Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story. Especially those who have taken time to review. It's all really appreciated, so thank you.

To the guest reviewer asking about Valyrian steel: it can't kill wights (the reanimated dead people). White Walkers (the Others) can be killed with Valyrian steel.

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Promise

All Daenerys' thoughts were of the future. When the wars were fought and won, when the winter ended and the first green shoots of spring had sprung and the realm was finally settled. She didn't know if she was getting ahead of herself or merely giving herself something worth fighting for. Now, since the night before, Jon had been grafted onto these dreams of how things could be and it was all starting to look a little brighter.

The only doubt she had was her advisors. No matter who she picked as a husband they always seemed to have half a hundred doubts about her choice. He wouldn't be accepted by the people, he wasn't Westerosi enough, his birth wasn't of suitable nobility or his hair was just the wrong shade of brown to be proper. A myriad of nit-picks, quibbles and petty imperfections that made her want to scream. Surely, she thought to herself, they could have no such quibbles over Jon. Jon was baseborn but now legitimised by the name Stark, his father was Eddard Stark – one of the most respected lords of the realm, one who seemed to evoke much sympathy. He was of the North, a fractious realm that needed to be brought closer to the crown. More to the point, and the thing that made Daenerys certain he was The One, he had laid down his life for the realm more times than the average Lord sat down to a hot supper. It was more than that. Jon had given up his life, his future, to join a brotherhood to protect Westeros and sought no reward nor recognition. What better man could be her consort?

But he's breaking his vows to be with you, said a small voice at the back of her mind. She hadn't cared one jot, but would others seize upon that to discredit him? Everyone hated her father, but they still called Jaime Lannister 'Kingslayer' for killing him. It wasn't the victim that caused them ire, it was the act of betrayal, the breaking of a sacred vow. You're as good as your last fuck up, Tyrion Lannister once told her. Only rarely had a truer word been spoken.

Beneath all the politics and tactical manoeuvrings, she was in love with him. For that reason alone, she wanted him to be accepted. That was what it came down to, for her. She had allowed her heart to get involved, despite the warnings of her advisors. Then she remembered the time she didn't allow her feelings to play a part and the memory of Hizdahr made her shudder. He kissed her with all the passion of a cold, dead fish.

She mulled it all over as she broke her fast in the common hall of Winterfell, while Queen Margaery spoke with the staff. Every gesture she made, every move, was graceful and unthinking. A southerner at ease among a people so different to the ones she grew up around. More to the point, they accepted her.

"The people here seem fond of you," she said, once Margaery was finished. "Was it hard to win them over?"

Margaery was quiet for a moment, mulling over the question. "Helping them to kick out the Boltons helped. Being married to their King helped even more. Then it was a matter of being among them, showing them that I wasn't here to take over, or change their way of life or carve up the lands of fallen northern houses to dish up among my father and brothers in the south. My job, as their queen, is to help preserve their way of life, faith and culture. Not graft my own on to it."

It was nothing she hadn't heard before. She remembered the fox among the rabbits analogy someone once gave her. To be successful, she must look like the rabbit and not the fox. But it would take more than the donning of floppy ears to fool the northern lords. Meanwhile, Margaery set down the honeycomb she was drizzling over her bread.

"If you come here as an invader, tricking or butchering your way into our halls – as the Boltons did – you will forever be the enemy of the North," she said, frankly. "But you can win their allegiance. Do that, and you will have allies for life."

"That's what I meant to do all along."

"Pardon me if I speak out of turn, your grace," said Margaery, leaning in a little closer. "Have you considered the possibility of a Northern husband?"

Dany felt the heat rising instantly in her face. She stifled an awkward laugh, dodging eye-contact. "It's a little more than that."

"Do tell," said Margaery. "If you can."

"We aren't telling many people, but there can be no harm in telling you," said Dany. "But you know how Stannis Baratheon freed Jon from his vows. The man was a usurper, so it meant nothing. But your husband did the same and he is no usurper, so it was a valid release from his vows. Then I freed him as Queen of Meereen, only I had more personal reasons for doing so."

"Jon?" said Margaery. In a hushed whisper, she continued: "You're marrying Jon?"

Daenerys nodded, but then realised: "We haven't actually talked about marriage. But it's not like he'd agree to leave the Watch for the sake of a few rolls in the hay, is it?"

"Absolutely not," Margaery said. "He's a good man, loyal and brave. A bit solemn, perhaps, but his very being is steeped in honour. And I don't think he's as politically naïve as his father and brother. You don't get to be Lord Commander of anything if you're like that."

Daenerys hadn't thought of that. But now that she was blushing and her heart was already fluttering, and the subject had already been raised… "What was your wedding like?"

"Hasty," Margaery replied. "But it was still beautiful. We married in the godswood of Riverrun, beneath the heart tree and in front of the old gods."

Then it hit her, dampening her optimism just as her flights of fancy were taking wing. "The old gods. My advisors will try to make out that he's some sort of sacrilegious heathen."

"Nonsense," Margaery waved a dismissive hand. "And if they do raise that objection, marry in the godswood for Jon's sake and have the union sanctified and blessed in the Great Sept of Baelor for your sake."

"For my advisor's sake, more like," said Dany, drily. She looked at Margaery again, dimly wondering why she was being so helpful. "Thank you. I didn't expect you to be this accommodating. All things considered, I mean."

"What? That you expect us to bend the knee?" said Margaery. As straightforward as she was helpful. "As I said. Don't come as an invader and we'll have much more room for negotiation, once this mess is cleared up."

The mess she was referring to was the war in the north. The white walkers and the wights already amassing at the wall. None of her fanciful notions could happen before that was taken care of. But as she went to raise the issue, someone else's voice cut over her. She turned to find Jon striding down the hall, a letter pinched between his fingers. The letter he found last night.

"Margaery, we must speak," he said. "Now."

He didn't look at Daenerys, barely acknowledging her 'good morrow'. Even Margaery seemed a little taken aback. "The Queen and I…" but she faltered and made her apologies to Daenerys. "Excuse me, if you will."

"Of course," she said. "I must bid farewell to Tyrion anyway, he's leaving for White Harbour today."

A deeply uneasy feeling chilled her as she rose. Moments like these rarely ended well.

Daenerys' absence was not enough privacy, it seemed. Margaery found herself following Jon out into the back entrance of the hall, normally used by the servants but devoid of life now that breakfast had been served. Even then, Jon turned again and led her into a garderobe used mainly for storing cleaning equipment. A mop and bucket were propped against the privy, a stiff-bristled scrubbing brush was discarded in the corner. Worse, freezing air blew up through the chute of the disused latrine.

"What did Robb tell you about this letter?" he asked, holding it up.

Margaery looked at it for a second, recalling where she left it. "Where did you find that?"

"What did he tell you?" he repeated.

"Nothing," she answered. "He told Arya where it was and that she was to pass it on to you in the event of his death. Nothing more."

"Arya? I need to find her."

He was about to turn away but Margaery grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Wait! When I found it the other day, I wanted to give it to you. But Arya stopped me and told me about the circumstances. I really don't think she knows about the letter's content."

Jon was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking things over. While Margaery knew he would never hurt his beloved sister, she still wanted him to calm down and think rationally before approaching Arya. "No, he wouldn't have told her something like this and not told you as well."

He held the letter out to her, nodding for her to take it. Uneasily curious, she did so and quickly. Once she'd finished, she thought she might have missed some vital context, some explanation changed the meaning of what she thought she'd read. But on second reading, Jon's silently mutinous mood was explained. Whatever the case, she knew that Robb had only left this letter as an absolute last resort. This was not the way he meant for Jon to learn the truth.

Whatever the truth, something needed to be done. Something for Jon to fix his mind on rather than going into freefall over the issue. But what?

"I can send for Howland Reed," she said. "He seems to be a witness, to know exactly what happened."

"He won't get here before I leave."

"I think perhaps you should wait, or meet him half way," said Margaery. "You could speak to Robb, but he only knows what Lord Reed told him."

He was still in shock, not thinking clearly. She could see it in him, he looked drawn and pale. His grey eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and he dragged his hands through his hair in agitation. "Have you heard from Robb? Where is he?"

"Not for some time, I don't know," she replied. Truthfully, he could have been anywhere between the wall and Land of Always Winter. It did nothing to help Jon's predicament. Then, as the shock of the letter wore off, she remembered Daenerys who'd been all but planning her wedding to her own nephew. But Daenerys was a woman who grew up half-expecting to marry her own brother. No, it would be Jon who had the problem there. And reasoning that she probably wasn't even supposed to know about their union, she chose her next words carefully. "Whatever you do, make no decisions while you're still reeling. Be careful you don't burn any bridges without at least talking to someone. Take time, take stock and absorb the impact before you make any decisions about the future."

"I know you're right," he ceded, sighing heavily. "But the lies I've lived with. Things are much more complicated now."

His claim to the iron throne was greater than that of Daenerys, she realised. She wouldn't like that. But what would it matter if they were to wed, anyway? He may not realise it yet, but it was all the more imperative that they did. Two claimants – potential rivals - united to form one.

"One such complication being your place in the succession."

"I hadn't even thought of that."

"But others will," Margaery pointed out. "And you'll find them very quick on the uptake. Burn that letter and breathe a word of it to no one until you've spoken to Robb or Howland Reed."

"What about Daenerys? She's my aunt and she has no idea."

"Tell her, if you must. But make sure you have the full story. It needs to be straight in your own head before you try conveying it to others. Besides, there might be more coming."

If there were any more twists in this tale, he'd need to know them sooner rather than later. Before he made any decisions about anything. The last thing he needed was other people trying to influence him, complicating matters with plots and power-gaming. But now he just looked defeated, slumped against a wall with his eyes unfocused. She moved forwards, turned his face toward her and kissed his cheek. "Never in a century would Robb have actually wanted you to find out this way. There was a reason why we were instructed to give you that letter only if he died. I'm sorry you found it."

Privately, she thought he needed to rest and sleep more than anything else. But being hit with that kind of news, unprepared and out of the blue, it was never conducive to relaxation. Nor could she imagine the confusion he was going through, the process of learning to accept your life was built on a lie. Where to even begin picking up the pieces? She couldn't help him, there. All she could do was give the best advice she could, on the spot.

"It will be all right," said Jon, eventually. But he looked far from convinced.

"Well, at least we're all together."

Robb had to admire Ser Garlan. He had a southerner's trait of endless optimism. But the fact remained, there were less than a hundred of them that had managed to get separated from the main army. Still a good number, but it lacked the security of the almost one thousand he had been travelling with. Meanwhile, they had managed to get a cookfire going and some fat mountain hares they'd snared were sizzling over the flames.

"We need to stay together, too," he replied. Glancing over the camp, they were spread out over a sizeable distance but all within hearing range of the watchman and his horn. What worried Robb was that they had no professional rangers from the Night's Watch with them. They had stuck with the others after wights had been seen over the hills. It had been so dark, like the stars had been snuffed out, and Robb barely noticed their scattering and failing to regroup. Returning his attention to Garlan, he continued: "Do you think the others are still making their way to Hardhome?"

"I'd wager so. That's where we agreed to set up a base."

There was a wildling town there, since laid waste and abandoned. They could use what structures remained to rebuild a garrison. Anything to give them a foothold in the north, a place to defend and spread outwards as they battled against those creatures.

"Didn't a maester go there once?" asked Garlan. "He stayed a while too, if I remember it right."

"Maester Wyllis," said Robb. "He wrote a book about it, but I never read it."

"Our Willas probably has. He was always at his books."

For a moment, Garlan looked misty-eyed as he mentioned the brother left behind at Highgarden. Lame, walking with the aid of a stick and callipers, he rarely left the Reach. Garlan had a wife down there, too. Leonette Fossoway. They had not seen each other since the wedding at Riverrun and it felt as though an age had passed since then.

Before they could grow maudlin over their families far away, the mountain hares were cooked up and served. The two of them tearing off bits with their fingers like a pair of savages. All the same, the subject of Hardhome wasn't quite done.

"The town's been destroyed once before," said Robb. "Six hundred years ago, maybe more. No one south of the wall knows what really happened."

"Any ideas?" said Garlan. "If it was the white walkers, we'd have found out, surely?"

"Would we have believed them even if they had told us?" Robb countered. "All I know about it is the hearth stories my old nursemaid told me when we were children. Hardhome is an old place, ruined and accursed."

Plausibility aside, Robb found himself reaching back for Old Nan's tales more and more. The scary stories that Bran always loved. The wights and dead flesh, the walkers mounted on giant spiders made of ice. The endless night that lasted a generation until there came the last hero. Bran, who was somewhere out in this wilderness, lost and alone for all Robb knew. Sometimes, at night when they huddled together to sleep, Robb thought he could see Bran and hear his voice. Occasionally, it was so real and vivid, it was as if his brother was at his shoulder and whispering in his ear. When the cold light of day came and he looked around this desolate wasteland, he knew no cripple boy could survive it. He knew that Bran was dead and the voice in his ear was just the ghost of a boy he once knew.

He was still stripping the mountain hare's flesh from its bones when the fire guttered out. Moments later, and the next fire was extinguished, then another and another. Robb and Garlan both froze, their meal still gripped in their hands, as the darkness fell all around them. Nerves twitching now, he looked up at the starless sky. Where the ice dragon constellation should have been was only inky darkness. And the cold burned. Inhaling felt like knives slicing through the lungs.

Slowly, the chatter of the other men ceased. The silence held or a second before a horn blast tore through the night. Robb was already on his feet by the time the second blast came. And he knew there would be a third before the second faded into an echo. Wights alone could never have snuffed out the fires and the stars like that. He heard, rather than saw, Garlan moving to his side, treading over the smoking ashes of their cookfire.

"Others," he whispered in Robb's ears.

He didn't need to agree. A cry went up from further down the camp, before it was cut off abruptly, replaced by a nauseating gargling sounds as the man choked on his own blood. They had all been in enough battles to know that sound. Then he saw them. Barely visible, their ice-like armour glimmering dully against the background as slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He heard the scraping of steel as someone went to attack. It was then that the chaos was unleashed.

The air was filled with the shouts and cries of the soldiers. Steel clashed as they accidentally attacked each other in the melee. But had already singled one out. He could see the shimmering outline; kept his focus fixed on the burning blue eye. He aimed for it while signalling for the others to retreat, to get flee. There was no use in them all dying here, they didn't have the weapons. But if he could buy time by getting at least one of the White Walkers, he would.

"Retreat!" Garlan yelled above the clash of chaos. "Retreat! Retreat!"

Robb dodged around the others now fleeing toward the edge of the Haunted Forest. A few were cut down as they fled as the Others advanced too. Showing no sign of giving up without a fight, Robb and Garlan clung tight together as they sought out his earlier target. As they closer to their attackers, he noticed the sounds they made, the way they spoke with voices that sounded like cracking ice. There was only three of them that Robb could see and he lunged at the one closest to him.

The blow was parried with a blade so fine he could barely see it. He heard Garlan grunt and curse beside him before falling away. Rabb ran to him, thinking to drag him up and for them both to get out of there. But one of the creatures was already bearing down on him. Without thinking, he swung his sword again, the steel crashing into the creature's plate ice armour. The impact was met with a thin, piercing wail barely at the edge of hearing. Followed soon by the shattering of glass. Or rather, what felt like the shattering of glass that threw him to the ground. The force of the blow had run the length of his arm, leaving it aching.

Breathless and dazed, he raised his head to see their attackers finally in retreat.

"Garlan," he whispered.

He could see better now. He could make out the form of Ser Garlan hunched in the grass, covered in furs. With difficulty, he managed to sit up. "I'm alive."

Relief washed over Robb as he climbed to his feet and sheathed Ice. Without wasting time, he hauled Garlan to his feet. "We need to find cover. Now."

Garlan stumbled. He would have fallen had he not latched on to Robb before his knees could buckle. "I just need a minute. You go on."

He was injured. Fresh blood seeping through his layers of clothing. Never would Robb consider leaving a man in that state. Not a stranger, and certainly not his brother by law. "Lean on me. I'll get us both there," he said. And he meant it.

Against all odds, Jon had slept. Deeply, dreamlessly. From an exhaustion born of having lain awake the night before, going over and over the contents of Robb's letter. The lies had cut him the deepest. Or rather, the withholding of the truth. As an adult, he couldn't even begin to estimate the number of times his child-self had asked Eddard Stark about his mother. Her name. Her second name. By the time he reached fourteen, even the first letter of her name would have done. Just some small clue, some inkling as to who she was. Something small that he could apply to her and call her his mother. No matter how many times he asked, or in what manner, the answer was always the same. 'One day, we'll talk about your mother.' He could hear Lord Stark's voice saying it at that very moment. Jon was half-tempted to go down to the crypts and engrave it on his tomb.

Lord Stark, who wasn't even his father. He thought he should hate the man now. But he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. One day, they would have talked about his mother. He was sure of that. But Petyr Baelish had joined forces with Cersei Lannister, bringing such hopes for the future to an abrupt end. So, when he did visit the crypts that morning, it was only to look at him as if his statue could talk.

Nor was he alone. Sansa was already there, arranging some wild flowers at the effigy's feet. Although loath to interrupt her, the sound of his footsteps had already drawn her attention. She looked at him and said: "I just wanted to see father."

"He'd have wanted to see you," said Jon, raising a pained smile.

She was quiet for a moment as she looked up into Eddard Stark's stone face. "I know it was my fault-"

"It was not your fault," he cut over her. Turning her face toward him, he continued: "You put your trust in the wrong person, and that person betrayed you."

Trust. It was something he always thought the Starks gave too easily. But he'd been wrong about that. Eddard Stark held his secrets hidden in his heart, trusting not a single soul with his. Not even Catelyn. Not even Benjen, for all he knew. As he drew Sansa into an embrace, he looked over her head at the statue of Lyanna Stark. His mother, dead moments after his birth. Lord Reed said she made him promise. And, once granted, her final moments were spent in safety and at peace. The promise was honoured until his untimely demise. And Jon knew he would have done the same for the girl in his arms without a second's thought. For Arya, too. His sisters, no matter his parents.

When they drew apart, he dabbed at a tear that had leaked from her eye. "You're leaving this morning."

Jon nodded. "Make sure our little sister is there to bid me farewell."

"Of course she'll be there," Sansa said. "You know that."

He wasn't so confident that he knew anything, anymore. As such, he found himself seeking certainties wherever possible.

Later, after he'd broken his fast with Margaery and his sisters, he found Daenerys outside. The dragons were out of their tower, Viserion already stretching his wings. Rhaegal eyeing him curiously, as he often did. He never did wonder why the dragons let him pat them, when they snapped and hissed at everyone else. Even when Dany wasn't around to control them, they never moved to attack him.

"There you are," Dany's voice came from behind. "I thought you were avoiding me."

Jon had already decided to take Margaery's advice and say nothing. He hadn't burned the letter, in case he did decide to tell her. Then he could just show her, without having to speak it aloud and get worked up all over again.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It was the letter, wasn't it? Is your brother all right?"

"Yes, to both," he answered. "I think."

"But you're extremely worried, I can tell," she continued. "You hid away all of yesterday, last night you retired so early I barely saw you. Jon, I know something's wrong."

Her brow was creased in concern, the worry reflected back at him in her beautiful lilac eyes. Briefly, he wondered what Lord Stark would have done had he been born looking like her?

"It's just Robb. He didn't really know what he was facing out there," he said. He couldn't tell her the truth. Not now. He was still so torn over what to do.

"And you say it's another four turns of the moon until we get there?" she said.

Jon nodded. In truth, he was dreading the endless journey. Behind Daenerys, Drogon reared his head. He'd been big when Jon first met him, now he was huge. His long neck coiled around a tree trunk as he scratched his chin on the rough bark, his head hidden in the uppermost branches. His tail was so strong it had knocked another hole in the Broken Tower. Daenerys looked at him and back at Jon.

"I'll get you there quicker," she said. "I'll get you there in days and we will look for Robb together."

She moved toward the dragon and Jon was quick to protest. "Oh, no. You can't mean-"

"Why not?"

It was a fair question. He looked at the dragon again, his heart beating faster.

"Say your goodbyes," she continued. "We're leaving anyway."

They had already come to see him off. Margaery with Cregan, Sansa and Arya. He kissed them all before turning back to Daenerys, mounted high on Drogon's back. He couldn't even see how to get up there.

"Jon, just go," Arya urged him. "Climb up, like she did."

But he hadn't seen her do it. Not on that occasion at least. From memory of other times, he climbed up the leg. Cautious in case the beast turned on him. But he didn't and Dany reached out to him.

"Take my hand, I'll keep you safe."

The scales were slippery, but taking Dany's hand helped. She pulled him up and he fell onto the dragon's back, just behind her. Breathless and dizzy from the height, his sisters looked small as they waved him off. He barely had time to grip the ridges on the dragon's back before the beast was on its feet. Every part of him moved, swaying him and Dany until he thought he might fall off.

She turned to him and said: "Don't be afraid, you'll get used to it."

Jon said nothing, keeping his qualms to himself as the dragon lurched and leapt. The beating of his wings drowned out all other noise as they took flight. Stomach turning, he watched the ground disappear, until the girls were out of sight. Until Winterfell, in all its vastness, was just a patchwork of brick walls, getting smaller by the second. Clinging to Daenerys for dear life, he looked North to where winter threatened to swallow them whole.

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.

Now that I'm back on course with this story, I'm going to try and update every Thursday. So, until next week. Thanks again.