someone to hold their reins, the White Walkers were liable to simply march south with their great host as soon as winter came and the water around Eastwatch freezes into ice. Even so, after the acceptance of his new ability Jon found himself purposeless.

Until Sansa arrived at Castle Black. Seeking justice for the Starks and defending the North from the hostile southerners were as good a goal to lend his power toward as any other. Although, once his job was done and the North was secure, perhaps Jon should take all the wights and Walkers back to the Land of Always Winter. Go far, far north, himself and all the other monsters, and never return.

The sound of wood on stone broke Jon out of his musings, and he looked up from his seat in the great hall to see Sansa wheeling Bran in on his rolling chair.

"Bran. Sansa. What brings you." He felt smile stretch across his face for his younger siblings. It was good to see them both healthy. Sansa's fiery hair had returned to its normal sheen, and Bran was filling out more now that he wasn't on a diet of scavenged fruits and nuts.

Sansa returned his grin, and Jon felt a little warmth stir in his breast. He had noticed his sister's initial fear of him when they reunited, and it hurt him to see that. In the weeks since their return to Winterfell, Sansa had made efforts to reconnect with her siblings and Jon had tentatively returned them.

"My King." greeted Sansa, gracefully lowering herself into a courtly bow. Jon stood up and crossed over to lift her up.

"Please rise Lady Sansa, my loyal retainer." he laughed.

"You'll have to forgive me if I cannot do the same, Brother." Bran nodded towards his legs.

The two older siblings shared a chuckle, and Bran gave them one of his little half-smiles, rare as gold. His expression quickly turned serious. "Jon, I needed to come talk to you. Sansa needs to hear as well, her opinion will be valuable."

"Aye, tell us what the news is Bran." replied Jon, easing himself back into the seat he was occupying. "Is it more griping from the Lords of the North?"

"No. The lords are currently more than grateful for the help of House Stark, and your wights. Workers that do not tire, eat or need lodging are invaluable. Giants and mammoths, as well, make construction in preparation for winter much faster. The problem lies elsewhere."

"A threat from the south?" asked Sansa with a grimace on her face.

"Yes. Daenerys Targaryen is flying to the North."

Jon frowned. "Isn't this Mother of Dragons supposed to be waging war on the crown from Dragonstone?"

"Apparently the defeat of those Lannister soldiers in the Neck as brought her attention to us. As potential ally or enemy I am still uncertain, but it is safe to assume she is leaning towards the latter due to the nature of the wights." replied Bran. "Shes riding her largest dragon, and dragonfire is a devastating weapon against the undead and the White Walkers."

Sansa was deep in thought. She broke out of her reverie to address her brothers after Bran's mention of fire. "Do we have any method to damage a dragon? Or atleast ground them? I know of ballistae in storage in Winterfell, but they may no longer be functional after all these years."

"It may be possible to repair them. The timing however, will be troublesome. I've kept flocks of ravens and crows near the Targaryan queen and her dragon, but they fly much faster than birds and I struggle to keep track of their travel."

Jon stayed quiet, watching and listening to the younger Starks discuss and argue methods to counteract a Targaryan on dragonback, a force none had faced for hundreds of years.

But I am a force none have faced for thousands of years, thought Jon. He stood, suddenly.

"Start work on any ballista still intact, to be mounted on the walls of Winterfell in case we are forced back by the dragons. Bran, tell the giants to prepare to move south. Sansa, the same with the northern bannermen still residing in Winterfell."

"And you Jon? Where are you going now?"

As Jon strode out of the hall, the black fur-lined cloak Sansa had sown for him in the fashion of the one their father had worn fluttered behind, like the great dark wings of some beast of the Dawn Age. The direwolf sewn onto his leather armor seemed ready to leap off the fabric at any moment.

"To speak with the Others."