Dragons of Ice and Fire

by serpentguy

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood...

36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Jon

He broke his fast on dried, salted bacon, and a turnip he snatched from one of his men. Hardly the feast of kings, but it was all so hectic that Jon had to eat while walking.

Outside, around the steps of the Great Keep, he could see the castle stirring. Crowds of men were slowly moving through the main hall. Jon lingered at the edge of the balcony, half-hiding out of the way as he watched.

The stitches on his side were bleeding again. Jon could feel the blood welling in the wound, threatening to dribble down his torso, under the furs. His side felt fit to scream, every time he moved his leg.

There were footsteps behind him. Tormund Giantsbane walked with his arms folded, his white beard speckled with snow. "Snow!" Tormund called for him, keeping his voice low. "We're ready for you, Snow."

"The Great Hall?" Jon asked, and the man just nodded. The Great Hall, and the ancient carved weirwood seat of the Kings of Winter. My father's chair. My father's throne, my brother's throne. My throne.

Tormund looked at him expectantly, but there was nothing more to be said. Jon was already walking away, wincing so badly with each step he walked lopsided. Tormund stuck closely by his side, heavy footsteps next to his. Ever since the battle, over the course of a long, long week, the number of men that Jon could actually rely on had fallen to single-digits.

The castle was simmering. Jon knew that Tormund's raiders would all be on high-alert, watching for any moves to cause disturbance, on any side. Jon just felt stiff as he limped down the steps.

Every man they passed had a white stone on his chest. Without the Dragonguard, Jon had been forced to rely on men of the Cult of the Dragon to secure the Great Keep and the godswood. It wasn't the most reliable protection, but it was the closest thing Jon had.

This has to be done now, he told himself. Even over a week after the Battle of the Snows, they were struggling to pick up the pieces.

The mood in the Great Hall was sombre, tense. He saw the Greatjon glowering at the edge of the throne, while Tormund took the other side. Jon needed Toregg's help just to climb up the stairs, and he couldn't help but breathe a deep sigh of relief when he removed the weight from his legs.

It was a sign of weakness, he knew. Jon was still injured, he hadn't slept in days, and the vultures were everywhere.

"Snow," the Greatjon muttered to him. "We need to–"

"Did you find them?" Jon said sharply.

Lord Umber hesitated. "Aye," he replied. "We got them."

"All of them?"

"They're in chains now."

"Then bring the first one in," Jon ordered.

The whole castle was still reeling from the battle, but Jon couldn't let the tensions simmer. Every man, every chieftain, highborn or commander that could still walk had crowded into the hall. He saw hundreds of eyes filling the hall and flooding the podiums, all staring at him.

The room was still. All those gazes, they felt accusing.

No, Jon thought. This has to be done now. They need to see justice.

His army had nearly been destroyed by sabotage, distrust and treachery. The recent White Harbour reinforcements helped, but tensions remained. The anger was still dangerously high, still volatile.

The guilty needed to be punished, that was certain. They needed order again. Jon had agreed to hold the trials in the way of the free folk – where the accused would be walked through a public forum, and the chieftain would pass judgement openly, before the whole clan. Everyone could air their grievances, witnesses could come forward, and justice would be done, for all to see.

Four men-at-arms pounded spears against stone. The doors opened, and Jon heard the rattle of chains as Robett Glover was walked through.

He was wearing chains, frogmarched at spearpoint, but he didn't lower his gaze. His brother, Galbart Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte, walked behind him. Galbart wasn't wearing chains, but the men-at-arms still shadowed him closely.

There was a long pause, as they stood before Jon. A few wildlings in the crowd jeered, but others hushed them silent. Robett met Jon's gaze, while Galbart was staring at the ground.

No weakness. Not here. "Robett Glover of Deepwood Motte," Jon announced, forcing his voice to stay firm. "You stand accused, before the laws of men and the honour of the Old Gods, of treachery and oathbreaking. Of murder by conspiracy with the enemy. How do you plead?"

Both brothers had been accused, in days past, but Robett was the only one on trial now. He held himself well, for a man facing death. "Guilty, Your Grace," Robett said, his voice gruff and loud. Galbart's shoulders were shaking.

Jon wasn't surprised. There was little for him to deny, and scores of witnesses. Robett had been the commander of their outriders, and all the outriders had reported that Robett had deliberately sent them away, letting the Boltons strike without warning. Robett had claimed it had been the king's orders – for the scouts to move south urgently to search for a missing caravan. There had been nobody on the plains to blow the warhorns when the Bolton army came through.

Still. Justice had to be seen to be done, for all to see.

"You willingly and knowingly participated in the Bolton attack?" Jon demanded.

"I… I abused my duty. I was ordered to clear the scouts, and I did." His eyes were hard. "I stood back, but I did not raise my blade against any man. I had no part in the violence, I committed no murder."

"I do not see the difference. Men died by your actions. You must have known the ambush was coming, did you not?"

"Only hours before it arrived," Robett explained dourly. "There was another man, called himself Gregor, but others knew him by different names. I only knew that he worked for House Bolton. He was pretending to be one of your soldiers. He tapped me on the shoulder and ordered me to do it, and stood by acting like my guard as I did."

"You were not forced." That dark growl was the Greatjon, his eyes bulging. "Do not claim to be a victim here."

"I was not," Robett admitted. "I could have overpowered the man, or alerted others of him. And yet the Boltons had my wife and children, Your Grace. I received the first threat from him months ago – telling me they wouldn't be harmed so long as I followed instructions when they came. Otherwise, my wife Sybelle, my son Gawen, my daughter Erena – they would have been flayed alive."

Jon shifted in his seat, glaring. "That is your excuse, for condemning many more to certain death? You allowed the Bolton army to ambush us without warning – a warning that would have saved lives."

"Aye." He gulped. "And it did save lives. It saved my family."

There were rumbles in the crowd. Robett grit his teeth and pushed forward. "I did not think the ambush would be so bad! I expected a raiding party, or something that the bulwarks would have held against. I did not think the attack I allowed could have threatened us, not with the dragon."

"You believed treachery would be inconsequential?" The Greatjon stomped his foot. Others in the hall were muttering accusations too.

Robett nodded. "But that is an excuse. I am guilty – I knew the crime and I committed it." He took another deep breath. "And I would do so again. They honoured their deal. I thought my family would be doomed, but they are still alive."

Jon believed him. He held himself with honour – he had prepared and resigned himself to this. Jon looked to a northmen serjeant, and the man nodded. "We received word from Deepwood Motte," the serjeant admitted. "Sybelle, Gawen and Erena Glover have all been released unharmed. Roose Bolton did honour the deal." Damn him.

"Were you aware of any other traitors in the camp?" Jon demanded of Robett Glover.

"I was not. I thought I was the only one."

"And what of your brother?"

"He had naught to do with it." Robett's voice turned sharp. "Lord Bolton lied on that count. I hid the blackmail from Galbart, I was ashamed. My brother didn't know anything."

The letters that Lord Bolton had said otherwise, but they had found no witnesses to implicate the elder Glover brother as well. The parchments, the handwriting and the seal could well be forged. Lord Bolton had reason to lie, Jon reminded himself, to try and trick me into persecuting innocents as well.

The crowd was chanting. The northmen were more reserved in their judgement, but for the wildlings it was clear. Damn him, Jon cursed. It would be easier if Robett was cowardly, and yet he held himself with honour. Too many had died that night because of him, Jon couldn't do anything less. He knew the mood in his castle; there would be riots if he pulled back in judgement now.

"For the lives of your family, you knowingly condemned thousands of others. Robett Glover. I sentence you to death."

Galbart looked ready to fall apart, shaking and trying to restrain himself. There was no outburst, just a hard and grim nod from Robett.

An honourable sentence, Jon remembered saying those words. He would swing the blade himself, he had promised, and his family would be protected and provided for. Robett didn't respond.

"His brother is just as guilty as he is," Rattleshirt growled to Jon. "They planned it together, they must have. The man knows he's dead, but he can still lie to save his brother."

"We have no evidence against Galbart," Jon said. He turned to the men in the hall, and raised his voice slightly. "But neither will Galbart Glover walk free. He will remain in Winterfell, under supervision. Robett Glover's family will be brought to Winterfell too, to remain as hostages. I will take many of the lands sworn to Deepwood Motte, and give them to distinguished warriors of the free folk. House Glover will rue its betrayal, I promise you."

Rattleshirt was still fuming – the Lord of Bones had lost more men than anyone trying to hold the bulwarks against the surprise attack. Jon wondered how many others would agree with Rattleshirt's assessment of Galbart.

Jon just felt numb. That look in Galbart's eyes haunted him. Still, it wasn't over. No weakness, not now. The spears thudded again, and the next traitor was brought through.

Brandon Norrey of Clan Norrey still had defiance in his eyes, spitting against the men who escorted him. He was brought along with three of his sons, and two other leaders within Clan Norrey. One of the men spat "Fucking wildlings!" into the hall.

Jon had hoped Lord Norrey's sentence would be easier. Clan Norrey had worked with the Boltons more than most; helping to smuggle Bolton men in the camp. Several of Clan Norrey had dressed themselves in furs, pretending to be of Rattleshirt's warband, and they had executed the ambush against the giants. Afterwards, The Norrey had started screaming to the clansmen that the wildlings had betrayed them, and many otherwise loyal men had believed him.

His charges were levelled against him, and Brandon Norrey spat on the floor and said, "Aye, I did it."

"What did the Boltons offer you?" Jon demanded.

"Protection. The north," he turned to glare at the Greatjon. "We loved the Ned, we owed him much and more, but not this. Never this. You are all fools if you think those wildlings can be trusted. They are savages, rapers and murderers and you – Lord Umber, you should know that better than most."

"Just looking at some of Snow's savages sickens me," the Greatjon growled at the man. "But you're the goddamned fool, Norrey, if you think the Boltons are any better."

"This bastard, the Ned's little girl–!" The Norrey's eyes widened fit to bulging, he almost shrieked in fury. He struggled and writhed and spat curses until a man-at-arms laid him low, with a punch to the gut.

"I've heard enough," Jon announced, his voice hard. "For your crimes, Brandon Norrey of Clan Norrey, you are sentenced to death. I declare your clan attainted. Your sons shared in your crime, and will share your fate."

His sons screamed protests, but they would share their father's sentence. They'd willingly assisted in their father's betrayal. Their entire clan would be stripped of their holdings, their fief given to the free folk. The Norrey didn't flinch when Jon passed his judgement, but his sons wept. "And what of his crimes!" He slammed his finger at Rattleshirt. "How can you punish me, you bastard, and turn a blind eye on the crimes of those around you?"

"The free folk have renounced their old ways," Jon said, raising his voice to cut off any defiance, "Their days of raiding smallfolk will never come again, and they received amnesty for all past crimes when they crossed the Wall."

"You say that?" The Norrey howled, stepping forward. The men-at-arms had to stop him. "You dare to say that! My daughters! Two little girls of twelve and eight!" He tried to lunge forward, squirming against the grip. "They were raped and mutilated by a wildling in an armour of bones!"

Jon paused, posture cracking slightly. By his left, Rattleshirt's eyes narrowed, but he didn't object to the accusation. That was the reason Clan Norrey had been against him from the start? Dammit. I did not know that.

It can't make a difference, Jon told himself. There was nothing he could do. Nearly all of the wildlings raiders had kills to their name, and were many who'd stolen women. If I punish Rattleshirt, I'd have to punish a thousand others.

Still, Jon's eyes lingered on Rattleshirt for just a moment longer. "… They received full amnesty," Jon said finally.

"YOU BLOODY BASTARD!" Brandon Norrey shrieked. "You fucking bloody bastard! They were my girls! It only happened a year ago! He butchered them! He's wearing their fucking ribcages around his fucking waist!"

Jon winced. Rattleshirt's armour, Jon remembered vaguely, was made out of the bones of the people that he'd killed.

They had to drag The Norrey away, still spitting curses as his sons struggled, or wept. His clansmen will have to stew in the prison cells, Jon decided. The mountain clans were different, their loyalty to their lord was stronger than most – a loyalty more akin to that of family, rather than house. Jon would take the guilty's heads, but others could well kill themselves trying to take vengeance. Still, there was nothing else he could do. Clan Norrey had knowingly, wilfully, betrayed them all, and they would pay the price. From root to stem, if need be.

The Greatjon had to excuse himself, he was shaking with rage. The Lord of Bones smiled hesitantly. "Huh. Never knew who their father was," Rattleshirt admitted sheepishly, before resigning himself to the very back of the room. Jon's glare followed him. Damn him.

The others in the clan, first cousins and lesser relations, were questioned further, cross-referencing with the stories of other traitors. They answered the same as Robett did; none of them knew of any other traitors in the camp – as far as each had been aware, they had been the only Bolton spies. A hundred little mice, scurrying about, each thinking that they were alone in the world.

It wasn't over. The spears thumped again, and more traitors were brought out.

Lord Cregan Karstark was brought out, even though he was one who Lord Bolton hadn't named. Cregan Karstark stood in front of the hall, and Jon called for testimonies from men who had been near Karstark during the battle.

Nobody was quick to step forward. As far anybody could tell, the Karstark men hadn't betrayed them. When the battle happened, the Karstark men had fought 'loyally' to the coalition.

Of course they did, Jon thought. Cregan Karstark's loyalty is clearly tenuous, but Roose Bolton would have known we'd be suspicious of him. The Boltons hadn't even tried to bring House Karstark into their scheme.

Jon dismissed the unsupported charges, and Cregan left without a sentence. Still, Cregan glared at Jon darkly as he was walked away. Arnolf Karstark, Cregan's father, had fought and died for House Bolton during the battle. Cregan Karstark may not be a traitor, not this time, Jon thought sourly, but he's no friend. Lord Karstark's guard won't be disappearing anytime soon.

Four more 'trials' followed; each one of them very guilty. Lord Ethan Whitehill stood accused of smuggling Bolton men into the camp and sneaking supplies through White Harbour; Mandon Slate, heir to Blackpool, and his men were accused of setting fires in the camp, Lord Hoster Moss accused of assaulting free folk patrols, and Old Torghen Flint accused of deliberately spreading discord.

Lord Moss was the only one who tried to deny his charges, claiming he never knew what his men were doing. The others pled the same as Robett when they admitted to the charges; that they didn't know that anybody else was involved in the plan. Roose Bolton recruited traitors to raise havoc in the camp, and didn't tell any of them who else was in the scheme; none of them that could point the finger at anybody else.

It had been nothing short of masterful, the way the Boltons had organised them.

And each one had their own reasons; Lord Whitehill was fuelled by suspicion of Jon and the new religion that the wildlings brought, Mandon Slate feared for his family, while Old Torghen Flint had just spent too long fighting wildlings to ever abide them. Not a single one had betrayed them for greed or personal ambition. They had been fuelled by fear – or by duty, as they understood it.

Jon shifted in his seat. The sentences would remain the same; they would all be executed. Regardless of their reasons, it could not be forgiven.

"There were more than this, you know that, right?" Tormund muttered to Jon quietly after Lord Moss was dragged away weeping. "I don't know who, but I was in that camp. There were far more saboteurs in that camp than what we're seeing now."

"I know," Jon replied, his voice a whisper. "Not all the betrayers are with us; there are more trials to be had. Ondrew Locke, Malcolm Woolfield, Mors Umber and Lyessa Flint must stand trial." Jon shook his head, remembering that night. "And other traitors likely would have died in the snows. We can only guess how many."

Still, they had only managed to 'catch' the traitors that were very obviously guilty – so many others had managed to slip away in the confusion. If there aren't witnesses that can finger them, Jon knew, then everybody else will deny being involved to their dying breath.

Roose Bolton knew it too. The letters. Jon suspected that Lord Bolton had honestly confessed as to who the actual traitors were, but had also thrown a few other names in there for good measure. Many more, perhaps. Enough to muddy the waters, to make everything a bit more doubtful and to spread as much suspicion as possible. If Jon were to punish everyone that Lord Bolton had named, there would hardly be an army left to command.

Trying to sort out the lies from the truth was the hardest part. Damn him. Damn him.

Perhaps harsh interrogation of the maesters would yield some answers, but Jon had his doubts. Everything he had found so far was indicating a higher influence coordinating them all. Strangely, Jon thought of Luwin. Would he have opposed me too?

It was already getting late, but he could hardly tell through the thick storm clouds that were beginning to rumble once more outside. Jon was sitting tense in his seat, so upright he might snap. He had to force himself to stay stoic.

The spears thumped again, and the last traitor was brought out. Jon's stomach lurched, while the men in the hall shifted.

Lady Leona Manderly was weeping, tears staining her yellow dress. She was a plump, homely woman with blond hair that was now more like a straw heap. Her eyes were red, bloodshot. She looked so haggard, her face somehow both flushed and ghostly pale with snot dribbling down her chin. She could barely breathe, she had to be half-carried, half-pushed. Last he had saw her, Lady Leona had been poised and well-dressed, however nervous, but now she looked like a wreck.

Both her daughters, Wynafyrd and Wylla, entered with her – the daughters weren't on trial, only the mother was. Wynafryd, sharp-eyed with long braided hair, supported her mother as they walked, arms wrapped around her mother's. The younger daughter, Wylla, followed behind from a short distance. From the red in their eyes and their cheeks, both girls had been crying.

I had to do it, Jon cursed. He had already promised that all traitors among them would be tried publicly. And then another traitor arrived along with the convoy from White Harbour, the day before. This one is a mother where the others were fathers, but it can't make a difference.

"Lady Leona Manderly, of House Woolfield," Jon said, taking a deep breath. Give me strength. The hall turned quieter that it had been. "You are accused of treason and conspiring with the enemy. How do you plead?"

She was too busy sobbing, her daughter had to shake her to respond, before croaking out the words. "G-Guilty, Your Grace."

They would never have even discovered Leona's treachery, if she hadn't broken down and confessed it all herself in a fit of weeping panic, in the aftermath of the assault on White Harbour. She had been working with Lord Bolton from the New Castle itself. Ever since the Manderly maester was arrested, Lady Leona and the castellan had taken over the maester's duties at the ravenry. And then, every letter that the city had sent out, Lady Leona made a copy of, and relayed it to Winterfell.

The Boltons had a spy in White Harbour all along, passing information straight to Winterfell.

And of all the names that Lord Bolton had admitted to, Leona's hadn't been among them, Jon remembered. Lord Bolton hadn't given her up. Perhaps he thought we would never have believed it.

"Tell me what you did, Lady Leona," Jon ordered, though he already knew.

"I…" Leona sniffled. "I forwarded ravens to Winterfell, Your Grace."

"How many?"

"I do not… I don't know. As many that concerned you, I was told to forward anything that could be useful," she croaked. "The castellan would log the parchments, I made a copy."

"You were working with the Boltons?" She shakily nodded. "Did Roose Bolton approach you with a deal? Did they hold a hostage over you?"

She shook her head, still sniffing. "I approached him. I sent a message to Winterfell."

There were stirs in the crowd. "Why?"

"I… I…" the woman looked like ruin, barely able to stammer out the words. "I just wanted…" she gulped, between sobs. "I wanted to protect m-my family."

The Greatjon stepped forward, looming imposingly. "You fucking what?"

Her eldest daughter, Wynafryd, moved to cover her mother against the Greatjon defiantly, as if the Greatjon could charge the woman at any moment. Wylla just lingered back, her eyes wide and twitching. "It's…" Leona stammered from behind her, looking everywhere but at Jon. "You don't understand! It was only a few letters!"

"Those letters gave away all of our troop movements, my lady," Jon said darkly. "The Boltons knew exactly when and where we were coming."

Even from the beginning, Lord Bolton had known straight away of absolutely every alliance Jon was trying to make, every troop movement, every order he had given. At a certain point, Jon thought foully, it must have become easy for him.

"I…" she was gasping. Her head was swivelling desperately, looking for help from the crowd, but finding none. All glared at her. The air was thick with condemnation. "It was… my husband. My children. I… I…" Tears in her eyes. Jon wished he could scream at her to stop crying and face him. "I didn't want…"

"Your husband was with that bloody army!" a White Harbour knight shouted to mutters of agreement. Ser Mardrick, from a branch of House Manderly. Jon couldn't bring himself to speak. "You put him at risk!"

"No, I… no…" Leona looked ready to keel over. "I made a deal," she gasped finally. "He promised he wouldn't hurt my husband… my family… if I helped him."

Damn him. DAMN HIM.

Wylla Manderly started trembling, fists clenched. Voices murmured accusingly. It was a lame excuse, but Jon knew the real reason she had done it. "You don't understand!" Leona wailed, after a passing of moments. She was weeping, insensate. "They said that he would be safe, but they said he would be safe with Robb Stark too! I lost my husband for nearly a year at that horrible place – he could have died at the Twins! My girls lost their father! I couldn't, I couldn't take it…"

"Mother…" Wynafryd whispered, moving to hold her. Wylla didn't step close, she didn't budge. The daughters were both crying, but their expressions were so different.

"It was only some letters," Leona cried. "I didn't think it would make any difference – not with a dragon, we were going to win regardless – but just in case!" She gasped for breath. "Just in case we didn't win. Just in case the… the dragon betrayed us…!" She shrieked the words, finally managing to stare at Jon. Her eyes were filled with pure fear. "They said that the wildlings couldn't be trusted, and I… Lord Wyman was gambling everything, but I… just in case it didn't go, I wanted to give my family a safety net!"

The fool. Damn him and damn her. "That's all it was, just a safety net. Just in case. But it didn't really matter!" Leona insisted. "It shouldn't have made any difference at all, because, well, the dragon!"

I saw her, Jon thought softly. I saw her, I noticed how disturbed she was. I was just too busy to even focus on her. Leona had thought victory with Sonagon was guaranteed, so therefore her own betrayal would be inconsequential. And Lord Bolton would have encouraged that mindset, wouldn't he?

If that was the attitude within my army, then no wonder Lord Bolton screwed me.

"They were burning septs!" Leona pleaded, her voices nearly nonsensical through the panic. "The wildl– the free folk were burning septs and worshipping dragons! They said that they were sacrificing men to the dragon, bleeding men to the trees, and there were so many horror stories, and…" She collapsed to the ground, taking deep gulps of air like she could barely breathe. "I just wanted to protect my husband!"

Jon winced. Wynafryd moved to support her mother, but something snapped in the air.

"You killed him!" Wylla Manderly screamed, recoiling back. She was pointing her arm at her own mother, her slight frame quivering. "You killed father, you killed father!"

Leona Manderly stiffened, trembling, as she stared wide-eyed at her daughter. Leona would have fallen to her knees, if not for Wynafryd holding her half-upright. The mother was sobbing, and Wylla was still screaming. "YOU KILLED FATHER, YOU–!"

"Take her away!" Jon slammed his fist on the throne's arm.

Wylla was shrieking all the while that Toregg dragged her from the Great Hall. The young woman's red and wide eyes locked on Jon, thrashing in grief and rage. "Kill her, kill her, KILL HER…!"

The doors slammed shut, and Jon could only feel a bone-deep exhaustion, while the men in the Great Hall muttered amongst themselves, a low chorus of voices.

Leona Manderly and her daughters had only discovered that Ser Wylis was dead after they arrived in Winterfell. They had come to bring their mother to trial, and discovered on arrival that their father was dead. Nobody had put it to writing, the maesters were all in chains. No one had even told Lord Wyman yet.

Jon's head felt like it was spinning. Focus. Do not let yourself be moved just because she's crying. "Did Ser Wylis know of your actions?" Jon demanded, but she was on the floor in hysterics. "Answer the question; did Ser Wylis know?"

"No! He would never, he…" Her voice stammered, breaking down into wheezy gasps and sobs. "… I didn't mean… I never wanted… Oh gods… I… I… I'm sorry, I never wanted…!"

"Did you ever meet with anyone else, any other conspirators, anyone working with the Boltons?"

She shook her head frantically. "It was only letters, it was only…!"

"Did you ever send letters, anything concerning us, to anywhere other than Winterfell?" Like Braavos, or King's Landing? He could feel the question churning in his gut, so violently he wanted to scream. Who else was Roose working with?

She shook her head, sobbing madly, and Jon stiffened. She knew nothing. She was just a tool.

The only sound in the room were her sobs. Nobody was chanting, not for her. She's a fool, Jon cursed. A traitor, but not a malicious one. Still, Leona's treachery had been more damaging than many of the others he had judged. Lord Bolton could never have planned his assault without her.

"… I cannot make final judgement at this time," Jon said finally. "I will withhold a sentence and deliberate for the time being. Lady Leona, you are excused for now. You will stay here, in the Great Keep, under guard."

She was such a wreck that the men had to carry her out. Wynafyrd's glare never left Jon's eyes. Even when all the others were moving away, the daughter of White Harbour, and new heir of the house, walked forward, and stood before Jon's throne. "I will not condone my mother's actions, Your Grace," Wynafryd said quietly, her voice thin, like a thread at the edge of breaking. "But you will not execute her."

"Lady Leona committed treason," Jon replied coldly. "Thousands may be dead because of her. Do you expect me to forgive that because she is a woman?"

"I expect you to treat her kindly because she is my mother." With that, Wynafryd pulled up her dress and walked away, her jaw clenched.

Jon could feel the weight of the eyes of those men, still in the hall, weighing on him. Judging him.

"Lady Manderly," Jon called after her. She stilled, without turning. "Your grandfather sent your mother here to die. She was sent to Winterfell to be tried for treason, and Winterfell's punishment for treason is death." She turned then, eyes wide, staring at him as though she'd never seen him before.

No weakness, Jon reminded himself. All your fault, a mad voice howled.

"Even with your defence of her, even if your grandfather were here to speak for her, your mother's crimes are clear." Jon warned. "I will deliberate on a final judgement, I will speak with her further, but she will pay a price for her treason."

"I simply…" She gulped, nearly stammering. He could see the sweat beading on her brow, the paleness of her skin. Her whole body began to tremble. "I merely ask… Your Grace, that the punishment not be death. That… is all."

Jon slowly nodded, attempting to keep his voice hard. It was… difficult. He could feel his throat beginning to go hoarse from overuse. "You are dismissed, Lady Manderly." The hall slowly started to file away, and few left feeling satisfied. Jon just left numb. I will have to behead over a score of men on the morn. He would kill more men, so many more men in the executioner's yard than he had during the actual battle.

Sooner or later, Jon thought, I will have to pen a letter coursed for White Harbour, to inform Lord Wyman of his only son's death. He honestly couldn't even imagine the lord's reaction. His memories flashed, and he remembered the breaking of the Frey delegation, in the middle of the Merman's Court.

Jon could have screamed.

"Rattleshirt," Jon called to the wildling, one of the last men remaining in the hall.

"Aye?"

For a moment, Jon just stared at him, eyes glancing over suit of bones. "We will… speak with the other prisoners after the morn on the morrow. I want you there."

The Lord of Bones just grinned in a sickly way, and shuffled away.

Jon dropped out of that horrible weirwood throne and limped away as fast as his lopsided gait would take him, wincing with every step. Jon limped quickly up the stairs, Toregg on guard, passing the bloodstains on the walls.

He retreated to the lord's solar – his father's solar – but it wasn't over. It was already dusk, and the castle was still hectic. He heard the angry barks and snaps outside as the accused was escorted through the keep. There were knocks on the doors behind him, demanding attention. One more urgent issue to see to. One more judgement I must give, he thought hollowly, one more traitor.

Lord Bolton had kept a tankard of mulled wine under the desk. Jon yanked it and took a large gulp, just to calm his nerves. It tasted foul, nearly made him gag. "Bring him in," he ordered to Toregg, without turning.

This was one trial that Jon didn't dare hold in public, this one he had tried to keep as quiet as possible.

The Weeper barged through the solar door, spitting curses. Jon could feel his glare on his back, and he slowly turned. Tormund's men had escorted the Weeper, and the wildling warlord looked furious. Jon gave Tormund a look, and the door was shut.

"Boy," the Weeper spat, snow still coating his furs. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"Weeper." No weakness. Not here. "You stand accused of murder."

Behind him, Ser Alek of White Harbour crept through the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide as he stared at the Weeper. The young knight was trembling slightly, Jon noticed.

The Weeper only snorted. "Oh bugger off, Snow."

Tormund and Jon shared a dark look."Do you deny it?" Jon growled. "You murdered Ser Wylis Manderly and over a dozen of his knights, Weeper."

"Snow," the Weeper said, like a talking to a child. "I murdered a lot of people that night. I helped win the bloody battle for you."

"There is killing, Weeper," Jon said. "And then there is murder."

Still, it was true – the Weeper had more than distinguished himself on the battlefield. Jon had heard that the Weeper nigh-singlehandedly broke the cavalry charge, and took their commander's, Ser Walder River's, head himself. He'd been one of the first men to breach through the gates of Winterfell. And yet, still, he committed murder too.

Ser Alek was standing as far away from the Weeper as the room would allow. The knight of the Dragonguard had been a wreck ever since the battle, ever since he had been the only survivor of that boathouse. The only Manderly man to survive, and the Weeper only spared him because Ser Alek wore a white dragon on his hauberk. "You took his head!" Ser Alek shouted. "Ser Wylis didn't do anything to you, he wasn't a traitor and you took his head!"

The Weeper snarled, snapping around. "I could have taken yours too, runt," he snapped. "Don't make me regret that one."

"Enough!" Jon barked, but his eyes were on the Weeper. He didn't have his scythe, and that was a small mercy. Jon couldn't even imagine how hard it must have been for Tormund and the Greatjon to confiscate the Weeper's weapon. "Tell me why, Weeper? Explain this to me."

The Weeper shrugged. Not even a hint of guilt. "I thought he was an enemy. I'm still not sure that he wasn't."

"Ser Wylis did not betray us."

"So you say. But his bloody wife did, didn't she?"

"There is no evidence against Ser Wylis." Jon's voice was a growl. He stepped forward, meeting the Weeper's mad eyes. "The Manderly knights fought loyally. White Harbour is our strongest ally. Why did you do it, Weeper? Walk me through it."

The Weeper's lips twisted. The whole room was tense; only Jon, Tormund and Ser Alek facing off against the Weeper. "It was a bloody battle, Snow," he said after a pause. "There were assassins, it was an ambush. You were missing, maybe dead – I didn't know. I saw there was a battle, and then folk screaming that the kneelers had betrayed us. So I grabbed my raiders, and I marched into the boathouse to demand what was going on."

Nobody spoke. The Weeper grunted. "That fat kneeler – Ser Wylis – he was there. His guards drew their swords when they saw me, but I decided to let that one pass. I walked straight up to him and demanded to know what was bloody going on, and then that fat man goes on and gives me this bloody smug, smartass reply."

"It wasn't a smug reply!" Ser Alek cried. "Wylis didn't know – he was actually asking! He said 'what are you talking about?'!"

"Well, it sounded smug to me," the Weeper grumbled. "At that point, I figured these kneelers were clearly responsible, so I handled it."

Jon stared speechless. "So… So Ser Wylis picked a poor choice of words," Jon said slowly, "and you decided to kill him for it."

"They could have been traitors, Snow," the Weeper said, with another shrug. "I didn't have a chance to find out for sure."

"They were not traitors, Weeper, and you murdered the heir to bloody White Harbour!"

"Fine." The raider rolled his eyes. "Let's say I believe that. Whatever. It was a battle, Snow, a bad one. Sometimes it happens. I'd reckon every single warrior out there has seen men stab at their allies in the dark, or shoot arrows at the wrong side. Sometimes you just get confused."

Jon wasn't even sure how to reply to that one. His mouth stammered. The thought of Lady Leona's desperate gulps for breath flashed before his eyes. "How many men died?" Jon asked finally, turning to Ser Alek.

"Fourteen," Ser Alek said instantly, glowering. "All knights of White Harbour, Ser Wylis' personal guard. There were six other raiders with the Weeper, but he still killed nine himself. He sliced them apart singlehanded."

"Aye," the Weeper agreed. "Those guys were fucking soft summer pansies."

Wylis' guard would have been the heirs, the second sons, of the most powerful Manderly bannermen. Ser Alek looked, half-crazed, ready to snap. Jon's head was spinning. "Are we done here, Snow?" the Weeper demanded. "I got a warband ready and waiting for me down there, and there are bunch of fleeing men that I ain't planning on letting get away."

"Weeper…" Jon said blankly, almost disbelieving. All our food, our weapons, our supplies, our allies… The wealthiest family in the north. "Can you truly not see how much of a problem this is?"

"I don't see a problem at all," the Weeper grunted. "If that fat fool's fatter father wants to take vengeance against me, then fine – let him try. I'll go to that bloody castle myself and explain why that'd be a poor idea."

Ser Alek looked horrified. He turned to Jon, begging. "Your Grace! He was the lord's son, my liege lord! I swore loyalty to you, but I swore myself to House Manderly too, and he…!" Ser Alek gulped. "Lord Wyman will demand – he deserves – justice!"

Jon hesitated. Damn him. "Ser…" he said slowly. "… there was a lot of chaos in that camp. The enemies deliberately spread discord. The Weeper was not the only man who turned his blade against others in the heat of the moment."

By the gods… Would my father curse me for saying those words?

"It… it was murder!" Ser Alek stammered, appalled.

"It was bloody war," the Weeper scoffed. "I mean, 'murder'? What a load of fucking kneeler shit. There were a lot of sons that died in those bloody snows, are you going to demand 'justice' for all of them?"

Jon turned to him. "Weeper," he warned. "You are not helping your case here. Have more respect, show more remorse."

He spat on the floor. Jon twitched. "Bugger that. I've been real good to you, Snow. I've been loyal, I've fought for you. Ever since I met you in those woods, I've been working with you – you owe me for that. You promised the free folk that you'd take us south and protect us, and there's me keeping the others to their fealty too." He stepped forward. "Was I wrong?"

Damn him. Damn them all.

Ser Alek looked between them, agape mouth agape. "There must be justice. I…" He stammered, with another gulp. "I demand trial by combat, Your Grace." The knight turned, trying to face off against the Weeper. "I made the accusation, and I will stand as House Manderly's champion. I will fight to avenge Ser Wylis."

The Weeper stopped, and the guffawed. "Aye? Alright, aye!" the raider barked. "Alright, I'm happy with that, runt. Give me my scythe and let's deal with this one quickly."

Jon could have groaned. "Ser Alek," he said lowly. "Please retire to your quarters."

"Your Grace–"

"This matter will be resolved later. Leave."

Ser Alek looked like he had been slapped, but he turned away. Jon was pacing, stepping back and forth across the solar as he cradled his head in his hands. Damn him. "If that boy wants to die for his dead friend, then I'm happy for it," the Weeper called.

"Ser Wylis had a wife, Weeper," Jon replied tiredly. The day had drained his strength. "Two daughters."

"Lots of folk have daughters, ain't nothing special about that," the Weeper grunted, "and everybody dies occasionally, no need to make a big fuss over it."

Jon stiffened. "Leave."

His hands were shaking. Damn him, Jon cursed. Damn him and damn them all. Damn myself too.

The Weeper barged out the solar. Tormund lingered, looking at Jon cautiously. Jon didn't even know what to say.

"Every man has a right to justice," Tormund said, breaking the silence. "If the fat lord objects, let him take it against Weeper. Trial by combat, you call it? The free folk way is similar enough, when you get down to it. If the young boy wants to fight, then let him."

"The Weeper would win, Tormund," Jon groaned. "The Weeper is one of the best fighters I have ever known. He's the only man I know of to survive trading blows against a white walker." Myself included. "The Weeper will cut down Ser Alek in a heartbeat, and that would be salt in Lord Wyman's wound."

Tormund didn't disagree. The wildling hesitated. "How many men follow the Weeper?" Tormund asked finally.

Jon knew what he was really asking; how much of a problem could the Weeper be? "I don't know," Jon replied honestly. "He commanded over four thousand raiders at one point, but I don't know how many still follow him. But it's more than that – there were a lot of the free folk who were unhappy when I forced their fealty. There were many that only ever chose to follow me because the Weeper did it first. Anybody who doesn't trust me, trusts the Weeper. He's a very influential figure among the raiders."

"How influential?" Tormund pressed.

"I don't know," he admitted. And I don't want to test it, either.

Jon's hands were shaking, his world strained, his body raw. The stress he felt – physical and emotional – had never felt so hard.

Finally, Jon had to ask, "How many men know of Ser Wylis' murder?"

Tormund paused. "Well…" he paused, considering the words carefully. "The Weeper's raiders are the only witnesses alive who saw the deed. And that Ser Alek of course." A moment of hesitation. "Lots of rumours are going around about it, though – but I don't know how many could actually say for certain."

Jon felt like a bastard for even thinking those thoughts.

"I need time to think," Jon said finally, pushing himself to his feet and hobbling to the door.

"Hells, you've been running yourself ragged," Tormund grunted. "How bout some rest instead?"

"I'm fine, I just–" he stopped and winced, cursing slightly as he jerked his leg too fast. The stitches, Jon cursed. The stab wound from the assassin's blade on his lower torso was not healing well. It needed rest and recuperation, but Jon had none to spare. He hadn't even been able to eat enough. Jon's jaw clenched, his body staggering against the doorframe.

"Dammit, Snow." Tormund moved towards him, as if Jon might topple. "Rest yourself."

"I'm fine!" Jon snapped clutching the doorway. "I just need–" Jon hesitated, and then relented. "I need a walking stick, Tormund – can you have one of your men fetch one?"

And just hope that nobody sees me limping around like a cripple. Jon's command was hanging by a thread as it was, the sight that their king might be lame could certainly snap it.

Not long afterwards, and Jon was hobbling up the stairs of the west wing – past the old rooms where the Stark children had once roamed. His cane thumped against the steps, tapping with each step. There had been corpses even here, and black drag marks were the soldiers had pulled the bodies down the stairs.

The thought of Leona Manderly's red and weeping face flashed before his eyes. He wondered how many of his men were ruthless enough to demand a death sentence for a grieving widow, and then he tried to imagine himself swinging down the blade…

The ruins of the West Tower weren't far from here, and the bedchamber where Arya had tried to hide while the wildlings stormed the keep…

It was all too much.

"Dammit!" Jon screamed to the empty halls. "Dammit! Dammit!"

His fists collided against the stone walls, so hard it hurt. He kept on punching until his knuckles were bloody, and the pain started to numb.

He could have torn this whole cursed castle down with his bare hands, and it wouldn't be enough. It wasn't enough.

The winds were outside were still fierce, and from the great keep it sounded like Ramsay Snow's ghostly laughter shaking the castle. Jon could feel it ringing in his ears, Ramsay's blade against his neck…

That moment in the snow. He relived it a hundred times. The images flashed before his eyes, all vivid in red and black. Jon kept on punching the wall.

Finally, Jon stopped, picked himself off the floor again, and kept on limping down the corridor.

He headed towards Sansa's old room, the chambers on the far end. Under Bolton occupation, it had been held by Lady Walda Bolton, but then it became another infirmary. Jon's hands were still shaking, he had to force himself into the room. Val.

Jon walked in and saw Val lying unconscious on bloodied sheets, her breaths hoarse and shallow. Exactly where he had left her. Val's skin was milky pale. The room stank of dried blood.

It was the cold, Jon thought. The prolonged exposure, bleeding out in the elements, threatened her almost as much as the blade had. Severe shock, the maester, the only one they still dared to trust, had called it. Val had been alive when they found them in the snows, but she still hadn't woken up yet.

Ramsay's blade had sliced her from shoulder downwards, severing straight through her right breast, hacking into the shoulderbone. Mutilated skin had been stitched together, but it still looked as bad a wound as any Jon had seen. He could see the ugly gash, the tear under the bloodied sheets, like a solid chunk out of her shoulder. The maester hadn't been able to say if she'd survive, but then warned that she could well lose the arm even if she did. An infection now would kill her as surely as any sword, if the hypothermia didn't first.

Jon had never seen Val so frail. She was always so bold, so fierce, so strong. Lying on the bed now, she was a pale and weakened thing.

Val had been awake but near-delirious for a while; moaning in pained fever dreams. She had been made to fall unconscious, as drank of the scant few precious stores of milk of the poppy, and the maester stitched together her hacked flesh. Jon hadn't even been able to talk to her, unable to form any words.

She had been barely clinging to life for over a week, yet Jon had only visited her four times. Jon had to force himself, drag his legs through the corridor, just to come to her bedside, because it hurt so much.

She's alive, Jon told himself. Val was breathing and Ramsay was dead in the snow. Still, no matter how much he reminded himself, it didn't feel like much of a victory.

"I'm sorry," a voice said quietly, from behind. "I didn't know what other room to go to."

Jon didn't jump at the sound, but his shoulder stiffened. He turned to see Sansa, sitting upright and alert behind the doorway. Her eyes were on his, and then slowly looking up and down, between Val and him.

They looked at each other like strangers, tensing in each other's presence. Every time he saw her, Jon's instinctual reaction was to think of Lady Stark, her mother. They looked so alike it was jarring.

Sansa. Perhaps it is a trade – I lost one sister, but the gods returned to me another, he thought. I lost the little sister I loved and played with, in return for the sister that shunned me. It was a cruel thought, but he was feeling too bitter to care.

She was looking at him, waiting for a reply. It was the first time that Jon had even been alone with Sansa, and only the third that he had seen her since she had arrived in Winterfell two days ago. Everything had been so busy, so urgent, that there had never been a moment. Or maybe I just didn't want to face her.

Jon blinked. It was dusk. She was in Val's room, Sansa's old room. Sansa hadn't been assigned new chambers. Another of the many things that he had let pass into oversight.

"It's… it's fine." Jon didn't shake his head. He didn't know what to say to her. "Where is the maester?"

"He went for some more milk of the poppy," she explained. "The guards followed him."

"Ah." The single word hung in the air. Maester Henly was a young maester with honest features, the only one that Jon had been forced to trust so he could treat Val, but every move the maester made was still done under escort, and watched.

"I was told to keep the fires warm for her." Sansa's eyes drifted towards to the unconscious woman. "She is… Lady Val, yes?"

A nod. "Just Val."

"You were close." It wasn't a question, but Jon nodded again. Her eyes slightly widened. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"She's clinging on." His voice was low. I couldn't even come to her bedside.

There was a long, long silence.

Sansa was so, so different to what he remembered. He remembered a young girl full of polite courtesies, who loved to sing, loved to dance, who longed for all the comforts of a southron lady. She loved the harvest feasts, the masked balls, the mummer's shows. The woman before him was… harder, more jaded, with sharper eyes and fewer smiles. Her hair was shorter and darker, worn downwards rather than in a braid.

The eyes were the most unnerving – it was like Jon half-expected to hear Catelyn Stark's cold, chiding voice every time Sansa spoke.

I never expected to see her again. Somehow, he didn't think she expected him either.

The only sound in the room was crackle of the flames, and the wheeze of Val's unconscious breaths.

Her gaze was guarded, suspicious. He noticed how she always kept two steps between them, as if he might lunge at her at any moment. "Tell me something, Your Grace," Sansa said finally. "I spent a full day explaining myself to Lord Umber and the others. They demanded to know everything about me, for me to describe everything that happened at King's Landing. Even now, some still call me an imposter, a traitor, or Lady Lannister."

"When things go wrong, when the unexpected happens, people look for someone to blame," Jon said lowly. "Tensions are high."

"They are," Sansa agreed. "I came prepared for it, since I knew they'd be suspicious. And yet you never questioned me at all."

"I did not."

"Why is that, King Snow?"

Because you look just like her. It was like seeing a ghost. "You are my sister, Lady Stark," Jon said instead. "We grew up together."

"We did. And yet this is already the longest conversation I can ever recall us having," Sansa agreed. "Do not feel obligated to pretend otherwise. I do not expect warm feelings from you."

For a second, he was caught off-guard with the bluntness. They had been estranged as children, distant, but never that cold. Jon blinked. "Then why are you here?"

A humourless ghost of smile passed across her face. "Where else should I be?"

Jon stopped and stared. "What happened to you?" he asked finally, "Sansa?"

"You first," she challenged, and then hesitated, "Jon."

He paused, and then scoffed as he sat down on a chair by Val's bedside. Slowly, hesitantly, he began to explain. He told her about joining the Night's Watch, about taking the black, about the Great Ranging. He explained about Craster's Keep, the Fist of the First Men, about meeting Qhorin Halfhand and joining his expedition to scout out Mance's army. He talked encountering Rattleshirt's men, being ordered by Qhorin to abandon his cloak, to infiltrate the enemy's army. He told her about the white walkers attacking them at the Frostfangs.

Perhaps Sansa didn't believe him, but there wasn't a flicker of doubt or surprise on her face as he mentioned the Others. She was too guarded to let any emotion through. Jon didn't mention anything about Ygritte.

When it came to Sonagon, he became more vague. He didn't want to speak of the undead ranger, or the greenseer, or the children of the forest. He only told her the broad terms; of uniting the free folk, the attack at Hardhome, of flying the dragon over the Wall at Eastwatch.

Sansa just stopped and listened. The hours ticked by, the logs burnt.

It was the hour of the ghosts when Jon finally went quiet, and it was her turn to speak. Her voice was low, soft in the still air. She told him of going to King's Landing, of the Hand's Tourney, of father's sudden decision to flee the capital and then King Robert's death in a hunting accident. The Stark men murdered, Ned Stark imprisoned as a traitor, Arya disappearing, and Sansa begging for mercy for father's life. And then Joffrey taking their father's head, on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.

Her voice didn't even waver. After that, it was the Battle of the Blackwater, then Queen Cersei's madness and being married to the Imp, and then Joffrey's wedding. Being smuggled to the Vale by Lord Baelish, sheltered by her aunt until Lysa was murdered, engaged to Harry the Heir and then her betrothed murdered when she was kidnapped. Ser Jorah Mormont rescued her, fleeing across the Bite…

She has been set to marry to four different men, Jon thought quietly, and then they all either died or betrayed her.

We both took the long route home.

"The attack on White Harbour," Jon said eventually. "You were present for it."

"I was." She nodded. No emotion, not from her. "Ser Jorah saved my life."

"Jorah Mormont," Jon repeated. "I knew his father."

"Jorah died nobly. Tis a small thing, but it would be good to tell his aunt the same. Let his family know that he did try to redeem himself."

Jon just nodded quietly. He didn't even know what he could say to Lady Maege. Alysane had left behind two children, by the tell of it.

The air was so tense between them, the words were so awkward. She was the last of his family, but they had to force the words out, struggling to even talk over the chasm between them. "The attack on White Harbour," Sansa continued, "has Lord Bolton answered for that?"

"He planned it," Jon admitted. "As a way to destroy me from the rear, with funding from the Iron Bank."

With that, Sansa shook her head firmly. "No. Lord Bolton has been lying through his teeth. It was not the Iron Bank – it was Littlefinger who supported him."

"Littlefinger?" Jon frowned.

"Lord Petyr Baelish. The same man that smuggled me from King's Landing." Jon was confused, but she explained. "Former Master of Coin, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, Lord Protector and Regent of the Vale. Littlefinger is what we call him. He is the man who betrayed father, who started the war, who tried to destroy you."

Jon felt lost. "What? Why would he–"

"Littlefinger would burn the world down, if only so he could be the king of the ashes." Her voice turned dark; the first emotion he had really seen from her – anger. "I think Littlefinger never really wanted the Boltons to win, but the best option for him would be if you and the Boltons destroyed each other in a long and bloody war. That is what Littlefinger does; he turns chaos into profit. He wants the north, and then the Iron Throne, and he thought me the key to getting it."

He almost stammered. "There are letters that we took from Roose Bolton," Jon said slowly, "that say the Iron Bank offered him funding."

"Are those letters forgeable?"

"Perhaps," Jon admitted.

"Then they are fake," Sansa said with a nod. "Lord Bolton is trying to play you. He doesn't want you to have the Iron Bank's support – that would make your reign more stable. It is far better for him if you believe the Iron Bank is your enemy instead."

"And you are sure?" Jon insisted. "That this man… this Littlefinger is responsible instead?"

"I am." Sansa's voice was definite. "I know how Littlefinger thinks."

Still, for a moment, Jon wasn't sure if she hated or admired the man. There was something of both in her voice.

"I… I will consider it." Jon didn't even know what else to say.

"Do more than consider," Sansa replied coolly. "Take my advice; the realm will be a better place if you fly to the Eyrie and scorch Littlefinger off the map." She paused. "But your dragon. I heard that it is in the godswood, but I have not approached it. It is sickly?"

"Poisoned," Jon said darkly. Sonagon had been puking globs of frozen ooze from his stomach just days past, the dragon was still writhing from whatever poison they had used. "Boltons' work."

"Then just be careful," Sansa said lowly. There was a flicker of nervousness on her face too. "One mistake. That's all it takes to damn you. Just one."

He didn't reply. Nobody had told him just how it easy it was to make the mistakes. The thought of his father's severed head, or his brother's mutilated corpse, flashed in the still air.

Unwillingly, Jon's gaze flickered towards the sealed window, rattling slightly in the wind, beyond which he knew lay the burnt ruins of the West Tower. Even now, the cinders still plagued Winterfell's spires. Sansa caught his glance, and they both knew what he was looking at.

"… You never asked either," Jon said slowly. "Do you blame me?"

She hesitated, for longer than he would have preferred. "No," Sansa said. "I do not. You were not the one that abandoned her, not the one that dragged Arya off to be married, not the one that trapped her here. You were not the one who killed her. It was Cersei. Cersei, the Lannisters, and the Boltons."

Then why is my stomach still churning with guilt? Sansa's eyes flickered back to Val, so still she could be a corpse. "You loved Arya more than anybody," she said lightly, her voice softening for the first time. "I know you did. She was more your sister than mine."

"That's not–"

"You tried to save her, and it wasn't you who killed her." Sansa insisted, and there was a sharpness in her eyes. "I will tell the northern lords that too, I promise. I will support you."

He had to blink to stop the itch in his eyes, taking a deep breath. What time is it? It felt like the hour of the wolf or later, the dead of night where everything felt stiff and sluggish. "Sansa you don't have to…" His voice trailed off. Do what? He wondered vaguely.

"I do." She stood up from the chair. "Winterfell is my home, and I will not let them take me from it again. Do not let them take this from us." Her mouth curled, her jaw set. "We've both lost too much to be here. You are king now. Do not let them."

He shook his head, blinking and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I am king," he said, humourlessly. "I never wanted this, I didn't want any… I…" Jon's voice flickered, casting another glance towards the window. "I am a better fighter than I am leader."

"Then fight," Sansa said, her voice low. "That's all you've got to do. Just fight."

The silence dripped by slowly. Jon had to turn away, forcing himself towards Val's body, as still as the grave. The entire day had been exhausting, draining his strength, but it wasn't over. Jon couldn't let it be over.

"I… I should go, my lady," Jon said eventually. "I will see you are prepared a room."

"As you wish, King Snow." Sansa gave a small curtsy, a light movement something so automatic it felt aloof.

She opened the door for him, and he hesitated before crossing it. "It was… It was good finally talking to you, Sansa."

"It was." She nodded, and then bit her lip. "Do you know that I didn't recognise you at first? You changed so much, you look so different. I thought you were a stranger sitting on father's chair." Sansa cocked her head. "Tell me something, did you recognise me?"

"Yes," he replied truthfully. "Very much so."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have," Sansa said quietly. "Neither of us are the same children are the same children we once were." She hesitated. "We're… We're different people, Jon, and I think it's okay to embrace that. Do what you have to do, King Snow."

He didn't know how to reply. He didn't. Jon just nodded as he walked out of the room, casting one final glance at Val, lying bloody in the bed.

Jon took a deep breath as he walked out into the hallway, the tap of his cane against the stones. He felt raw. He felt so weary that all he wanted to do was lie down and fall away, but he couldn't. There is no rest for a king.

I chose this, he thought as he sighed. Dammit, I chose this.

He kept on walking down the hall, his mind spinning with so many different visions. The bodies he had walked over, the men he had sentenced. The only sound he could hear was the tap, tap, tap of the cane.

Jon hadn't even realised he had made the decision until he was hobbling back down the steps, out of the west wing.

There were five guards – all free folk raiders – lingering tiredly in the clearing at the bottom of the steps with spears in their hand. They all straightened, looking surprised, as Jon stepped down the stops. "Send a message to the Weeper," Jon ordered to one of the man. "Find him. Have him meet me in the godswood right away."

"King, you shouldn't–"

"Now."

They scattered around him, but he was no mood to explain himself. Jon also took a hemp hood off one of the men, and he slung it over his head to hide his hair. As he limped down towards the main hall, he saw another group of raiders guarding the main hall. "Who goes there?" one of the men called as Jon approached, raising spears. The guards were on edge. It was only when Jon came closer that they made out his features, and stiffened.

"Find Toregg of the Dragonguard," Jon ordered. "Have him bring Ser Alek to me in the godswood at all haste."

"Tormund said that nobody was to leave the keep," a raider hesitated.

"I gave you an order, ser. Now."

Jon was already walking away, through the great double doors. The whole castle felt eerily silent at this hour. He crossed the yard, towards the outhouse leading down to the dungeons. There were five men guarding the prisons, the doors sealed. Jon had to bang onto the wood, and then order them to give him the keys to the cells. The men looked flustered by Jon's sudden arrival, but he was already sweeping past.

The dungeons felt eerily silent. As he passed, Jon saw Lady Barbrey Dustin staring up through the bars, looking at him like he was a ghost limping through the cold and dusty hallway.

He reached the cell. The keys jangled against the lock. Roose Bolton was wide awake, even despite the hour. The prisoner's chains rattled as Jon opened the cell door, his eyes narrowing. "You're back," the leech lord said. "Do you have more questions, You–"

That was the only thing he managed to say, before Jon swung his walking stick straight into Roose's skull. Heavy oak crunched against flesh and bone.

Not even a moment of hesitation. Jon's whole body was screaming to hear the man's scream. There was much rage that he just felt cold.

The cane cracked into the man's skull and then clattered the stones, but Jon was already lunging. Roose tried to squirm, yet Jon's hands were already wrapping themselves around the man's throat. His knee collided against Lord Bolton's stomach.

A cry – a snarl – broke Jon's lips, but otherwise he didn't say a word. There was nothing to say. There was no reason behind it. Jon just really, really wanted Roose Bolton dead.

He grabbed Roose by the neck and he forced him downwards, slamming his skull into the stone. Whacking the man's head off the wall. Hammering his face into rock with all of Jon's might and fury. Over and over again, each time gasping as Lord Bolton's head thudded against the stone, until blood smeared and teeth cracked.

Roose didn't scream. He hardly even gasped.

Even after the man's face was a bloody pulp, he was still twitching. Jon was on top of him, his knee jammed into the man's chest and his hands on his throat. Jon squeezed and wrung Roose's neck so hard he felt his throat crack.

The chains jangled, as Roose's body flopped.

Afterwards, Jon let Lord Bolton drop, before taking a deep, deep breath. I needed to do that, Jon thought with a sigh, staring down at the corpse. Had to be done.

There were already armed guards running through the dungeons, shouting to know what was happening. Jon cast one final look at the corpse beneath him, the man who had nearly damned everything, before turning away. "Roose Bolton strangled himself in his cells," Jon explained simply, wiping the blood off his hands.

"Wait, h–"

"He strangled himself," Jon repeated. "Do you understand?"

The free folk on guard blinked. "Ah. Yes, of course, yes – Your Grace."

Jon winced up his cane again and started limping away. "Then deal with the body. There are hungry dogs in the kennels, are there not?" Lord Manderly had wanted Roose alive, but Jon simply couldn't find it in himself to care. The man needed to die, and Jon needed to feel it. "When Rattleshirt arrives in the morning," Jon told the guards, in full earshot of the other prisoners, "tell him that he has full permission to do whatever it takes to draw the truth from the others. He is to start with the maesters."

Wide and pale eyes stared at him through cell's bars as he left the dungeons.

Afterwards, Jon pulled his hood up again and crept outside, moving through the snowy night towards the godswood at north-western edge of Winterfell. He walked quickly, keeping his distance from the bonfires of the camps sitting in the grounds. He could feel Sonagon snoring, coiled through a mess of broken trees, his body resting over a ruined pond, twitching slightly while the dragon slept. In the distance, he could see the ruined glass houses, and slight puffs of steam billowing from the hot springs. The heart tree loomed over it all.

The Weeper was already waiting for him, at the rusted iron gates surrounding the godswood. The Weeper had his scythe over his back. The air was so quiet, even the flurry of snows seemed tamer, less frantic.

"Snow?" the Weeper demanded as Jon approached. "I got your message. What the hell is so urgent?"

He didn't reply. Jon turned, and he could see the figures of Toregg the Tall and Ser Alek shuffling through the snow towards them. Both men were armed, both squinting to see through the darkness. Even in the pale and fragile light, Jon saw Ser Alek's features turn ghostly white as he recognised the Weeper.

"What–" Ser Alek gasped, and then gulped. "What is he doing here?"

"I invited him, ser," Jon replied, leaning on his cane. "You challenged him to trial by combat, did you not?"

"I… I…" the knight froze. The Weeper straightened, step forward to stare at Ser Alek with folded arms. The man was shivering as he mustered about his courage. "I did. There must be justice, Your Grace."

"Aye," Jon agreed, bracing himself. "There must be."

Then, without even another word, Jon picked up his walking stick and swung it like a club. There wasn't even a moment's hesitation before the solid wood collided against the Weeper's face.

No warning, the raider couldn't even react. His arms had been folded, and he didn't see the blow coming. Jon just heard the crack of the man's nose beneath the impact, and he staggered.

Jon was already swinging again. In the torchlight, he saw mad, bloody eyes staring at him in shock.

Crack. Another impact against the Weeper's skull, and the raider dropped. "Is this what you wanted, ser?" Jon demanded, turning back to a dumbfounded Ser Alek. "Is this the justice you wanted?"

"You bloody–" the Weeper gasped, blood pouring down his face, just as Jon lashed out again. There wasn't time for the man to draw his weapon. Another solid impact took him down to the snow.

The Weeper tried to recover, but Toregg was already there to stop him. The taller man pushed the Weeper to the ground, just as Jon whacked the cane into his jaw once more.

Jon heard the crack. His tooth, Jon thought.

In a fair fight, Jon would have been soundly defeated. Still, all it took was one sudden impact over the head with a heavy stick, and afterwards it wasn't much of a fight.

The Weeper seemed to lose consciousness out for a few heartbeats as flailed madly in the snow. He recovered his senses, spitting and cursing, but Jon gave him no chance to fight back.

"Is this the justice you wanted?" Jon demanded again, while Ser Alek paled and sputtered. He hit the Weeper again. Crack. "Does this make you feel better?" Crack. "Is this what you wanted?"

The last blow was so hard that the walking stick slipped out of Jon's fingers as his hand jarred. The Weeper screamed, sputtering blood and trying to thrash, but Toregg kept the man's arms pinned behind his back. Jon turned to face Ser Alek, before turning back and kicking the Weeper in the stomach. His leg jarred, and Jon nearly tripped while the Weeper wrestled.

Ser Alek didn't reply; the knight looked frozen in the snows, like a rabbit quivering in fear. Jon picked up his bloody cane, and held in outstretched to the knight. "Take your vengeance, ser," Jon ordered. "Go on. Hit him. Beat him. If this is justice, then take it."

The knight was sputtering, his mouth flapping. The Weeper screamed a roar like an animal, trying to squirm. Jon slammed the butt of the stick into the wildling's stomach, a cry of pure rage breaking Jon's lips.

"I gave you an order!" Jon snapped, and Alek flinched. "Whatever vengeance you want – whatever Wylis' death deserves – take it now. This is your chance. This is justice, is it not? He killed your friend, and you wanted to beat him?"

The knight was staring at him like he was mad. "And – after tonight – you forget about it," Jon growled. "Do you understand me? After tonight, you will never mention it again."

"You-you-your…" Alek stammered.

The Weeper almost succeeded to squirm to his feet, but then Jon hit him again. The Weeper was a tough man; he didn't stay down for long, even despite all of Jon's strength behind each blow. A sharp cry burst from Jon's lips, and the thought of Lady Leona flailing on the ground flashed before his eyes. "Lord Wyman will never know how his son died, ser," Jon snapped, pacing in the snow. "Ser Wylis was killed by Boltons, and that is the only truth you will ever speak of. There is nothing to be gained by saying anything else, and any justice you require – any punishment, any retribution – that happens tonight. So swing the damn stick if you need to, but do you understand me?"

Alek could have said something, but it was drowned out by the Weeper's howl. "He deserves it," Jon spat. "He does. He's a violent bastard and he killed Ser Wylis for no other reason than because he was angry. It was murder, it was, and the Weeper killed your friends, but that doesn't matter because I still need him. I need him, and I need White Harbour." Jon shook his head, jaw clenching. "Lord Wyman will never know and you will never speak of this."

There was a pause, waiting for a reply. Jon threw the cane onto the snow at Ser Alek's feet. "So hit him as many times as you want," Jon warned. "But either pick up the stick or walk away now."

The man was twitching, wide eyes looking desperate. After a long, tense moment, a flash where their eyes met, Ser Alek chose to walk away, nearly stumbling over the slush.

There was no breath of relief. Instead Jon just screamed wordlessly into the night – all of that rage, pain and guilt bursting out of his chest. Jon's hands were still shaking. He just felt like hitting something again.

The Weeper was still trying to struggle against Toregg's grip, but his movements were haggard, his throat coughing blood. Jon picked up the cane, hobbling on it as he took the weight of his leg. "You were right, Weeper," Jon said finally. "I do owe you. I likely wouldn't be here if not for you, you have helped me… many, many times. It's because I owe you that much, that you get a second chance."

He motioned for Toregg to back away. Jon knelt down, and whispered in the Weeper's ear, "And if you ever put me in this situation again," he snarled. "I smash your fucking skull."

Jon shuddered as he tried to calm himself, nodding at Toregg. The Dragonguard looked nervous too, but he let the Weeper drop and sag into the snow. "Get him to the infirmary. The Weeper will stay as a guest in Winterfell as he recuperates," Jon ordered to Toregg. "In the meantime, Tormund will lead the Weeper's warband. I will talk to your father shortly." And Tormund will bring the Weeper's raiders into line. I need to get the wildlings under control too.

He was already limping away, leaving the Weeper bloodied and sputtering in the snow behind him.

Winterfell was a melting pot, and Jon had to cool it. The Weeper was better off in an infirmary bed than he was leading warbands right now. Jon returned to the Great Keep, to his father's… to his chambers, but he couldn't rest. He was pacing over the open balcony even as the snow flurried into his face. Jon didn't mind the snow. The cold gave him focus, clarity. It kept him awake.

As soon as the storm clears, he thought, I need to write a raven for White Harbour. He would need to write a letter with the list of those killed by the Boltons, but also declaring the return of Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. That was the only victory that gave him hope.

I can keep the Weeper under control, he thought with a sigh, Lord Wyman will be furious, but so long as his anger and grief is in the right direction the alliance will not break. I could grant Leona Manderly a belated sentence, but her and both of her daughters will need to be stay in Winterfell as 'guests'. Lady Leona's betrayal gave him justification, Lord Wyman wouldn't be able to object. Jon needed to take hostages from all the northern families. Just in case the White Harbour alliance did turn sour, then House Manderly was the first that Jon needed to secure leverage over.

He would have to refuse the betrothal to Wynafryd that Lord Wyman had offered. Lord Wyman would need something to distract, to placate his rage. The lands of Hornwood, perhaps.

He needed to be careful. He couldn't allow a single house, however useful, however loyal, to gain too much power. Not if their loyalty could be turned. The highborn are just as untrustworthy and as dangerous as the wildlings, Jon thought foully, just in different ways.

The north was not at peace, there would be more battles still. What if the Ryswells of the Rills, the Tallharts of Torrhen's Square, or the petty lords, still refused his new rule? Would he have to march on them, even as winter raged? The Wall desperately needed men to hold it, while Moat Cailin was presumably still under Bolton control. There were still ironborn raiders along the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point. There were pirates to the east. He needed to deal with the Bolton's southern allies. He needed to visit Braavos. He had no idea how Bullden's search to find Rickon was proceeding, he hadn't felt Ghost's presence in days. There were still hunting parties pursuing the white walker. The exodus of the free folk south of the Wall was still on-going, the Others still plaguing refugees while the search parties hunted for survivors north of the Wall. Had the wildlings of the Frozen Shore been evacuated? The clans that were still lingering in the Frostfangs? Jon honestly didn't know how many of the free folk Mance and the other chieftains he'd left north might have assembled by now. Fifty thousand? Sixty?

There were reinforcements on the way to Winterfell, led by Lady Maege Mormont and Sigorn of Thenn. With them, he would have more men that could keep the peace. Jon didn't know how much territory he had lost in the fallout of the battle, but it had to be secured before the snows settled. The allies that had already left them had to be brought back into line, and those few that had stayed neutral had to be forced to accept the new regime.

He didn't even know where to begin.

And the force besieging the Dreadfort, Jon thought bitterly, has until Sonagon recovers to secure a surrender – else that castle will be destroyed by dragonfire, hostages be damned. He needed the men more than he needed a castle, or the prisoners.

A haze of torches flickered below him, but the rest was all pitch black. Jon couldn't see the ground; he couldn't see the frozen fields spewed with bodies, or the charnel-pits of corpses. He had ordered men to deal with the bodies, but they would be burning all those corpses for weeks.

He thought of his father and Robert's Rebellion, and he wondered what Robert Baratheon had felt after arriving in King's Landing after the Sack – after receiving the throne only when a devastated city and a mountain of bloody bodies were spewed around him. Jon had never imagined that feeling before, could never have even visualised the experience. 'King' was such a bitter title, a bitter reward – a reward that only a man like Roose Bolton could relish in. No wonder King Robert turned to drink.

The keep shuddered with the wind, as the storms still stirring over the plains. It wasn't over. It was never over. One battle was done, one 'victory' behind him, but the true war was still to come. Jon was left standing in the scorched castle, the capital of a war-torn and ruined north, just trying to think what he could do.

Jon was still standing hours later, watching the night turn slowly towards the break of dawn. He was huddled over the balcony, thickly wrapped in furs as he watched the men in the tents below begin to rise.

…

A wolf's howl broke over the plains outside the castle – a long, slow and pained sound. The very sound caused his body to freeze, a shiver running up his back as heard the cry echoing through the snows. The sound was strangely mournful, weak and weary against the wind, but he thought he recognised it. A wolf?

Wolf howls in the night weren't uncommon, but this felt different. His whole body stopped, tensing as he tried to listen over the wind. The silence went so long that he thought he might have imagined it, that his sleep-deprived mind was hallucinating, but then he heard it again. That long, sombre sound, reverberating on the wind…

AAAaaaaAH-OOOWOOOOOOOOoooooo… AAAaaaaAH-OOOWOOOOOOOOoooooo…

No, Jon realised, straining to make out the sound. That's not a wolf. A direwolf.

Jon was already backing away from the balcony, feeling his fingers twitch. It is coming from the north, he realised.

There was a figure in the hallway; her wide eyes meeting his. Sansa was awake too, carrying a candlestick in her hands. She can feel it too. "Is that…?" Sansa whispered, her voice so low, like she was afraid to break the fragile silence.

Jon didn't reply. He hesitated for a long moment, but then turned to walk away. Instinctively, he tried to reach out to Ghost, but his friend was so far away, and he felt little. The direwolf was asleep, in what felt like the midst of a distant, icy forest. It wasn't Ghost. That howl was different, but it felt so familiar. Could it be Shaggydog? But wouldn't Shaggydog be with Rickon, or maybe they weren't on Skagos after all? Could Grey Wind or Nymeria have somehow survived? Or could it be another wild direwolf? Sum–

He broke the thought off, and shook his head. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Maybe it's just a normal wolf. Or maybe…

He stepped down the stairs, half-staggering with every step, as quickly his limp and his cane would allow. He could have called for men, but he didn't. Not when it might just be a false alarm, not when he wasn't sure what he might find. Instead, Jon threw the hood over his head to cover his hair, and he walked out the servant's exit towards the back of the kitchens.

The sun was only just starting to rise, a dim haze of light through clouds. The army in the tents started to rouse, only a few patrols across through the grounds.

Jon hesitated, but he could still hear the phantom echo of the wolf's howl lingering in the air. With the ruckus of men in the background, it was hard to focus on it. He was already striding north, he passed the shattered glass gardens and the slanted Broken Tower. His heart was beating quickly, but he forced himself to stay calm.

The North Gate was sealed – it had been for weeks; the Boltons barricaded it, and his men hadn't cleared it, and now snow drifts were piled before it. Jon was panting slightly as he staggered through the snow, looking for men on the walls and guard tower. He stood alert for any sound at all, begging quietly to hear the noise again.

He heard it. The wolf's cry. It was quieter this time, but closer. A lone wolf crying for attention, howling outside the gates.

"Halt!" a distant man's voice bellowed suddenly, from above. "You take another step and we put an arrow in your skull, girl."

It wasn't addressed at Jon. There was shouting on the wall, movement from the battlements. He heard voices; and then a strained, high-pitched voice came from the other side of the walls. Jon was already running, pushing his way up to the guard tower.

A haggle of men lingered near the battlements. A voice was shouting something, but the words were lost in the wind. He could feel the gale around him, buffeting against the stones walls. "Should we blow the horn?" he heard a voice ask.

"Just chase her away," a gruff man grunted.

"She could be a scout. I've seen clans use children before – the brats can get closer than adults can."

Jon saw a man pulled back on a recurve bow, and shaft notched. "Put an arrow in her," a wildling ordered. "Maybe not the head, but mak–"

"Stop!" Jon ordered, clattering as he stepped out. "Stop!"

"Who the hell are y–" a narrow-eyed man began to demand, but his voice froze as Jon pulled down his hood and the recognition flashed. Jon's bone white hair was better than any crown.

"Lower your bow. Now," Jon snapped, his hand instinctively moving to Dark Sister. "Who is it?"

The men looked stunned, but Jon saw white stones on a few of their chests. "Um… eh… a looter, y-Your Grace," a man gulped. "Little rat has been stalking around the gate. She had been about to climb the walls too, when we spotted her."

Jon blinked, glancing downwards over the granite battlements at the fields of snow. There was a girl standing before the oak gates, shouting upwards. She was slight of build, huddled underneath a ragged, hoarfrost-coated cloak. A smallfolk?

Winter Town had been deserted as his army approached. Everyone had but the hardest or the most desperate of the smallfolk had fled before the wildlings. The girl below looked fraught – she was shouting, crying for attention. The men had been threatening her with arrows, but she hadn't run.

The wolf's howl had been strained, desperate, too.

"Open the gates," Jon ordered.

"We were told–"

"She's a single girl. Open the gates."

The men scattered under his tone, and Jon was left pacing. He felt uneasy. He turned, looking down from the eighty-foot drop, with a quiet grimace. The girl had been trapped in the elements, huddling against the razor sharp wind.

It took over a dozen men to finally heave the gates open through the pile of snow. As the North Gate finally creaked open, the wildlings were holding spears. The girl didn't run, even though Jon saw her wide eyes glaring with fear. One man pushed his way forward, but Jon held him back. The girl had a strong gaze for one so frail and weak, even as shivered.

"I don't care who you are. I don't care if you are flayed men or worse," she said, gulping and she walked forward. "I don't care what you might do to me. Just save him. Save him."

She was staring at him with such fear, her eyes glancing around at the wildlings. She had wide green eyes, wispy brown her that seemed grey with frost, and a face so gaunt she looked all skin and bones. "Who are you?" Jon demanded, standing back cautiously.

Her voice nearly cracked, teeth gritting and hesitating. "Meera Reed," she said finally. "Sworn spear to Brandon Stark."

Jon could only stare. No…

In the distance, over the snow drifts and towards the frozen wolfswood, he heard the wolf wailing.

He made his decision so quick it was nigh-automatic. "Send word to Toregg the Tall," Jon ordered to a man. "And Greatjon Umber. Now. Move!"

The girl – Meera – was staggering. "He was freezing," she gulped, raising a trembling hand to him. "I couldn't carry him, I couldn't…"

He heard a clanging. Jon glanced downwards, and he noticed a ring of iron – a broken manacle – chiming around Meera's ankle. His head was spinning, trying to understand. Could it be?

It wasn't safe to leave the castle alone, and even less safe to bring uncertain men with him. The grounds outside of Winterfell's gates were still unsecured, there were still likely roving groups of soldiers left scattered in the snow. But, at that moment, Jon just didn't care. "Where?" he snapped, so sharply it caught the girl off-guard. "Where?"

She couldn't reply, too busy wheezing, but her hand raised to point to the north, towards the trees. Jon was already striding away, jogging lopsided through the snows. "On me!" he bellowed to the men. "On me!"

If it's true…

The snows were three-foot-deep, Jon had to force his way through the hard-worn, frozen ground. He broke off the road and headed straight north, into the woods of pines and chestnuts. The men were breaking out of the gates, shouting after him, following him – all the while the snow geysered around them. "Bring horses!" Jon bellowed. "And dogs! Move!"

The forest was so thick and dark it could swallow a man whole. The wolf – the direwolf, it was – needed to howl, it needed to howl, but he couldn't hear anything. The going was hard, but Jon was desperate. He forced his way to the edge of the trees, head snapping around, searching for any sign.

The memory of a different time flashed before his eyes; a different age – back when Jon and his brothers would play hide-and-seek in these very woods. Before the snows, before the death. Back when they had been summer children…

"BRAN!" Jon bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Bran!"

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had misheard, or maybe this was a trap. Maybe this was another of Roose's Boltons schemes, to lure himself outside the walls and there were assassins in wait. Maybe he was too late. Jon didn't want to believe – he didn't want to let himself believe…

But still… his brother…

He heard the wolf's wail again, and it was so close.

The last time he had even… Jon thought back to that moment when Bran had been bedridden, unconscious, just before Jon needed to leave for the Wall. He remembered Catelyn Stark's cold gaze, and Summer's wail while the pup lay over base of Bran's bed.

The vision of a pale and broken Bran, unconscious in bed, couldn't leave his mind. They hadn't been sure if Bran would survive at the time. That had been the last time Jon had seen his brother, the day he had left home…

I wanted to show him the Wall. I wanted to say goodbye.

Men were shouting behind him, but Jon didn't care. He kept on pushing forward, limping deeper into the wolfswood. He saw the tracks where Meera had run through, and he followed them. The girl had been desperate, cold, but running for aid…

He saw an ancient gnarly oak tree, and there was massive wolf curled into its roots. A direwolf, with silvery grey fur and sharp yellow eyes. The last time Jon had seen Summer, the wolf had been the size of a large dog, but now it was as large as a pony. Frost and dried blood coated its furs. The wolf wailed, mewling piteously, but it didn't move.

There was a small figure in the roots, huddled under a rotten blanket, and the great wolf hunkered down over him, lying protectively, hackles raised. The direwolf lay over the boy, thin and emaciated, fur ragged, but still the size of a small horse. The direwolf was trying to warm him, sharing what scarce little remained of its body's heat.

Jon felt the same twitch – the small shiver over his skin – that he felt every time he met another warg. Summer stared straight at him, quivering, but didn't move.

"Bran…" Jon gasped, before finding his voice. "Bran!"

The small figure wasn't twitching. The boy looked older than what Jon remembered, but still so, so small. Older, but with the baby fat stripped from his cheeks and his auburn hair turned dark. Hoarfrost coated his skin, ice sticking to his brow. The vision of a young, lively boy who loved to climb flashed before his eyes.

But it was him. It was him.

Men were running behind him, shouting, sprinting to keep up. Jon could only grip his brother's limp body, hugging him so tightly. He felt so cold, so frail, like a broken little doll.

How long has he been out in the cold? Jon cursed. How long has it been since his strength failed him? How far had the boy – a cripple! – managed to fight before he finally collapsed? With no shelter, no fire, the snows could smother even the strongest man, and his brother was only a little boy…

Then, he felt his brother shiver, and frail, tiny hands clenched around his shoulders. Jon could have sobbed, the tears freezing on his cheeks.

You Starks are hard to kill.

---

End of Part 2