Sansa awoke to the usual sounds of the camp. The hustle and bustle of tents being collapsed, horses being watered, rations being doled out.
Jon was sleeping under the covers, his head on her bare belly, his arms around her middle. She grinned, lifting the covers. His curls spilled, free of their usual restraint, all over her skin. She ran her fingers through the hair, carefully, feeling it's silkiness. He stirred, and kissed her stomach, and then rolled, looking up at her.
"Morning." he said, and then yawned. He pushed himself up, and sat, against the headboard, allowing the chill of the morning to awake his bare skin.
"And to you." she whispered, marveling at his face. She sat up as well, resting her head on his shoulder.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Incredible." she replied. "Impatient to return home."
"Straight on the Kingsroad from here, now." he said. "And then, Winterfell."
"Mmmm." she hummed. "It'll be a long journey."
"It might go by faster if you share my bed at night."
She arched a brow, surprised at this suggestion.
Just as she leaned forward to kiss him, the tent flap opened. Arya began to speak, and then froze. She stood, staring at the pair, her eyes wide. First, her face was one of abject horror, and then, it fell into complete disgust.
"Arya, wait!" Sansa cried, but she'd moved out of the tent just as fast as she'd appeared.
Arya ran through the camp, ducking around the soldiers, slipping in the mud. She needed to go, she couldn't stay here and participate in something that was such a moral outrage, to everyone. She felt nausea, and scrambled through the packs of men, to the horses.
Jon acted fast, jumping from bed and pulling on his pants, and then throwing on his jacket with no shirt. He ran from the tent, sure she was going to leave, and he couldn't risk losing his sister again.
He looked both ways, and then saw her, way down the line of tents, running. She'd make it to the horses at this rate, if he didn't hurry.
He shoved past his men, his bare feet also slipping in the mud. He kept his eye trained on her, on her disappearing brown hair.
She'd reached the end of the tents, and looked around, desperately, for her horse. She swore, realizing they were watering her. She ran down the length of the edge of the camp.
"Arya!" she heard behind her. Jon was after her, she was sure, to make his excuses. She ignored him, focused on the pounding of her feet against the earth.
She lost her footing, and stumbled, taking a spill into the mud. The small mistake was enough time for Jon to reach her, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her up to look at him.
"Let go of me!" she screamed, but his arms were much stronger than hers.
"Arya, stop!" He shouted. She froze, she'd never even heard Jon raise his voice, nevermind it aimed at her. And Jon was no longer the boy she'd remembered from her childhood, but a man, much bigger than her. Completely intimidating when he needed to be. "Look at me, Arya." he said, his voice quieter now. She glared.
"I'm not your brother." he said.
"What?" she scoffed.
"I'm not Ned Stark's son." he said, urgently.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then, couldn't find the words. She wasn't resisting, so Jon let go of her.
"So who are you, then?"
Just like that, he explained everything. The theory, the conversation with Howland. She listened, her eyes wide, but the more he explained, the less panicked she looked. She nodded, understanding, when he finished.
"Sansa?" she whispered.
"I'm sorry." he sighed. "That's the part for which I have no explanation."
She stuck out her tongue, making a retching noise. Then, she sighed.
"I'm just glad you're not pulling a Lannister on us."
Jon laughed.
"No, no, I wouldn't let that happen." he assured her.
"Sansa though?" she asked.
"I'm not sure you want to hear it." he sighed.
"I'm not sure I am either."
"It's different, with her and I, Arya. It's not like she was ever my sister, like you." he said. "We barely knew eachother growing up, and so, when we saw eachother again...it was like...I don't know, Arya. It all made sense, her and I." he sighed. "Sansa could probably associate some prettier words to it."
"Fine, fine." she sighed. "This is... a lot, and it might take me a while to become used to it."
He stepped closer to her.
"You can't tell anyone who I am, Arya." he said.
"Because you're Targaryen." she said, and he grinned, nodding.
"Exactly."
"Why not make a claim to the Iron Throne, then?" her eyes lighting up.
"Because I don't want the Iron Throne." he said. "Winterfell is still my home, and I'm still Stark, in some ways. And there are bigger issues, Arya, coming for us, than who sits on that throne."
When they returned to the tent, Sansa was dressed. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she stood, waiting.
"He told me." Arya said, nodding at Jon. Sansa nodded. "It's weird, but, I guess, I mean...it's not." Arya sighed, as tongue tied about her feelings as Jon had been about his. "It's fine." she hissed.
Sansa stepped forward, and hugged Arya. Arya froze, for a moment, and then took a breath, and relaxed, hugging her sister back.
"We should have told you, straight away." Sansa said apologetically. "I can't imagine what a nasty surprise that was."
"You have no idea." Arya said.
Word had spread about Rickon's return, and on the Kingsroad, through the villages, people lined up to watch the procession pass. They cheered his name, they rejoiced in the return of Lord Stark. They watched in awed silence as the Direwolves passed them. Children ran up and handed Sansa and Arya winter roses. The North was welcoming them home.
The weeks passed quickly, and the further North they got, the colder it became. By the time they were two nights away from Winterfell, the snow was falling, and sticking. Some of the Manderly men were complaining, but as for the Starks, nobody hardly noticed, just simply wore more layers.
They all gathered in one tent, the night before the siege. They were only a few hours from home now, and everyone was impatient to get on with it. Rickon lay sleepily on the bed, beside Jon and Sansa, who sat together on the edge of it. Arya laid on the floor, tossing a ball in the air, catching it, over and over.
"Am I coming to battle with you?" Rickon asked Jon, and he grinned, reaching over to ruffle Rickon's hair.
"I'm afraid not. You'll stay behind, with your sisters."
"What?" Arya sat up.
"You're not coming, either." Jon said shortly.
"Why?" she hissed.
"Arya, I don't care how many people you've assassinated, but you've never been in a battle. It's much different."
"There won't be a battle, probably." Arya whined.
"No." he said. "Final answer."
She groaned, and fell back on the floor. The next moment, she launched the ball at Jon's head, which he swiftly avoided. She giggled. Sansa grinned as well, slightly, but her thoughts were somewhere else. She was relieved to be returning home, but was nervous for whatever memories waited for her there.
When it was time to sleep, Sansa couldn't. Perhaps it was the nerves, or the way the wind made her tent shake, but she couldn't sleep. Jon was in the next tent, and Arya and Rickon in theirs, across the way.
Sansa pulled herself out of bed, secured her boots, and wrapped herself in her fur.
She stepped outside, in the snow, and looked up at the stars. The sky had cleared, it had been snowing for the past few days, but now there was not a cloud in sight. The moon was a half circle, and Sansa could see the forest in the distance. The white coated pines sparkled like fine diamonds.
She heard a whining in the next tent, Jon's, and she crossed to it. She pulled the canvas back, and was surprised to see Jon, sitting at the table instead of sleeping in bed. Ghost crossed to her, greeting her with a gentle bump of his nose.
"Can't sleep?" she asked him when he looked up. He shook his head, once, and looked back at the map.
She went to him, settling her hands on his shoulders, feeling how tense they were.
"Perhaps you need a good distraction?" she whispered.
"I thought we agreed to wait until we have the security of our own home around us?" he looked up at her. She shrugged.
"I think we could both use to relieve some tension." she stroked his face, and he shut his eyes, holding her hand to his cheek.
"You don't have to be on the front lines, tomorrow, Jon." she urged him. She'd been, selfishly, trying to convince him to stay out of harm's way for the past week.
"I do." he sighed. He stood, taking her hands. "I'm going to get your home back, and I'm not going to give anyone else the honor of doing so."
She smiled, looking at the floor.
"Our home." she said.
"If you insist."
"Oh, I do."
"Come on." he sighed. "Let's go for a walk."
"A walk?" she asked, surprised.
"Aye. I need some air."
He called Ghost to him, and pulled on his own furs. He reached for Sansa's hand, and together, they walked out into the cold night. They trekked through the camp, and out of it, into the heavy field of snow. Ghost ran, delighted, into the slush, jumping after a snow rabbit that skittered past. The snow reflected the white light of the moon, and both Jon and Sansa stood silently, at the edge of the camp, watching the silent night in awe.
"Please be safe tomorrow." Sansa whispered, looking over at him.
"Of course." he said. "I have every reason to be."
She squeezed his hand tighter. She took a deep breath, and exhaled, slowly, watching her breath appear like white smoke. They stood, together, in the freezing wind, for a long while. Sansa, inched closer to him, sharing his heat.
"Come back to my tent with me?" she whispered, after the sleepiness overtook her. He nodded, and taking her hand, led her back down the aisle of tents.
Jon was awake long before the break of dawn. He kissed Sansa, lightly, who was curled up beside him, sleeping soundly. She stirred, and blinked up at him.
"I have to go." he said.
"Wait." she whispered. She took a blanket with her, wrapping it tightly around her shoulder, and went to the set of drawers. She took out a necklace, with a pendant in the shape of a dragonfly. Her father had given it to her, years before, and she hardly ever went anywhere without it on.
Jon was dressing, and she crossed to him.
"You're giving me your Favour?" he asked, grinning, amused. "I'm not a knight, m'lady, and this is no joust."
"I don't care." she said softly. She slipped it in his breast pocket, and patted it. "It'll remind you to stay safe. I want you to bring it back to me."
"So I shall." he said. "It's time to rally the men." he said, hearing a burst of a horn outside.
She nodded, and then threw her arms around his neck, shutting her eyes, squeezing him.
"Come home, to me, please, Jon." she whispered.
He grinned, pulling away slightly, pressing his forehead on hers.
"So it shall be done, if my lady orders it."
"She does." Sansa sniffed. He kissed her again, and then, was gone.
The army topped the final hill, and then, rode furiously, towards the castle, Jon at it's front. The noise of near 2,000 horses was deafening, and the ground shook with thunderous applause.
Halfway down the field, Jon slowed, and stopped.
Across the battlefield, a trench had been dug. All of the sudden, from it, the Bolton men began climbing out, swords drawn, yelling. They spilled onto the field like bugs. From the village just before Winterfell, from behind the houses, horses came galloping, Bolton men astride them.
"Archers!" Jon shouted, rounding the horse. The archers, most on horseback, lined up quickly. On his count, they began firing, taking out the first line of soldiers opposite them.
Then, Jon began shouting orders, and sent a battalion forward, towards the oncoming forces. He ordered the outflankers to come round the sides, they were going to encircle them, if they must.
The Bolton forces looked to have only 500 men, or so.
Finally, it was his turn to ride forward. Flanked by 40 men, Jon raised his sword, and urged his horse onward, at breakneck speed.
The Boltons hardly had any horses, so it was easy to strike down the oncoming men from atop his steed. Ghost ran beside him, nearly the height of his horse, and was fiercely taking in his own casualties, ripping men's arms off, biting their necks and shaking.
Jon was thrown off his horse, and fell to the ground, knocking the breath from him. Ghost gave him enough time with his defenses to pull himself back to his feet. Jon forced himself up, and then, beside Ghost, made their way through the fighting men, slashing them down with brutal strikes of Longclaw.
The battle was over in a matter of half an hour, and the Boltons were all but demolished. Winterfell stood, awaiting them, her gates open.
Jon, splattered in mud, dirt, and blood, took Ghost's withers, and they walked together, up the winding village path, and through the gates.
He stared at the courtyard. It looked exactly the same. He'd made it home.
He ordered someone to bring him a horse, any horse. He mounted it quickly, and turned it back around, through the gates, to attend to his men.
They were still in some sort of formation, some of the wounded being attended to. They all saw their commander, riding from the gates.
Jon held the sword above his head, waiting for the men to quiet.
"Today marks a battle that was easily won." he began. "Not all the coming battles will be as easy. You all fought gallantly, bravely, and you've made your houses proud."
There was a clamor of cheers in response to this, and Jon grinned.
"No matter what challenges we face in the coming months, no matter what Winter brings to us, we must remain united." he shouted. "Who owns the North? Is it House Bolton?"
There were jeers, boos, and hisses.
"Which house owns the North?!"
"Stark!" They cried in unison.
"Again! Louder!"
"Stark! Stark! Stark!" They began chanting, and Jon smiled wider.
Ghost, raised his head up, and began to howl.