What did he expect? The time since he's last heard the lords' council led by Lord Eddard - not exactly father, that didn't come so easily even in his silent thoughts - seemed to have been a different lifetime altogether yet it was all the same, for weeks on end now. 'Petty bickering', Jon thought, 'we have no time for this.'

"Winter has come. If the maesters are to be believed it'll be the coldest in a thousand years. We should go home and wait out the storm." That's Lord Cerwyn, Jon registered without looking at the man. It seemed to Jon that the bony man repeated his earlier statement word by word. Jon remembered, for it prompted fierce little Lyanna Mormont to stand for him. She was a little girl of merely ten namedays, named after Lyanna Stark, yet she ruled Bear Island more ably than most of the lords and ladies present, three, four times her age. She was also just as stubborn as Lyanna Stark was said to have been. Jon brushed away the thought. Instead she recalled how she cowered those lords, one by one. Cerwyn refused their call to fight Ramsay, yet he was one if not the loudest in his hall this past weeks. In truth most of them refused the call, and Jon felt restless to mete out the fate they truly deserved, yet wisdom for once got the better of him. They needed to unite the North. Robb lost his head for taking a head because he clung to justice, and despite Sansa's repeated warnings, he was smarter than Robb. Or he tried to be, for the politics of it all only tired him, greatly.

Lyanna Mormont proclaimed him King in the North that day, the first time he sat at the high table with Sansa by his side and tried to listen to this council without drawing his sword. And Lord Glover, another one that he should've hanged as a traitor, also proclaimed him his king. The White Wolf he called Jon, who avenged the Red Wedding. Perhaps it was to ensure he'll not be doubted, Lord Glover, to try and assure Jon. Perhaps they were simply flocking to the winning side and would've done exactly the same to Ramsay was it he devoured by the hounds. And perhaps they were all traitors, perhaps he was just as much a traitor who merely a few moons ago usurped Robb's place at Lyanna Mormont's behest. But Robb was dead, like countless others. Jon shook his head to come back from his thoughts.

"Your grace?" They we're all looking at her, Sansa called for her. Realising his absentmindedness, she countered instead.

"Lord Cerwyn, with due respect. You've all proclaimed Jon to be your king. Have you done so only to refuse his call once more? That is treason, my Lord." 'Speaking my mind,' Jon added silently to himself as Sansa concluded. An eerie silence fell on the hall.

"My Lady," Cerwyn responded, his voice shaking. "I don't doubt King Jon and what he's seen. But these are just stories, my wetnurse used to tell them to frighten me when I was a child."

"Aye, you've forgotten to grow up, you southern twat." 'Tormund', Jon tried to hide his amusement looking his right at Giantsbane. He was to depart for Eastwatch tomorrow to man the wall but today, he was here to be the thorn in the side of every northern Lord one last time. Cerwyn didn't sound as amused as Jon felt at the interruption.

"By the Gods, your grace, this wildling has insulted me!" Cerwyn burst out, so profoundly that he's spit along the words. Lord Forrester next to him annoyedly wiped off his shoulder. His court was rapidly becoming a den of disorderly toddlers indeed, Jon thought, albeit as much as he could recall Rickon never managed to stoop as low as some of these 'lords'. With a sigh he stood.

"My lords, ladies," his voice was tempered, firm, not betraying the frustration beneath. "And Lord Cerwyn's underage pretender. My lord you've just called me a liar fallen only short of saying so, and you cry insult? Aye, you're a southern twat."

"Jon!" Sansa grabbed his arm but he refused to take notice.

"Forgive me, my lords, but how many of you have seen what lies beyond the wall? How many of you have seen Hardhome?" It still haunted him, the nightmares that came each night, ice blue eyes staring back at him and arms lifted slowly, smugly, and all of them rising as one.

"Lord Cerwyn I do not see where the insult is. See, you are from south of the wall. To the FREEFOLK, you are a southerner. And, you keep whinging endlessly, that does make you a twat in the eyes of some. If you heed my advice, my Lord, you grow a spine before the dead arrive."

He took a deep breath, nodding to Davos. It is time.

"My Lord Cerwyn, if you may accompany me to the yard. And you my lords and ladies, if you may follow." Despite his invitation to Cerwyn he offered his arm to Sansa, who took it with a look of anticipation and bewilderment in her stare.

"What are you doing, Jon?" Sansa hissed under a slight smile as he lead her out to the yard. 'Convince them' was the response he didn't bother to give her.

Slowly they all formed a circle the yard. Cerwyn ever the fool not knowing what to expect stood in the centre.

"Do not fret so visibly, my Lord, I do not wish to part with you just yet." Jon said bemused and the air filled with hearty laughter as he continued. "If I taught the old way to each of you who called me a liar or disobeyed me, this yard would seem much larger than it does now. Widen the circle."

They all began to press backwards, against the tents and stalls. Guards turned to watch, the smithy and the kitchen folk stepped out to see what curiosity drove out the highborn to the yard in mass.

Davos instructed the two men following him to put the crate they carried in the middle of the circle thus formed.

"Are you certain of this?" He asked in a low voice as he walked past him, and Jon nodded.

"Which one is it?" But Davos only shook his head.

He slowly approached the crate. It was still, forcing him to wonder if there was anything in there still worth all this hassle. They carried this thing around like some priceless possession for the most of their campaign to retake the North, only for this opportunity, this moment. Jon didn't even remember when the idea came to him. It wasn't when he told Edd to load them crates on a wagon and send them after him. It wasn't even when he received them. For a while they dragged them around wherever they went, as if it was the most natural thing to do while one was travelling around from keep to yet another keep begging for support. Sometime between Manderly's letter that they've had too many Bolton men in White Harbor to join his cause, and Lord Glover so harshly defusing Sansa's reminder of his fealty to House Stark, Jon realised he will have use of these one day when the opportunity presented itself. They were his greatest weapon, his greatest shame, and his best chance to win, all in one. 'House Stark is Dead', Glover told Sansa that day. He'll show them death.

He unbuckled the side, than the other. Carefully, he kicked off the lid and promptly retreated a few steps, yet there was no movement. He stepped closer once more to see, slight relief registering somewhere within him at the sight. It wasn't the boy.

"Ser Alliser. If you may serve me once more!" He gave his last order to his first ranger as he kicked the crate. He could swear the shriek that followed could be heard for miles, and looking around, he saw the dreadful shock on their faces. A moment of pause, just enough to draw his sword, and it moved. Jumped. Ran, fell as the crate buckled holding up its legs then it stood and rushed towards him in that unruly sickening fashion so recognisable. His arms reached for Jon yet Jon ducked and rolled on the ground, his sword at its neck from behind before it could move forward a single step more. This was risky. It could've attacked Alys Karstark standing just in front of him, frozen with fear in her eyes, yet the call of the blade proved to be stronger just as Jon expected and it turned. So Jon repeated the same motion, thereby making sure they all saw what Alys Karstark saw. He glanced at Sansa.

"Finish it!" Sansa shouted, her voice not betraying the fear she also must've felt. And so Jon turned and cut off an arm. It fell a few feet away and crawled, as the wight fell and Jon plunged Longclaw into where once a heart pumped life within the body of the man who once had been. Then it was done. Jon picked up the arm with the tip of his sword, and lifted it above a torch, the folk giving way to keep their distance. It didn't move anymore, whatever magic had hold on the rotting flesh had already departed, but Jon meant to burn it. He tossed the arm on the fallen body and let it all burn in silence. Stunned eyes stared into the flames, of pale dreadful faces surrounding him as he stood there, waiting.

"Tell me, Lord Cerwyn," Jon said coolly, "Do you still think me a liar?" He stepped closer to the flames. "Ser Alliser, I thank you for your service. And now your watch is ended."

He looked at Davos then. He could swear he's seen smugness on the face of the old knight, and pride. Lyanna Mormont's voice dragged him back before he could allow himself a moment to share in the the sense of triumph he saw in Davos' eyes.

"He's my King! From this day, until the end of my days, the King in the North!" The little girl shouted. They all roared as one, as if they were proclaiming him again. They needed so little to get so aroused, they were so easy to manipulate even by a ten year old. Jon pitied them.

"I trust this matter is settled for good, Lord Cerwyn." He hissed as he walked past the shaking lord.

xxxxx

"In truth, I do not know him much." Tyrion said nonchalantly. "I traveled with him to the wall. He was eager to join the Nights Watch and be the Protector of the realm of men, or is it the Shield that guards the realm of men? I cannot recall."

"But what was he like?" Daenerys grew impatient. More often than not her hand refuses to give her the answers she required, and this was proving to be one of those times.

"Only a boy, your grace. Timid, a bit brooding. But honourable to the core, and with a good heart. I did consider him a waste at the wall, was he a trueborn he could've been so much more."

"Well, he did become much more," Daenerys hissed.

"Yes, that he did." Tyrion dipped from his cup only to have it grabbed from his hand by the Queen. He smirked.

"How does a bastard become king in the North?" She asked, her frustration only slightly tamed as she spoke the words.

"How, indeed." Varys stepped in. "My little birds sing a tale of a disgraced Lord Commander begging for support from the Northern Houses for his sister to retake her ancestral home. Lady Sansa it seems grew desperate enough to bid on the side no one would've dared, and she won. The very same lords proclaimed Jon Snow their king, and Sansa is now the Lady of Winterfell by her side."

"I did say that she may survive us yet," Tyrion added, bemused. "And there again, I was right. I wonder what my former lady wife would say about the fortune of her bastard brother. And his election above her."

"The birds sing nothing more than that they rule. Surprisingly enough, the northerners seem to be content with them, there's no news of trouble from the North."

"And yet they are traitors still," Daenerys noted. "The North is part of the Seven Kingdoms, by calling himself King, Jon Snow drove the North into open rebellion. What did the priestess mean about telling me what he's seen?"

Both her advisors shook their heads, in silent dismissal of her question. "The Starks ruled the North for thousands of years," Tyrion advised, "the Kings of Winter they were called."

"Then Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen and they ruled no more." Daenerys countered, annoyed by the history lesson. "Did you write to this Jon Snow as I asked?" Tyrion nodded.

"And what did you write?"

"What I did not write, Your Grace. I must admit that I did omit any mention about the bending of the knee." Daenerys opened her mouth to speak so Tyrion quickly followed up with an explanation. "Starks don't fare well travelling south. If I may remind you, your own father burned alive his grandfather, strangled to death his uncle. Such requests would ensure he doesn't even consider paying you a visit, Your Grace, and we would be none the wiser about why this red priestess so adamantly tried to convince us to invite him."

She nodded. "He has reason to doubt me."

"He has just as much reason to doubt me as well," her hand added with melancholy in his voice.

"Will he come?" Daenerys wondered. "Or will I have to take my unsullied and pay him a visit?"

"That would not be as wise as it sounds, Your Grace," Varys' response sounded nonchalant as usual, but he shot a weary look at Tyrion. "We have no information about the forces he commands, and... it is said he's good at commanding them. The greatest swordsman the North has ever seen, he is called."

"Lances are longer than swords, Lord Varys," Daenerys countered. "His sword is of no use if he gets impaled on Grey Worm's lance before he draws it. Then again, it is not of an immediate concern."

"No it is not." Tyrion barely hid the sigh as he grabbed his cup once more.

xxxxx

"I was rather reckless today in the hall," he said softly, staring into the goblet in his hand.

Sansa sat in the chair next to him, both facing the fire in the hearth of the lord's solar that was now Sansa's. "Cerwyn's face was priceless, when you killed that ... thing." Her eyes were smiling as she spoke, such a rarity that they startled Jon for a moment.

"Ser Alliser Thorne. He was first ranger, appointed by me. Then he organised mutiny against me." Jon explained, his voice emotionless. So many things happened since then, the sharp pain he once felt has since turned into a slight ache. He tried to recall each and every insult ever uttered by the man to further dull its presence. "Truth is he was a thorn in my side. Ever since I arrived at Castle Black he made his dislike of me abundantly clear. I should've never trusted the man. I appointed him based on merit, not based on his opinions and that was a mistake." He sighed. "Then again I appointed my steward based on his opinion of me and that was a mistake as well. There's a certain lesson in that I am sure."

Sansa sighed.

"You've changed, Jon." A flicker of a smile appeared in the corner of his mouth. He's changed but was it for the better? He's always thought that a man was defined by his honour, his loyalty and bravery. Protect the weak and the innocent and do what is right. Ned Stark taught him as much and he tried to live by those teachings. Yet where did they get him, he couldn't tell. In the end his bravery only earned defeat at Hardhome, it would've earned certain death when he went to deal with Mance Rayder, had Stannis Baratheon not appeared with his sellsword cavalry. He was loyal to the Night watch and he's lost Ygritte. He was honourable, honest and he did what he could to protect the innocent. He got stabbed to death for it. No, the Jon Snow who the North chose as their king was not that man. Something has changed, lessons have been learned in the days he lay lifeless on a table in Castle Black, for he could not trace this restlessness, this eagerness to be different to anywhere else than his own dead body on that table, as if the blood he lost in the snow contained the honour and loyalty of Lord Commander Snow. The man who returned didn't think so much of things such as honour and loyalty. He wasn't to abide by them, he wasn't defined by them. Like Sansa said, he had to be smarter than that. It really was a game, played with the lives of thousands, and that of the players themselves. He could see that, and part of him still despised himself for being a part of the game. Yet while he couldn't define in himself the difference that made this Jon Snow willing to take part, he knew what drove him. The only thing that remained was the drive to protect the innocent. That is what he cared about, Sansa at the top of his endless list of people to protect. Most of them were nameless, he sometimes thought of how he's never seen their faces, recalling Ned Stark's words: being a warden is like having thousands of children. He had thousands of worries now. The lesson he learned was that honour wasn't enough to protect them, loyalty and bravery only got a man so far, but to win, you had to play the game. So he has set himself to learn, because he was hard set to survive.

"I enjoy these evenings," Sansa's soft voice dragged him back into the present.

"Aye, how comfortable it is to sit by the fire sipping wine, instead of the cold tent we used to share," Jon agreed and she laughed heartily. That was the goal, to make her laugh. Jon was determined to not let her icy demeanour consume her.

"You said I have to be smarter than Robb, or father." Jon noted. "I am, Sansa. I will be. And I will listen."

"You didn't seem to be willing to listen," she glanced at him with a smirk.

"Nay, not when you defy me in front of all them. But I hear you."

"You called him father," she reached her hand to lay on his. "Does that mean you accept him? Does that mean we'll talk about it?"

Jon's eyes spoke of a dozen emotions or more, fighting for space to be felt, to be allowed. "I keep up the lie," he whispered. "I remember you advising so, and I follow your advice. There isn't much else to it."

She stood. "Don't portray your emotional turmoil as obedience to me, Jon. Don't lie to yourself as well," she said, her words harsh yet her soft tone softened the blow they struck him with. "I know you," he heard her behind his back, "you're the most honourable man I know, it must be torture for you to lie. To be thorn as this. And I want you to know that you can talk to me about it." She sat back into the chair next to him now, a pile of linen in her hand. She began to sew and he watched for a while in silence. Her fingers were steady, long and shapely, guiding the needle with such pace and confidence that could only come with years of experience and enjoyment both. He wondered what she was working on, in almost every night that they could steal a few hours to sit together she took to work sooner or later, and he could see how a pile of white cloth a mere days ago now had something like frills and strings attached to it now.

"Being who you are doesn't make you less of a Stark." She said softly, never lifting her gaze from her work, as if she merely conversed about the weather. "You are my cousin. You are half a Stark just as we believed you were."

"And half a Targaryen." He sighed. "It is a wonder. I cannot wrap my head around it and imagine that a Targaryen sired me."

Sansa looked up for a split second. "I am sure you know how he did it." The voice was stern, yet he could see the signs of a cheeky smile in the corner of her mouth.

"I do not feel like any kind of prince, that is what I meant."

"I know", she noted. "But that is because you were not raised as one. Joffrey was, and what did become of him?"

"No, I was raised a bastard," he sipped from his goblet, enjoying the sour taste. A piece of wood cracked in the fire, and he stared at it as if it could come alive.

"Have you decided whether you would stake your claim?"

"No." He rushed his answer. "I mean, I've not thought about it, honestly. It would draw too much attention to us. We cannot fight on two fronts." She nodded.

For a while they sat in silence. This is how it was on most of these nights, neither of them too willing to have an attempt at sleep. They both had their share of nightmares that they rather avoided. By now, through their journey around the north gathering support, Jon learned in part and pieced together the rest of what happened to her. They had plenty of time to talk, yet often all they did was sitting around a camp fire or laying in their tent in silent understanding, and when they spoke, they reminisced of old times and stories of loved ones who were long gone. Occasionally, a thought or two, reminders of how they lost them and how they endured slipped out before they caught them, bringing about the same silence that offered the security and understanding that they were no longer alone, they were safe now. Even as they prepared to fight for their lives and risk what ever little they have left, those nights assured of safety they haven't known since that fateful day they both left Winterfell. He often wondered at the grace with which she carried herself after all her suffering, occasionally catching the smallest of signs of pain at a certain movement or another, yet never flinching, never complaining. He thought of his own scars, bodily as well as the scars on his heart, and he often wondered if she outmatched them. In his mind, in moments like those he wished for nothing more than to kill Ramsay Bolton again and again.

"We have to be rid of Littlefinger, Sansa."

"We do." She looked up, straight into his eyes. "I will figure a way, but for now we need his men. You need the knights of the Vale."

Jon pondered on it. "I remember father... Lord Stark saying something about keeping all your treasures in one pocket. It only makes it easier for your treasure to be stolen."

"What are you implying?" Sansa asked, her eyes fixed on her work once again but her tone betrayed a keen interest.

"I am not implying." Jon leaned back in the chair, watching her. "I am saying that we need a way to secure his men without him. We need to secure a fighting force that has nothing to do with him. And I want to know what he wants. He would not linger around if he didn't want something. He's playing the game and it unnerves me that I don't know how."

"I know what he wants," she whispered. "He can go on wanting for a thousand years, and still won't have what he wants."

She leaned close to the clothing she lifted to her mouth and bit the thread.

"Here," She said, her face overtaken by a certain pride. "You have to try it on, I want to see."

Jon was struck with awe as she lifted the cloth and a shirt emerged. "Is that for me?"

"Of course it is. You have but two shirts as I can tell, and you're a king now. You need to dress befitting."

It was Jon's time to laugh. "You would dress me in all kind of pomp if you had your way."

"You would never let me have my way! But I will make sure you look the part. Not the southern pompous princeling that you were born to be, but the king in the north. Now try it on."

Jon stood, and took the shirt. He slowly took off the boiled leather garments, and his shirt that's clearly seen better days. Forcing himself not flinch as her gaze settled on his scars, he pulled on the shirt. Soft white linen, the direwolf sigil embroidered above his heart.

"A little white wolf, for the White Wolf." Sansa said softly as she stepped to him, her gaze following his own as it settled on the sigil. His fingers touched the fine needlework, as if petting the little wolf. "This is beautiful Sansa, thank you. You shouldn't have..."

"I should. And I will." She stood, facing him. "It gives me joy, Jon. It gives me great pride to be here, to be who we are and do what we do and to know you are by my side. This is my way of thanking you. For being here with me."

The door cracked open after a few soft knocks and Maester Wolkan appeared.

"Forgive me my Lady, Your Grace..." the maester's eyes settled on Jon in his somewhat undressed state, clearly wondering what to make of the sight as his plump cheeks burned crimson from his embarrassment at his probable interruption.

"Look, maester," Jon explained with a wide smile, like a little boy showing off his nameday present. "My sister made me a new shirt. She thinks mine old are unsuitable for my newly royal self."

Relief settled on Wolkan's face mixed with honest delight, brows raised and eyes wide, that made Jon even more amused at his expression. He handed him a scroll. "My lady it is fine work," he touched the linen for a brief moment, "and fine fabric."

"I ordered it when we took Winterfell and I will make more of these. It took a while for Lord Manderly to procure, it is I believe from Essos." Jon looked at her amazed.

"You bought this? How much was it..."

"Nothing," Sansa interrupted. "Manderly offered it and was adamant that I shall not pay a penny, so I took the opportunity. After all, he refused our call, surely he can be generous to make us forget it. There are other fabrics in his gift, I'll be busy clothing both of us for a while."

Jon was already reading the small scroll.

"Dragonglass," he murmured registering what he's read. "This is from Samwell Tarly, a true friend." He held up the scroll to emphasise his words.

"I sent him to Old Town. He writes the dragonglass we need is to be found on Dragonstone. Mines full of it, a mountain even."