All had gone according to plan so far. Ramsay. Maege waiting for him. The hole in the guards' rotation. The snowshoes. The cover of night. Tormund and a handful of men at the edge of the woods with Ghost.
The three-hour trek to the camp was a blur. All Jon could think of once outside Winterfell's walls was her. He left her alone. Nevermind that she had Maege and, hopefully, Howland Reed. Nevermind that she would shove a dagger of her own in Roose's throat before she let him condemn her (it wasn't the plan, but there were contingencies for that event). Nevermind that he had agreed to this - to wait in the shadows, to be so close to her and yet closer to the dead, to get in, make the swift kill and escape, leaving her to draw the threads together and spin a narrative of their making. The plan, so far, was going perfectly. And Jon hated it.
He wanted Roose dead, now. He wanted Aurelia in his arms, now. He wanted the North settled and Stannis placated and everyone working toward the same goal: dealing with what lay beyond the Wall. The wildlings at least shared that last desire, and they too tired of waiting. They didn't mind the cold, or hunting for their food, or even avoiding Ramsay and his scouts until the time was right. They would be happy when the time came for battle. For a respite in Winterfell. They would be happier still to go farther south - to keep going. Tormund was one of the few Jon believed would stand and fight when it came to it, as many times as it came to it, probably. Yet he did not fault others for wanting to put as much distance between themselves and the army of the dead as possible.
Jon had always viewed Tormund as an open book. However, when he was led into the main tent in the wildling camp, having been given no warning as to what awaited him there, Jon regretted that assumption.
"Told you we'd bring him," Tormund uttered in a tone that hinted at respectful, but leaned more toward annoyance.
"I'm beginning to wonder if you are not in fact Ironborn, Jon Snow." Stannis' expression was the coldest thing in the tent. Jon struggled for a reply, but was interrupted before one came. "Did rising from the dead destroy your knees, or are you now a wildling who will not kneel before a king?"
Jon, from reflex more than anything, dropped to a knee. "Your presence is unexpected, Your Grace."
"Says the dead man."
"I am not dead," Jon replied, almost growling.
Stannis paused before continuing, his gaze melted a couple degrees. "Giantsbane, get the others out of this tent."
Tormund had barely moved when the other wildlings rose and shifted out of the tent. He gave one more look to Jon, rising to stand before the seated Stannis, then left as well.
"I will confess to not really believing the wildling tales until a moment ago. I thought they might say anything to stall me from calling in more reserves, or to keep themselves out of a fight with the Boltons."
"They came here for-"
"So I've been told." Stannis stood, moving to a small table near the fire. He swung the pot hanging over the fire toward himself, ladling some mulled wine into a mug. He took a sip, then filled another cup and offered it to Jon. "Only that red-bearded whoreson would tell me why, and that took three days of being in a cage."
Jon took the cup. "Such hospitality."
"I am at war. There is little time for hospitality."
"When consorting with those who would be allies, there is always time." Jon sipped and Stannis studied him.
An enigmatic half-smile briefly appeared. "You remind me of Ser Davos at times. Another casualty of this war I fear. And one I care far more about than yourself."
"And the Lady Aurelia? What of your care for her?"
"She made her choice," Stannis said, the coldness returning to his look. "Boltons. I will admit I did not conceive her capable of such betrayal-"
"Ramsay is dead." Jon's regret at the confession was instant, and fleeting. They had planned to tell Stannis, eventually, if needed. 'If needed' seemed to be now.
Stannis' shift in expression gave Jon all the confidence he needed. "We did not betray you. We did not expect you to enter the picture until more had been accomplished. But now that you are-"
"More?"
"Did you think I would leave her there?"
"I intended to serve justice to the Boltons. All of them."
"What's taking so long?" Jon knew it was the wrong thing to say, but could not hold his tongue.
Stannis returned to his seat, the only one in the tent. "You would do well to remember, boy, who it was that kept your beloved safe after your brother was killed. Took her into my counsel even."
"She is perfectly capable of taking care of herself when not surrounded by enemies. And Your Grace might do well to know that while you were off trying to storm Winterfell in the midst of winter itself, your wife's men killed an innocent who I died to protect, and your witch brought me back from the dead. Melisandre believes there is purpose for me still and if I'm not back to protect what I love most, then perhaps Your Grace can enlighten me as to the reason I am back."
"So you do love her."
Jon had one last boundary to push. "Don't you?"
The long, heavy silence hung between them for a moment. Outside, wildlings barked and laughed while Stannis' collection of men sat huddled around fires, grumbling. Stannis' gaze moved to the fire.
"How long were you dead for?"
"Long enough."
"And Melisandre brought you back?"
"Something did. She was a part of it."
"And Lady Moors?"
"Aurelia was-" Jon sighed. Either he could convince Stannis or he couldn't. There was no more time for games with him. "Aurelia was the last thought I knew. The last voice I heard before nothingness. When there was something again it was only her. As it has always been. I care for the North. I care for the lives of those who did not betray me. I care for a realm that does not even know my name and what might befall it should Wall fall. But nothing matches her. I am hers. I have always been hers."
Stannis had not taken his eyes from the fire. "Lady Melisandre, did she speak to you of me?"
"She knows little of our plans. She did caution us against leaving so soon after- but your wife's men, the men of the Watch, they took everything from us. We did not stay to have them take it again."
"And what do you intend I know of your plans?"
"Depends on if you intend to put me in a cage."
Stannis looked to Jon. "I have no desire to be a cruel king."
"Then be a just one."
Jon saw the range of emotions cross in Stannis' eyes, though little of that journey bled into more of his face. "I suppose I owe you a bit of my tale, now that I have heard some of yours. There may be significant features of interest in it for you."
"And then?"
Stannis relaxed in a manner Jon had never seen before. For a moment, Jon could almost see his dead brother, King Robert, in Stannis. "You still eat, I assume?" Jon nodded. "Call that wildling back in here. Let us eat, the three of us, and see what our sharing of information leads to."
When Jon left Stannis' tent, his head swam, both from wine and the breadth of information shared. Jeyne Poole, alive and on her way to the Wall. Karstarks imprisoned. And Theon. Jon's skin prickled at the thought of him. However changed he may be, Theon had much to answer for and Jon hoped to never see his face again for if he did he feared what he might be capable of doing.
Stannis had offered Jon a place in his royal tent, but Jon refused. He turned up there, more people, people Jon did not know or trust, would know he was alive. He trusted Tormund to hold the wildlings in check on that account. He trusted Stannis to keep his counsel. Beyond that, Jon's trust was limited in scope. Tormund had a tent prepared for him on the edge of the wildlings' encampment. Ghost was inside, nestled on the furs that were to be Jon's blankets.
"At least one of us has been comfortable."
The direwolf raised his eyes to Jon, then huffed and closed them again. Jon pulled a stool by the fire and stared into it. He did not realize he had dozed until a hand touched his shoulder. Jon was on his feet, dagger drawn, in a breath. Stannis took a step back. Ghost raised his head and huffed again.
"Your terms are acceptable with one adjustment." Jon and Ghost both cocked their heads. "Do not execute Bolton unless imperative for her safety, or yours. Wait for me and I will do it."
Jon considered for a moment, fought back his objection, then nodded. Ghost lowered his head. Stannis glanced to the fire.
"Do you see anything in it?"
"No," Jon said softly.
"Nor do I."
Stannis left and Jon crawled onto the pile of straw layered over with pelts. Ghost shifted to lay beside him, his head resting on Jon's chest. The weight was heavy, but the warmth welcome. Jon scratched the direwolf's ears.
As he lay there, one part of the conversation with Stannis turned in his mind.
"He all but admitted Aurelia stayed him against laying siege to Winterfell. Even with the weather, with the uncertainty of it all, once he knew she was there- nothing for it, I suppose. Hopefully we live through this next battle, and then…"
His thoughts drifted to what lay beyond 'and then.'
"For all the nights that will be."
Jon sighed, turned over and fell into an uneasy sleep.