They said that once you die, there was no coming back. No rebirth, no resurrection. Just death. And for some that death was sweet. No more fighting, no more pain. No just surviving for the sake of it. Death was a release for the hellish life the gods had bestowed on them. Death was peace.
But for others death was unwelcomed. Leaving loved ones behind, leaving regrets about what one could've done, should've done, and would've done. Leaving debts unpaid.
And one could be forgiven to think that once you died that was it. No lingering over past mistakes or no farwelling of much loved ones. That death was the end.
But death was not the end. It was in fact the beginning of something new.
Jon Stark stood in the nothingness of the in between, confused as to why he had not gone on. He remembered his death, the pain of treason as his men, his brothers, stabbed him and stole from him his life.
He remembered thinking as he stared into young Olly's eyes that he was no older than Bran yet he had seen enough pain and death to last two men two lifetimes.
He remembered his brothers – his blood brothers – their faces and remembered praying that once he reached the other side that he'd see those faces once again.
He even remembered his half-sister, Sansa, in her ethereal beauty, looking down on him with a look very much like how her mother use to.
But what Jon remembered the most was smoky grey eyes filled with mischievous laughter one minute and frustrated exasperation another. Eyes that he had not seen for years. He remembered shoulder length dark hair, very much like his own, braided conservatively one minute and then not even hours later knotted into a matted mess. What Jon remembered the most was his baby sister Arya Stark.
He had been close to most of his siblings, bar Sansa and had a different relationship with each and every one of them. With Robb, Robb was his best friend and his closest rival. They had shared laughter and easy banter, knowing that they would be there for each other no matter what. With Bran he had been Bran's mentor. With Robb busy learning the way of becoming Lord of Winterfell from their father, it was Jon would taught Bran the ways of sword fighting, shooting an arrow and how to charm the kitchen wenches to sneak him extra treats. With Rickon he was older brother who would tumble with him. Play fighting when Rickon's lady mother wasn't around and playing pranks on his older siblings. Sansa barely gave him the time of day, forever reminding him and the world that he was the bastard brother, her distaste for him mirroring that of her mothers.
But with Arya, she had been his secret keeper. His baby sister who accepted him, bastard status and all. The one who when asked how many siblings she had would proudly say four brothers and one sister. There was no half in Arya's mind, no bastard. Just him her brother. Her favorite brother.
He remembered the last time he saw her, thinking that this skinny, dirt streak little girl was one day going to break more hearts than even Sansa and not realize it. Or care.
He remembered that last meeting, held onto it and cherished it. It got him through some hard times thinking of his little sister. Of her acceptance and the warmth of her smile. Her unmerited love for the bastard son of her father.
Blinking Jon allowed the memory of that last meeting to wash over him, unwilling to hold it at bay, when it had comforted him, many a night.
Arya had been in her room, packing a polished ironwood chest that was bigger than she was. She was so tiny, his sister, yet had the courage of men four times her size.
Nymeria her direwolf was helping. Arya would only have to point, and the wolf would bound across the room, snatch up some wisp of silk in her jaws, and fetch it back. But when she smelled her brother-wolf Ghost, she sat down on her haunches and yelped at them.
It should not have amazed Jon the closeness of the two direwolves. Their relationship mirroring that of his and Arya's. But at times it did. There were times when they seem to exclude their other sibling cubs finding comfort in only each other. Just like him and Arya.
Arya glanced behind her, saw Jon, and jumped to her feet. She threw her skinny arms tight around his neck, her relief evident in the tightness of her grip. Jon chuckled, hugging his sister tightly. He was going to miss this. Her hugs.
"I was afraid you were gone," she said, her breath catching in her throat. "They wouldn't let me out to say good-bye."
"What did you do now?" Jon was amused. She was always in trouble, his sister. Even more so than Rickon.
Arya disentangled herself from him and made a face.
"Nothing. I was all packed and everything." She gestured at the huge chest, no more than a third full, and at the clothes that were scattered all over the room. "Septa Mordane says I have to do it all over. My things weren't properly folded, she says. A proper southron lady doesn't just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags, she says." She pouted, causing the side of Jon's mouth to kick up in amusement.
"Is that what you did, little sister?"
"Well, they're going to get all messed up anyway," she said, exasperated. "Who cares how they're folded?"
"Septa Mordane," Jon told her, with silent amusement. "I don't think she'd like Nymeria helping, either." The she-wolf regarded him silently with her dark golden eyes. Jon had a feeling that if she could, she would be rolling her eyes at him very much like her mistress was now. "It's just as well. I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully."
Her face lit up. "A present?"
"You could call it that. Close the door." He whispered nodding his head towards the door.
Wary but excited, Arya scampered around him and checked the hall.
"Nymeria, here. Guard." She left the wolf out there to warn of intruders and closed the door. Ghost had followed his sister, nipping Arya's fingers in affection on the way out. By then Jon had pulled off the rags he had wrapped her present in. He held it out to her.
Arya's eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his bouncing from her present to his face.
"A sword," she said in a small, hushed breath. "You got me a sword!"
The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel.
"This is no toy," he told her. "Be careful you don't cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with."
"Girls don't shave," Arya stated automatically, eyes never leaving the blade.
"Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa's legs?" he asked, drawing a giggle from her.
"It's so skinny." She said in awe, reaching out to touch it almost reverently.
"So are you," Jon told her, smiling. "I had Mikken make this special. The bravos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr and the other Free Cities. It won't hack a man's head off, but it can poke him full of holes if you're plenty fast enough."
"I can be fast," Arya told him, eyes alight with excitement.
"You'll have to work at it every day." He told her, putting the sword in her hands. Silently he showed her how to hold it, and stepped back. "How does it feel? Do you like the balance?"
"I think so," Arya said.
"First lesson," Jon said, cupping the back of her neck. "Stick them with the pointy end."
Arya gave him a whap on the arm with the flat of her blade. The blow stung, but Jon found himself grinning like an idiot.
"I know which end to use," Arya said, her lips thinning as if to hold back an answering grin. A doubtful look crossed her face. "Septa Mordane will take it away from me."
"Not if she doesn't know you have it," Jon said.
"Who will I practice with?"
"You'll find someone," Jon promised her. "King's Landing is a true city, a thousand times the size of Winterfell. Until you find a partner, watch how they fight in the yard. Run, and ride, make yourself strong. And whatever you do..."
Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.
"Don't... tell... Sansa!" they laughed, identical grey eyes meeting and alight with laughter. They sobered standing there and staring at one another.
Jon messed up her hair. "I will miss you, little sister."
Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. "I wish you were coming with us."
"Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?" He was feeling better now. He was not going to let himself be sad. "I better go. I'll spend my first year on the Wall emptying chamber pots if I keep Uncle Ben waiting any longer."
Arya ran to him for one last hug.
"Put down the sword first," Jon warned her, laughing. She set it aside almost shyly, jumped back into his arms and showered him with kisses. Jon buried his face in her hair breathing in her scent, his arms tightening.
Lowering her to the ground, Jon planted one last kiss on his sister's head, before making his way towards the door.
When he turned back at the door, she was holding it again, trying it for balance. "I almost forgot," he told her. "All the best swords have names."
"Like Ice," she said, speaking of their father's sword. She looked at the blade in her hand. "Does this have a name? Oh, tell me."
"Can't you guess?" Jon teased. "Your very favourite thing."
Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together:
"Needle!"
The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north.
"Jon?"
Jon froze at the deep familiar voice that drew him from his memories. If he was dead could his heart actually skip a beat? Because it sure as hells felt like it did.
"Jon. Turn around Jon." That voice, that voice, gently encouraged him causing Jon to almost stumble as he spun around, dark grey eyes meeting dark grey eyes.
"Father –" he choked, staring at the familiar face, with its closely trimmed beard shot with white, long brown hair and warm but solemn smile. "Oh gods, father!" forgetting himself and the fact that he was a man of nine and ten he threw himself at his father feeling those familiar arms surround him in a hug that shifted the breath from his body.
"Jon." Another voice. Another familiar voice that had Jon convinced that his dead heart was actually beating. Pulling himself from his father's arms he turned towards the younger voice blinking in stunned amazement as he spied his brother, his best friend and closest rival, grinning at him like a fool, those Tully eyes alight with unshed tears.
"Robb!" Jon felt like crying. Felt like curling himself into a ball and letting the pain and the agony of past years flow out of him as he took in the face that his father and his brother stood in front of him, so very real, so very touchable.
The two brothers hugged fiercely both choked up with emotion. Both not realizing that the tears they tried so hard to keep at bay was leaking from their eyes.
The three Stark men stood in silence as they basked in each other's presence.
"What is this?" Jon asked them once he and Robb had released each other. "Where are we?"
"You know where you are, Jon. The last step before you reach the ancestors." Robb told him quietly. "They said you would be here. They said we would meet again."
"They?"
"Old gods of the forest." His father said quietly. "Our gods."
Jon took a moment to take it all in. That would mean …
"So that's it then?" he asked them, scratching his chest at the empty feeling inside. "We are finished in this life."
"For us, yes." His father told him, nodding his head towards Robb. "For you no."
Jon started, staring at his father.
"What?"
"Our time brother is definitely up; you however still have more that needs to be done." Robb told him. Jon blinked at him confused. "We need more from you."
"But how – why?"
"Winterfell." Their father informed him, solemn once again. "Sansa, Rickon, Bran." Father paused shooting him a smile. "Arya."
"Bran and Rickon are dead –"Jon pointed out, achingly. "Sansa is gods knows where and I have not heard from or about Arya in so long." Jon paused, thinking quickly. "Wait, Bran and Rickon." He breathed, his brain finally catching up with him. "They aren't dead." He whispered. Because if they were, they'd be here. With Father. With Robb. "Theon didn't kill them?" more of a plea than a statement.
"No brother. He killed two farmer boys, burned them and made everyone believe it was our brothers." Robb told him.
"But then where are they?" Jon asked. He had felt guilt over their deaths. He should have been there for them. To protect them. "And if that means they aren't dead then what about Arya?" he asked hopefully. "And Sansa?"
Ned smiled at him, turning him around. Before him stood an old weir tree, very much like the one at Winterfell.
"Touch it. See." His father encouraged.
Hesitant at first, Jon met his father's gaze before glancing at Robb, who nodded at him.
Clenching his fingers he reached out to touch the old tree, gasping as it felt like he was thrown into a pool of ice cold water.
He saw Bran, Hodor and Summer with two people he did not know, making their way through the snow and ice. He saw another massive weir tree, this one bigger than he had ever seen, and in that tree waiting for his brother an old man, who seem to stare into Jon's very soul.
Jerking he was wrenched from that scene and taken to another where he saw a much older Rickon and Shaggydog. With them a wildling woman as she smiled at Rickon softly whose head rested on her lap. Very much like a mother would with a child. They were in a cave, waiting out the storm that raged around them.
Another jerk and suddenly he was before Sansa, hair dyed dark, blue eyes filled with tears as the parchment she read fluttered from her hands to the ground. The words – Lord Commander Jon Snow is dead – leapt out at him as he watched the sister who showed him no love cry for him.
And finally another jerk. This time it took him to a darkened room with a cot. A small figure dressed in grey lay on that cot, hair dark, face pale lips moving.
"Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, The Mountain, Walder Frey." He could hear her words clearly. "Valar Moghulis."
"Arya." He whispered, taking a step forward, he watched as she froze, her head popping up from her pillow as if she heard him. Head cocked to one side, very much like how Ghost or Nymeria would.
"Sister it's –"
Suddenly Jon was jerked again, hauled back from that vision and bought back to reality. Bought back to his father and his brother.
Glancing around him wildly he stopped at stared at his father.
"I saw them. Each of them. All alive." He breathed.
His father smiled at him.
"It is time for you to go back to them, Jon. To reunite with them. All of them." His father reached out to grab him by the back of the neck, a familiar gesture that he use to do to Arya all the time. "The old gods talk about a prophecy that has yet to be fulfilled. There is a war coming. Winter is here. They need a King and an army who can weather the winter and win that war." His father bought his face closer, resting his forehead on Jon's. "You, your brothers and your sisters are the Wolves of Winterfell. The trueborns of the North. You and your siblings will unite the North, wildling and man alike. Wildling, man and dragonbornalike." His father clapped both hands on Jon's shoulders. "They can't do this without you and you can't do this without them."
Jon searched his father gaze, searching for answers to questions he had not even voiced yet.
"How are we to win a war that we have no idea how to fight?" he asked his father.
"Look to your cubmates. To your siblings. Bran will be your hand. Your advisor. What he is going through now, is training him for what's to come." His father told him. "Rickon will be your Lord Commander. His skills that he is learning from his travels and from the wildling woman will prep him for that." His father took a deep breath. "Sansa will be your voice of reason. She will ground each and every one of you. Your brothers, your sister. You."
"And Arya?" Jon asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. What could it be that the gods had for his little sister?
"Arya will be your secret weapon." Robb told him, drawing Jon's eyes to him. "She will be your assassin. Listen well to her brother, she knows things, has seen things that I wish she had not." There was a look in Robb's eyes that had Jon taking a deep breath. "Things that our baby sister has gone through that she should not have." Robb gave him a wan smile. "Her experience will help you. Let her train the troops. Let her fight."
Jon felt his heart stutter at the thought of his sister going into war.
"You need her on the battlefield, by your side." Robb told him, patting him on the shoulder like their father did. "You need all of them to win this war."
Jon nodded, trying to get his head straight.
"How do I go back? How do I find them?"
His father smiled.
"Arya is already on her way back to you, Jon. Stay at Castle Black till she reaches you. Together you will find the others."
"And going back?"
"Just jump, Jon." Robb told him turning him around. Suddenly Jon felt the swirling winds of the north around him, and the icy cold seep into his skin. He was at the Wall again. Looking down.
"Take a leap of faith Jon. And jump." Robb teased.
"Yeah easy for you to say brother." Jon mumbled, staring down, his stomach dropping.
"Jon." Jon raised his head staring at his father. "Look after them son. You are the only Starks left."
Jon nodded refusing to say anything lest he cry.
"Goodbye, son." His father hugged him, patting him hard on the back.
"Bye father."
Jon watched as his father gave him one last smile as he walked backwards until he couldn't see him anymore.
"Brother." Robb held out a hand. Staring down at it, Jon clasped his forearm giving him the warriors grip. "Till we meet again."
"Till we meet again, brother." Jon repeated softly.
Spinning him quickly Robb gave him one last smile before pushing him off the edge of the wall, Jon's eyes widening in surprise.
"Protect the family Jon. Protect our family."
:::
Ser Davos Seaworth stared down at the pale man before him, feeling all hope slip away like a ghost in the night.
His last hope, their last hope had been in the Red Woman. Had thought that she could do the impossible. That she could bring back the life of Jon Snow.
But he had been wrong. Very wrong.
Helpless, frustrated and almost without hope, Davos pushed himself to his feet, feeling his bones creak and his muscles ache.
The commander's wolf lay next to the table its master was on, those red eyes staring at him.
"I'm sorry boy. I tried." He told the wolf, wanting to reach down and comfort the beast but not too sure he'd come away with his hand.
Suddenly the wolf stood those red eyes on the door behind Davos.
"What?" Davos asked the beast. "What is it?" he had taken to trusting the beasts instincts as had the rest of the men of the Night Watch.
The wolf took off, bounding towards the door, not growling but – whimpering? He scratched almost desperately at the close door.
"Who's there?" Davos commanded, drawing the sword and holding it out in front of him. He wasn't the best swordsman, but he supposed he could do some damage. He hoped.
"Open the door." The voice was definitely female. Low. Non-descriptive. No accent.
"Identify yourself, woman." He demanded. "Or my Lord's wolf will have your throat."
"Open the door, Ser Davos and let your Lord's wolf see me."
Davos blinked, eyeing the wolf who continued to scratch at the door. There was no aggression in the beast, no call for it to be protective. It in fact seemed like it was desperate to get to the woman on the other side of the door.
Davos then made a choice, maybe it was a stupid one, but what else could happen. Jon Snow was dead, he was an old man, and the wolf was more than able to take care of himself.
Taking a deep breath, Davos reached out and unlocked the door, pulling it open.
On the other side stood a woman, dressed in black, hood pulled low over her face. Beside her stood a beast of grey and white, golden eyes glaring at Davos like it wanted to rip out his throat. It stood shoulder height with the woman, its ears pinned back, teeth bared.
The commander's wolf howled as it stalked towards the pair, before pausing as if undecided about its welcome.
"Come." The woman commanded holding out her hand to the commander's wolf.
Davos almost told her not to, almost warned her. But he was astonished when the white wolf made his way meekly towards the woman, instantly licking her hand. The beast of grey and white nuzzled the white wolf affectionately.
"Who are you that you can command my Lord Commander's wolf that way, woman?" Davos demanded his heart in his throat.
She took another step towards him, stepping into the light. She was a slight thing that much Davos could tell. The robes she wore not as voluminous as it should be to protect against the winter's cold.
Suddenly the commander's wolf turned sharply its eyes on its master. Even the beast of grey and white with its golden eyes stared at the body of Jon Snow.
The woman ignored him and Davos found himself not saying anything as he watched the woman drift towards the Commander, her movements graceful and almost mesmerizing.
He watched as she lifted unclothed hands to touch the commander's face reverently. The touch spoke of love, affection and loss. It spoke of familiarity.
"Ser Davos, who is this woman and why have you let her near the Lord Commander!" Davos turned to meet the Red Woman's angry gaze, her face mottled with rage.
"Who I am is none of your business, Melisandre." The woman replied softly, never taking her eyes off the Commander.
"You seem to know who I am, woman, but one does not know who you are." The Red Woman said through gritted teeth.
Low mocking laughter came from the hooded woman as she lifted her head.
"Why don't you ask your gods, Melisandre? Or is he quiet all of a sudden?"
The Red Woman gasped with outrage, moving forward as if to physically remove the hooded woman from the room. She was stopped however, by the two massive beasts, one pure white, the other grey and white, who stepped in front of her, teeth bared in warning.
"Move." She commanded the beasts waving her hands. Instead of moving away they moved towards her, stalking her like she were prey. She stumbled back, a flash of fear crossing her features as she glanced from the two stalking beasts to the hooded woman and then to Davos.
"Halt." The hooded woman commanded and both beasts did as command.
"Who are you?" The Red Woman snapped through gritted teeth and Davos frowned at the look on her face. It was almost as if she were – jealous of the hooded woman.
Those crystal blue eyes watched as the other woman ignored her and turned back towards the commander. He watched as she cupped the commander's face and placed a kiss on his forehead, on one cheek then the other.
Davos found himself straining to hear what the hooded woman was whispering to the commander.
"It's time to come back, brother." He heard. "Time to come home."
Suddenly Jon Snow gasped, his upper body jack knifing from the table, eyes wide as he took that first deep breath.
Davos watched stunned as the once dead Jon Snow panted as if he had run an age, his head turning towards the hooded woman.
"Arya." He whispered reverently, staring at the woman before him.
Davos watched as the commander lifted shaky hands to push back the hood the woman wore, revealing long ink black hair braided, and a face that was astoundingly beautiful.
"Arya." Slowly he pulled her face towards his, resting her forehead on his.
"Welcome back, big brother. Welcome back."