Disclaimer: I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in A Song of Ice and Fire. I do not earn any profit from this.
Author's Notes: Hello everyone! Yes, I know—it's been almost a year, hasn't it? I'll spare you the excuses, because those of you who are still with me know me enough by now to understand. I'm still very sorry for making you wait so long, though.
In this chapter: we find out what happened to a lot of other people beyond Robb after the War of the Five Kings. Please bear in mind that this fic is AU, so I took a lot of liberties.
There will be two more chapters after this, and then we will be done. As always, I hope you enjoy!
"Sleep well?"
It was incredible, how tidy and rested and utterly smug Tyrion Lannister appeared. Even here at the Wall, even in the midst of the most significant war in perhaps thousands of years, even facing the most terrible foes our land—possibly the world—had known, he looked very much like a bloody Lannister, misshapen dwarf though he was. Swathed in heavy furs, he should have looked like a ridiculous lump. Instead he looked like the king he used to be.
"Not as well as you," I replied, oddly cheered by the sight of him. Perhaps it was a reflection of just how dark the times were, that I should find comfort in the twisted visage of the Imp. I opened my mouth to tell him so when a sharp, inhuman cry swelled above us, reverberating through the boarded-up windows and waking the still air. Though it had been almost seven weeks, the sound of a dragon's call still had the power to stop my heart for several crucial seconds.
Tyrion found his voice first, but it was apparent that he was a shade less self-possessed than he had been moments before. "Well, it's a good thing we're already here. The Lord Commander will want a council as soon as the Queen sets her feet on the ground."
The Lord Commander's quarters had served as our council chamber ever since our arrival. It was the only room that could be spared for the purpose, though in the three months since reaching the Wall I couldn't help but wonder if Jon avoided sleeping there in order to distance himself further from what had occurred.
It had been a terrible homecoming for him. I had never been to the Wall before and I had never gone beyond it, but I could imagine that the sight of it would usually bring as much relief to a brother of the Night's Watch as the sight of Winterfell would bring a Stark.
Instead of a degree of comfort, in the forest before the Wall we had received the terrible news of Commander Mormont's murder and the insurrection that was burning within the walls of Castle Black.
It was the worst possible time to mount a mutiny—though in hindsight, one might say that about the War of Five Kings. And I imagined that as vital as it had been to me to cast off the rule of the kingdom that had murdered my father, so must it have seemed critical to Sir Alliser Thorne and his followers that the wildlings never be allowed on the lands Commander Mormont had promised them in exchange for their cooperation.
But there had been hope for my rebellion, at least. The mutineers were dead men as soon as we arrived, and that was without considering the arrival of thousands of wildlings who had expected to be welcomed past the Wall. The mutineers had turned on their commander on principle, knowing what it would mean. It seemed a vain, foolish waste of life when we needed every soul ready to stand against what was to come.
The men of the Night's Watch who were alive after the castle was retaken and the sentences carried out had elected Jon as Lord Commander. I had been present at that election and—despite our continued enmity—I had felt for him, his eyes still wet with grief but his countenance as grimly determined as any Stark I had ever seen. I had been unaccountably proud then, to be his kin. Whatever he was—brother or cousin, wolf or dragon, loyal or treacherous—Jon Snow was a good man when it mattered. Like every one of us, he would do what needed to be done in order to claim a victory for us—for the kingdom, for the world.
For life.
As I had stood there, watching Jon struggle with the proper words for the occasion, my mind had returned to the life that I hoped was beginning in Winterfell, to the child who was coming into the world during the most perilous of winters. I had resolved then to set things between me and Jon aside. Our conflict, like all others, could wait until the snows melted and the enemy vanquished. Perhaps if we survived, we could even find it in ourselves to celebrate that fact rather than take up old grudges.
"Wine?" Tyrion offered, brandishing a flagon at me and recalling me to the present.
"That's ale," I pointed out, trying not to smirk. Tyrion had complained bitterly and often about the lack of the vintage he was accustomed to.
"Well, once you drink enough, you won't be able to tell the difference," he said prosaically, pouring himself a generous serving.
The door opened, and much like it did whenever I heard a dragon's roar, my heart stuttered as a tall, lanky youth strode in. He grinned at Tyrion and me, reaching for the flagon rather than the cup that Tyrion had poured for him, and settled into one of the council seats in a heap of ragged furs and awkward limbs.
"Save some for the others, Lord Stark," Tyrion admonished teasingly.
Rickon made a face—whether from the title or the ale I couldn't tell. It had been a week since I had first seen him. Beyond the crazed, incredulous joy, I still could not come to terms with the notion that this had been the pale, weeping child that had followed me around for weeks, clutching my leg like a lifeline, after Robert had taken our father and sisters south. Rickon's golden curls had darkened into a fiery chestnut, the soft round face now all pointy angles, the wet green eyes now sharp like emerald glass. Only his small, sulky mouth seemed the same.
"Where is Ser Davos?" I asked, struck by the absence of the faithful knight. I had wondered in vain for years about what could have taken the Onion Knight from Stannis' side. Had I been told that it was to retrieve a lost boy and his companion from an isle of dread, I might have called for the maester to examine whoever told me. Yet that had been exactly Ser Davos' strange quest. And stranger still, he had succeeded—at least in part.
"Walking," Rickon said crisply, smacking his lips. If our mother were around to see it she'd have been horrified by the uncouth, thoughtless display. He paused, taking another, smaller sip from the flagon, his eyes almost pensive. "He and the Red Woman had words."
Tyrion and I exchanged a meaningful glance. Shortly after the truce, Tyrion had shared the accounts of survivors from that last, terrible battle between Stannis and the Lannisters. I had been too weary from the war then to pay them much mind—I had thought that nothing would surprise me by then.
Meeting Melissandre had been illuminating. There was something about the depths of her mulberry-colored eyes that brought a man disquiet. She had the kind of eyes that saw too much—and I could believe that the weight of those eyes might persuade a man to burn his only child alive.
"Only words, I hope," Tyrion remarked in a deceptively light tone. "We need as many allies as possible alive and well for what's to come."
"He looked like he wanted to run her through, but I stepped forward for her." As Rickon met my stare, his shrug was awkward and uncomfortable. "She did what she thought she needed to do. We can't blame her for believing."
If I had been surprised that Rickon had stood up to his guardian over a witch he had met only days before, it was nothing to the surprise I felt over the wisdom and understanding borne by those few short sentences from him. It was the strangest thing, to find the same person to be too old to be my little brother and yet too young to be as worldly as he apparently was.
"Well said. One can only hope that the Onion Knight will benefit from the cold air." Tyrion tapped his fingers idly against the worn tabletop. "We can't afford any more distractions, from the look on the Lord Commander's face earlier."
Jon had gone straight into council with his most trusted Wildlings after a handful of rangers had returned from their patrols. I remembered the bleak look in his eyes and the steely set of his jaw as he'd met them in the courtyard, knowing instinctively as he greeted them that he'd been hoping to see more.
There was little point in wondering what may have happened to those who did not return.
What mattered was what we were going to do.
As Tyrion had predicted, within minutes our company swelled. The first to arrive were Tyrion's own commanders—Lord Royce, from the Vale, the surprisingly loyal Ser Bronn, and the one-handed Warden of the West.
"Your Grace."
Jaime Lannister's bow was perfectly executed, but it had no real deference. I found that I didn't really mind. It was difficult to resent the man. Not when he barely resembled the arrogant member of the Kingsguard who'd rode into Winterfell all those years ago. He had clipped his mane so short that his head was almost completely shorn of it, though oddly he allowed himself something of a beard. He carried himself with the same self-assurance, but it was a posture that was quieter somehow. Perhaps in the years since we had first met he had learned that a lion was deadlier when it wasn't roaring. He certainly looked wiser and more aware—there was a watchfulness in his dark green eyes as he seated himself across from his brother.
If we survived, I would ask Tyrion someday how he had managed to convince Daenerys Targaryen to spare Jaime's life. After the war, it had surprised no one when Tyrion had restored his brother's title and allowed Jaime to return to Casterly Rock. Jaime's actions towards the end had been—as they had been in Robert's Rebellion—critical, and the millions in King's Landing had once more been spared from the madness of a desperate, cornered ruler.
But if Tyrion and the Seven Kingdoms could forgive Jaime for turning on Cersei Lannister, I had been certain that the same could not be said of Daenerys as regards Jaime turning on her father.
Yet miraculously, Jaime Lannister was not only still alive after the crown had been placed on Daenerys' head, he also commanded a sizeable part of the Dragon Queen's army.
At Tyrion's admonition, Rickon grudgingly raised himself from his seat to call for more ale. The soldiers who heeded his order entered a few moments before the crush of the war council arrived, composed of Jon, Tormund Giantsbane, Sandor Clegane, Thoros of Myr, Oberyn Martell, Varys, my Uncle Edmure, Lord Tarly, Garlan Tyrell, and Jorah Mormont.
Then, finally, the Dragon Queen swept in on the arm of her consort. Swathed in thick white furs and a fresh mantle of frost, she still managed to bring to mind a blazing fire. Her tall, rangy husband was relaxed and amiable—a cheerful, comforting flame.
I stood, but did not bow.
Daenerys knew better now than to demand it. She raised a white brow and nodded at me before allowing her husband to seat her.
"We need a new strategy," she began without preamble, her violet eyes alight with stoked temper, her voice hard with frustration. "What we are doing is clearly not working. It has been weeks and still nothing. I refuse to take my dragons out another day, not knowing what's out there."
There was a beat of silence, a flurry of careful looks exchanged. Several of us had cautioned against the plan to allow Daenerys to take her dragons past the Wall on scouting missions. Even if she did find the Night King's armies, could she confront them alone? Three dragons were formidable weapons, but they would not be facing the same foes they had known across the Narrow Sea.
But Daenerys had warmed to the idea of taking direct action, and so she and her husband—and occasionally Jon—had flown out day after day, hoping to find something. Yet it appeared that if the Night King's armies were approaching the Wall, they were a ways off still—or they had somehow learned how to hide tens, if not hundreds of thousands of wights and Others. Each day Daenerys and the other dragonriders returned, their flights having been in vain.
"How have your rangers fared, Lord Commander?" Aegon asked when no one seemed inclined to speak. "I heard tell of some of them returning before Her Grace and I set out. They know the land better—perhaps they have something to report?"
Jon nodded, his face drawn into a mask of calm and his voice quiet. Despite the steady surface, I felt the icy grip of dread over my heart as surely as I knew he did. "As a matter of fact," he replied, "they do. The wildling settlements that they knew of from only a few months ago are gone. All the people have disappeared and the structures barely there."
There was a beat of silence as several breaths caught and were released.
"Can we be sure that they didn't join those seeking refuge in the south?" Jaime asked.
Tormund shook his head. "We've already checked. Those who stayed behind meant to wait out this storm. If they ran . . . well, they either ran North or didn't run fast enough."
"So they've neared," I concluded, my heart racing despite my best efforts to stay calm. Mercifully, my voice came out evenly enough. I looked at Jon, the grimness in his eyes oddly helping to steady me. "Where could they be hiding that all our patrols have missed them?"
"The Haunted Forest stretches out for hundreds of miles," Jon answered. "Far enough to cover an army."
"At all times?" Oberyn's tone was plainly skeptical.
Tormund chuckled. "Perhaps it's difficult for you fine southern lords to understand, but the Others can hide anywhere. They bring the snow. Where there's snow, they're never far. They won't come out by day, not when that pitiful old sun's shining, but don't think that means they went away. Shadows never go away. Might be you don't see them, but they're always clinging to your heels."
Oberyn pursed his lips over what would surely have been a rude response, if the way he held his eyes was any indication.
"Perhaps we should shorten that cover, then," I suggested, trying to bring us back to more practical matters when Tormund's short speech filled the room with a silence that was thick with foreboding. "I know we don't have enough men to hack down another mile or two, but—" here I met Daenerys' eyes—"we do have dragons, do we not?"
"You want to burn down the forest?" Tormund choked out, as if I'd suggested roasting his people alive.
Rickon's fierce, indignant voice filled the air when Tormund could only continue to sputter. "There are heart trees in that forest. How can Bran see for us if you burn them down?"
I slid a wary glance over the room, wondering how many knew about the dreams Rickon had. Dreams he claimed were from Bran, whom he said was with the Children of the Forest and learning from the Three-Eyed Raven.
I couldn't fault several at the council for the long, assessing looks they gave Rickon. Hearing it from him for the first time, I hadn't been able to help the worry that his time in the wilderness had driven my youngest brother mad.
"When was the last time you heard from your brother?" Ser Davos asked seriously, casting a stern glare around the room in general.
"It's been a while," Rickon admitted grudgingly. "The last time was right before we left Skagos and it was only . . . only a whisper of my name in the moment before I woke."
Only the crackle of the pitiful fire in the hearth broke the silence. It had occurred to me more than once that perhaps Rickon's dreams were just that—only dreams. Hopes and wishes that took shape in slumber, much like the scent of my wife's skin or the cry of a hungry babe. He had been separated from Bran at Maester Luwin's behest. Perhaps his mind conjured up what might be rather than what likely was.
Though where Rickon might draw notions of bone-like men who lived in tree roots and leaf-like girls who could use magic, I could not fathom. It could very well be that the savage people on Skagos, who were faithful to the basest of the old ways, might have planted seeds in Rickon's mind that his fancy had nurtured.
"I, too, have had dreams of late."
The pensive, quiet voice was so unlike her that I found myself turning to Daenerys with a frown. She was looking at Rickon with a gentleness that was uncharacteristic of the fierce, temperamental woman who had butted heads with almost everyone since landing in the North with her dragons.
"I have always had dreams," she continued, shadows flickering across her face as her eyes lowered and she seemed to look inside to sift through her memories. "Sometimes they are only dreams. But sometimes . . . I dreamt my children would be born even before I was wed. I dreamt of frozen men and an army garbed in ice years before this winter came. They say that there have always been Targaryens who have dreamed of things to come."
She looked up then, and suddenly I remembered how young she was—a woman who was not yet Morgan's age—and I imagined the weight that she carried on her shoulders and wondered at how it did not crush her. When her husband's hand moved to cover her own, I saw how tightly her fingers closed around his.
"I dreamt I was my brother." The Dragon Queen's voice was barely a whisper, but it carried in a room where it seemed that every breath and beat of the heart had stopped. "Rhaegar. On the Trident, facing the Usurper. He and I were locked in combat, and I was losing. I held up my shield, with its three-headed dragon. But somehow, it had turned to ice. When he struck it, it shattered like glass. And when he swung his war hammer again, I saw only darkness. Cold, complete darkness." Her eyes found Jon's. "You know what this means."
Jon's long face was eerily composed. "We already have a plan for when the Wall breaks. It would be foolish not to."
We had discussed it before. It was nothing new—just the fortification of existing defenses, the establishment of perimeters. Jon stood, drawing everyone's focus to a rough map of the Wall and its surrounding area. It had been pinned to the table near his seat, haphazard lines drawn and blurred over the worn parchment as a result of previous deliberations. Jon went over the plan for the benefit of those who had not been present when it had been drawn up.
I still considered it to be a point of pride rather than sense that the brothers of the Night's Watch were the first line of defense with the wildlings. The wildlings in particular weren't heavily armored and were unused to fighting in lines of formations. Jon thought it didn't matter, given the sheer number of the wights and walkers, as any formation would likely shatter anyway—
"My dragons and I will be here," Daenerys said when she saw that her role had not yet been defined, her finger sweeping over the first perimeter inside the Wall. There was something about the way she looked at Jon that struck me as misplaced, somewhat too fierce. "With you."
"If an attack comes," I pointed out, "your dragons will do better in the air, burning what can be burned before they even reach the line. So that we don't get swamped."
Daenerys' lips pursed, but after a swift look in Jon's direction—again with that feeling that was hard to place—she nodded. A small fit of movement caught my eye—Sandor Clegane drained his cup and promptly filled it again. Thin amusement filtered through me and I knew without doubt that the Hound had just decided against being anywhere near the first line.
But my Uncle Edmure was asking about who came next.
"The North will take the second line," I went on, satisfied by the murmurs of agreement.
"That leaves us with the last," Aegon concluded, nodding as he considered Jon's chart and saw where he had been assigned. "I suppose that makes sense. We have the most number of horses."
Tyrion smiled his gruesome smile, his voice dry. "In case of a timely retreat?"
The quip made Aegon smile in turn. "In case of the need for contingencies."
It was odd, how laughter could still ripple through a room despite the terrible danger that hung over our heads, the crushing weight of impending doom. I looked into Aegon's boyish face, the steadiness that was there despite the crinkles of mirth around his eyes and the wry twist of his mouth.
And I allowed myself to hope, just for that moment, that if contingencies were in order, Aegon would make the right choices to save as many lives south of the Wall as he could.
There was blood everywhere. On the sheets, the furs. The sickly sweet smell of it filled my head so that I gasped, tasting it on my tongue and wondering why it brought to mind steel. I had never been this sickened in my life—not in the dozens of battles, hundreds of skirmishes where there was so much of everything else drawing on my senses.
I stumbled towards the bed, towards the curled little form that I needed to reach, whatever it cost me. Never mind that my feet seemed to slip on the slick floor, that a part of me told me to look harder at the gore.
She was shaking beneath my hands, her white fingers so strained that I would have thought them bone against the bloody cloth of her night dress. Morgan lifted her head as I turned her towards me, her lips parting in a desperate, keening wail that halted my heart in a bitter squeeze of agony.
It was a long, terrifying moment before the pinch in my chest eased and I gulped in the frozen air, eyes streaming as I stared up into the darkness above my bed. With my heart racing and the blood roaring in my ears, it was several moments longer before I realized that there remained a fearful crying in the air.
Grey Wind's mournful howling was joined by another—slower and more melancholy, less piercing. I passed a shaking hand over my face, knowing that sleep would not be returning soon.
"What's wrong with him?" Smalljon demanded shortly when I stepped out of my chambers. His was a face that had known many smiles, from the fine lines already crowding around the corner of his eyes, but fear had woven it into a tight mask.
"I'll go see," I replied as evenly as I could, though I knew that my wolf was at least a mile out. Perhaps he and Ghost had found something worth chasing in the bare forests in the south before whatever it was had eluded them.
It wasn't to the gates that my feet brought me as I walked out into the night. Fresh snow had fallen since most of us had retired, but the air was clear and still as I walked along the empty ramparts of the King's Tower.
Or, rather, near-empty.
I walked forward as Jon turned towards me. We had not been left alone with one another since our departure from Winterfell. There had been that one conversation, when I had confronted him about what he had told Morgan about Jeyne—and that had ended with my mother having us dragged to different parts of the keep.
There had been no time to fight since then. Not with everything else.
It helped that Jon seemed as weary of fighting as I was. Unlike the last time we had exchanged words in private, he was not wary. If there was any expression other than misery on his pale, drawn face, it was resignation.
I stopped when I was a few feet away from him and the silence blossomed between us like a cloying weed. And as the silence swelled in my ears, I found the words that I needed to begin.
"The wolves have fallen silent," I pointed out, when a full minute had passed without another sound. "Have you noticed?"
Jon nodded, looking out towards the south. For a moment, I thought he might leave it at that, but then his voice rasped out before I could try again. "Did they wake you, too?"
"Yes." My wife's bloody bed and terrified eyes rose like a specter from the recesses of my mind. "Thank the gods."
I met Jon's understanding gaze and felt something inside unfurl slowly, like it had been shuttered too long without me noticing. His lips curled in what might have been a smile. The sympathy was there, grim and weighted down though it was.
"There was a time when there was some refuge to be had in dreams," he observed gravely. "Now nowhere is safe."
"What did you dream about?" I asked, wondering what would make stalwart Jon Snow want to escape into the cold.
Jon's mouth twisted and he looked away. I followed his gaze out across the blanket of white that ended in the gnarled darkness that was the Haunted Forest.
Just as I came to the conclusion that he would not answer, his reply grated out of him in a troubled rush. "I dreamt of a bed soaked in blood."
A chill crawled down my spine, despite the heaviness of the fur that covered me.
"There was a woman on that bed," Jon continued, "but I didn't know her. She was crying, pleading with someone I did know—except I didn't know him when I looked at him, not really. When I woke up, I felt that I should know him, but I can barely remember now what he looks like." He turned his face back to me. "Why would I dream that?"
It took me a moment to come to an answer. Relief was pouring through me with the strength of a newly-thawed stream, and it was difficult to think past that when I was concerned wholly with the fact that whatever Jon had seen in his dreams, it had not been my wife losing our baby.
"The only answer I think of is something Old Nan said once," I said at length. "And I doubt you'd want to hear that spirits whisper in our ears when we sleep."
Jon laughed, the break in tension moving through his frozen features like a crack in ice. I found myself grinning, chortling as our minds both drifted to the little old woman who had taken such ghoulish delight in frightening the little boys and girls she had tended.
"What did the spirits whisper to you about?" Jon asked once the laughter had ebbed into a comfortable, almost warm silence.
"My wife. Our child."
The words that left my mouth were clipped and loaded with warning. I regretted them almost instantly, not really knowing why. Perhaps it was the way Jon's face closed up, or the way that the cold seemed to reassert itself and it became suddenly difficult to stand there beside him.
Jon laid his gloved hand over the thick blanket of snow covering the stone ledge in front of him, sweeping it off in an uncharacteristically restless gesture. Later, I would wonder which of us did better in such awkward situations: the one gripped by the impulse to leave, or the one who was determined to suffer through them as best he could. I suppose for someone who had been raised a bastard, Jon knew a sight better than I did about coping with discomfort.
"It must be difficult to be away from them," he said in a tone that might have been politely neutral if not for the note of surliness that rang clearly enough in my ears.
"Especially considering how she and I left things," I agreed coolly.
Jon's shoulders tensed—and I knew from the way my hands were itching that if I didn't take a breath, didn't take a moment to think, I would blow away the careful truce that we'd built, best intentions be damned.
"I won't hit you," I said before I really meant it, knowing that once I let the words loose I would stand by them. "I'll even do my best not to shout. But I have questions that I think I need answered if we're ever to come close to how things were before."
The look Jon gave me was one that made me grit my teeth and remind myself that I was a man of my word. "Since when have you liked talking about these things so much?" he asked as much as he seemed to accuse.
Not a little smugly, I answered: "Since I married Morgan."
Jon didn't need to know, of course, that every time Morgan and I had talked about how we felt or why we did things, it was always in the context of an argument and I had always come out feeling like the loser.
My brother shook his head, his irritation plain. But, as before, he did not leave. Instead, he waited, his hands balled at his sides much as they had used to whenever we were children awaiting our punishment for a misdeed that I had roped him into.
"Why did you do it?" I asked quietly, careful to keep my tone neutral. Whatever it was that was in the air that night, I knew that it would keep us from lying to one another. Every word, spoken and unspoken, carried greater weight just then. It felt like the world around us had stilled to listen, understanding the import of what was taking place. "Why did you tell her about Jeyne?"
Jon sighed, a humorless laugh gusting through him as he turned to face me. "At the time, I was sure it was because I thought there was no justice in a woman loving you when you were so plainly faithless to her. I was also angry at you because I thought you were better than that. Then it occurred to me that you were better than that and . . . until recently, I couldn't account for why I was still angry at you, knowing that you would never betray her that way."
It was a disjointed, circuitous explanation, if I ever heard one. Perhaps even now, Jon didn't fully understand his own reasons for his actions. Slowly the words sank in, slipping and sliding over one another until they formed a chain of logic and thought that I could follow.
"Do you love Morgan?"
The bluntness in which I'd asked might have made the wiser souls wince. For some reason, Sansa's face flashed in my mind, filled with long-suffering exasperation.
But I knew no kind, gentle way to ask a question that loaded, that important. The question had needed to be asked—had needed asking for a long time, truly—and how Jon answered would determine how we would be moving forward.
To his credit, Jon faced me fully then, his eyes steady and sure, and even as my heart sank I could commend him for his nerve.
"I think I do," he replied with the same candor, the kind that bordered on an invitation to fight. Before I could respond to either—the statement or the invitation—he sighed heavily, the hand that had been fidgeting with the snow passing over his head and hair in a gesture of weariness. "But it's different from what I thought love was when I loved Ygritte. Do you love Morgan the way that you love Jeyne?"
Perhaps it was that he had been honest. Perhaps it was that his loving my wife brought him no apparent joy. Indeed, he seemed more miserable for it. It wasn't familiar anger I felt . . . it was a curiously hollow sensation, like someone had crushed the inside of my chest in and left a gaping hole that could hold no real feeling.
"No," I answered, giving him the truth as easily as he had done but a moment before. "No, I don't."
"Does one compare to the other?" At my dark look, Jon raised his hands, palms turned to me in defense. "Not the women, the feeling. Is one love better than the other?"
"Why don't you tell me?" I demanded, irked at having the question asked outside the safe confines of my mind. Besides, it was his feelings that were at issue.
Jon spoke with a readiness that told me he had considered the question at length, long before we had begun this conversation. "It's difficult to compare things that aren't the same. With Ygritte, it just happened. She was there, and she was beautiful, in her own way, and she wanted me before I did her. She . . . I suppose you could say that she made me love her. With Morgan, I knew at once that she would mean something to me." He shook his head and muttered in dejected conclusion: "A man's heart is a strange thing."
There was nothing to say to that. At least, nothing would come to mind. My thoughts seemed to slip through my hands like smoke. One would think that there would be a rote manner of responding to the admission of another man's love for one's wife.
"Do you hate me more—or less?" Jon asked, giving my mind a direction to go in. It arrowed towards the tangle of my feelings, sifting for the hatred he inquired after.
"I don't know," I said at last. "I don't even know if I really hate you."
"You shouldn't." Jon's smile was filled with the self-effacing bitterness he had learned growing up. "What does it matter what I feel, when she loves you?"
My heart skittered unsteadily around what he had said, teetering between hope and despair. Who knew that love could drive a man to such lunacy?
But if Jon was right . . . if Morgan did love me . . . something inside me settled, and beyond the waves of warm reassurance I felt a rush of pity for him.
"There are plenty of women to love you," I said brusquely, not wanting to offer him any comfort after what his actions had wrought on my marriage, but unable to help myself. It seemed an opportune moment to discuss something that had been flirting at the edges of my mind for a while. "One, in particular, is in this very keep. And she's also married, if that's what you like."
Jon's brows furrowed, then snapped towards his hairline as realization hit. A surprised, horrified laugh choked out of him.
"That's—that's—" He broke off into another laugh, this one free and booming. "I would say that's vile, but as it came from your mind it would only be stating the obvious."
I snorted with derision that was only half-meant. "Come now, Targaryens have never been squeamish about their bedmates. Siblings, nephews—and since you lot think nothing of having more than one spouse, I don't see any real problems. You'd even be upholding tradition!"
Jon groaned. "Stop it. I'll never be able to look at her without shuddering if you don't."
"In anticipation, you mean? Like a nervous maid? I'll wager that a woman like that is exactly what you're looking for, if that's the case—"
I lost my breath as the snow came flying in my direction. As soon as I had dusted it off, I heard the ring of laughter in the air.
There was snow in my gloved hand before I realized that the laughter was mine.
Anyone watching us just then might have—rightly, perhaps—thought that we'd gone mad.
It was only when my foot skidded on a slick stone and I nearly fell against a torch that I recalled myself.
"Enough!" I growled at Jon, though there was no need. He had foregone another blow in order to double over and laugh at me.
I knew I would feel embarrassment later, but right at that moment there was only a sense of strange well-being—like a part of me that had been dislodged without my knowledge had slid back into place.
As Jon straightened and we grinned at each other in companionable silence, our breaths puffing unevenly before us, I understood what it was.
For the first time in months—perhaps since he had first written to me about my wife—he and I were at true ease with one another again.
"Can you fathom how we've spent the last good while standing out in the snow and talking about our feelings?" I asked a moment later. There was true wonder in that question, along with a great deal of amusement at our expense, but the true helping was the chagrin I had feared would creep in.
"No more than I can fathom the King in the North losing a snowball fight," Jon said blithely, with a rare, wolfish grin.
It was the last thing I would remember clearly before the world exploded into madness.
The heavy door that led into the tower burst open, and I had my hand on my sword hilt before I knew that it was Rickon who was running out towards us, shouting desperately. Despite his ungainly size, he looked every bit the child he had been when I had first left Winterfell.
I heard only four words across what had been stillness only a moment before.
Bran.
Dream.
They're here.
There was a great, terrible sound booming in the air and I pressed my hands instinctively over my ears as the noise rattled through me. In the darkness lights were flashing out—dimly I realized that the torches around us were being doused. Beneath my feet a wave of motion sent me to my knees and I realized then what the sound was—and what it meant, even if I didn't know why.
As I struggled upwards I felt someone grab my arm and pull me to my feet. In the growing dark I could still make out his face and knew that my own bore the same look: terror.
Jon was at my side, and we watched as the Wall before us began to crumble.
Author's Note #2: In case any of you were wondering, Tormund's words about the Others are lifted directly from the novels. I couldn't resist! He puts it best!
Chapter 11 has been started, but truthfully it's still very, very raw. Because I'm done getting people's hopes up, I won't give it a timeline, but it will definitely be up before a year. I promised I wouldn't do that again, and I haven't. There may be an Epilogue after Chapter 12, but only if I can't cram everything in there to tie things up.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that after two more chapters, I can close the books on this one! On that note, as usual, I will dedicate the end of this chapter to the readers I couldn't reply to via PM!
Ara: I realize now that it was almost this time last year when I last updated. Belated happy birthday again! I missed you, too! Unfortunately, this was not the anticipated Robb/Morgan fluff, but I will probably post those separately—in the spin-offs that I've promised myself I'll get to. Thank you again for reading and continuing to love this story! I hope life is treating you wonderfully, as well!
Christine Rose: I really, really hope you still do monthly checks and see this update! And I'm glad you liked where I went with Robb's character. I was pulling from personal experience (sort of, haha) in terms of how important it is to just say what you feel about a person. Katie McGrath is pretty close, actually, to how Morgan looks in my mind! Though Katie is still too pretty, to be honest. But definitely that sort of pretty—the kind where you focus a lot on her eyes. Thank you for sticking with me and always taking the time to let me know what you think! Love, love!
Belinda: Yes, I'm back! I promised I wouldn't just disappear for over a year, and I've done my best to routinely pop up (somehow) so that you don't worry that I'm dead or that I've abandoned this, haha. Thank you for hanging in there and for the continued, consistent support!
mrk010585: Yes, I actually have seen him in Medici! I couldn't stop laughing in that one scene where he was with the actor of Walder Frey! It was completely inappropriate to laugh in that scene, of course, but I couldn't help but feel that the creators—or at least the casting director—was trolling Game of Thrones fans. And no, for the record, haha, I don't write scripts in my job or in my spare time. I write the most boring (though undeniably important) stuff, which makes it hard to switch back to writing fiction/fanfiction. As always, thank you for taking the time to read and review! It's been, what, six years now? Thank you!
maoinina223: Thank you so, so much! I really appreciate that you took the time to tell me that you loved the story despite disliking the characters sometimes! I treasure all feedback, even the complaints about characterization or plot decisions, but it's very nice to hear that a reader wouldn't have me write it another way. Thank you again for that! And I like you, too!
Marvelmyra: No, "Walda" was definitely not on my list of possible names, haha. I understand how you feel about Chapter 5—a few years on and I still can't believe I decided to write it that way, sometimes—but I hope you decided to read on. If you didn't, I still appreciate that you took the time to read as much of the story as you could. Thank you for leaving feedback! GuestNumber1: Thank you so much! There's quite a bit of time between this chapter and the last, but I hope you still read this sometime! GuestNumber2: Thank you so much! GuestNumber3: It isn't "soon", but the update is here! Thank you very much! anon: It's still alive! I'm just terrible at finding time and energy to write. Hope you read this! Azalea: I hope you come across this update! Thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think, especially since you have such kind, encouraging words! Thanks again! GuestNumber4: Okay, first: thank you for leaving such detailed feedback! I'll try to address your concerns in order. Yes, Robb has a lot of work to do in the communication department. Talking calmly through marital problems is not something I can imagine him doing. As to what will happen to Jon, Dany, and where Arya is—that's in the next chapter! About Bran and Rickon . . . well, this chapter answered that, haha. Thank you again! GuestNumber5: I plan to! Please pray for me! Thank you! Quimby: I will, God willing! Thank you so much!
If I missed anyone, please do let me know! Until next time!
For those readers who wonder what I've been up to, I have a tumblr account for my writing: foodaddictfanfiction. Yes, shameless plug.
Sending you guys all my love!