A/N: long chapter ahead!


The Door

"Hold the door."


"Open gates!"

Jon hurries out onto the balcony, watching over the courtyard as the southern gates of Castle Black swing open. His jaw sets when he spots the Knights of the Vale galloping through, with their proud, sky-blue sigils. Littlefinger leads them, glancing around him with disdain at the surrounding brothers and wildlings.

His fists clenched, he descends the staircase, his eyes trained on Lord Baelish. His horse stops in the middle of the yard, and he hops off it with ease. "Lord Commander." He dips into a slight bow.

Not trusting himself to take another step, Jon pauses. "You've got a lot of nerve coming here," he growls.

"I've brought you a gift," Littlefinger says, calmly. "A peace offering."

Jon shakes his head. "I don't want your gift."

"Yes, you do." He steps to one side, smugness written all over his face.

Jon's eyes dart to the second series of guards thundering through the gates. Ironborn. The first face he notices is Theon's, solemn and haunted. There is something gathered up in his arms, concealed under a large cloak. Jon watches, frowning, as he dismounts his horse, hoisting up the bundle into his arms.

He can see her face. Pale as snow, peeking out from under the fur blanket. For the second time since his resurrection, a powerful ache fills his chest. A good ache, accompanied by a surge of relief, as he looks at Rose's sleeping form.

Theon carries her over until he is standing right before him. Jon gazes down at her, and his stomach flips at the dark, purple bruises covering her skin. He runs his hand over her head, sighing in anguish.

"We need to get her inside," Theon mutters.

Jon nods, swallowing. Carefully, Theon eases her into his arms, and she still doesn't stir. He staggers with the weight of her, wondering when she became not so easy to lift. Anxiously, he meets Theon's gaze. "Rickon?"

Theon shakes his head, gravely. "Couldn't find him," is all he manages.

Jon's heart breaks again. Steeling himself, he turns on his heel and heads for Commander's Keep. "Fetch the maester," he orders when he sees Edd standing, baffled near the rickety staircase.


A bucket of warm water sloshes as it is set down on the table. Jon carries Rose's lifeless body over to the bed, his eyes wide and panicked. "On her stomach," Yara instructs. Gently, he positions her on the bed, her head lulling against the pillows.

"Why hasn't she woken up?" Theon asks, stiffly.

"The mind can drift after severe trauma," the Maester says. "She distanced herself when she believed she was in danger, but now that the danger has passed, she has no reason to stay distrait. I dare say she'll wake up soon."

Yara draws a dagger from her belt and crosses over to the bed. Jon grips her wrist, frowning. "Easy."

"You fancy disrobing her yourself?" she demands, her eyes wild like fire. "Those wounds could already be infected. We should get them cleaned up before they can do her further damage." Her attention swivels to Theon, who stands, ashen-faced in the corner. "I suggest you spare her blushes and go and fetch some more blankets."

Quickly, she perches on the edge of the bed and grips the back of Rose's shift. The knife slices through the fabric easily, exposing her back. Jon flinches when he catches a glimpse of it, various welt lines, cuts, and burn marks clear against her porcelain skin. At the tearing sound, she finally stirs, letting out a low moan into the pillows.

Her eyes flutter open, peeking at her surroundings. When they settle on him, he feels the breath leaving his body. "Jon?" she whispers, in a scratchy voice. Her brow furrows together, tears brimming. "Theon."

Jon glances over his shoulder. Theon stares back at her, blinking, then his jaw sets and he leaves the room, his boots hammering across the floorboards. A part of Jon wishes he could follow him. Instead, he crouches down at the side of the bed, so his face is level with hers, and runs his hand, tenderly over her head.

"Hush, now," he whispers. "You're alright. You're safe."

Yara begins dipping a cloth into the warm water and fervently dabbing at the dried blood on her arms and back. At this, Rose's eyes blow wide, and she looks like a frightened deer. "Where—? Where is . . . he?" she gasps.

"Nowhere near," Jon insists, his hand cradling her face. "He's not gonna hurt you again. You understand?"

Rose only blinks, tears sliding down her bruised cheeks. The rest of her shift is torn away, and Yara pulls the blankets up to her waist. All the while, Jon keeps his eyes trained on her face, running his hands over her matted hair.

When the Maester returns, he has a bottle of scarlet ointment in his hands. Yara shifts so he can sit down on the bed, and he begins smoothing the ointment over Rose's back. The moment it touches her skin, Rose lets out a loud gasp and buries her face back in the pillows.

"What is that?" Jon asks, alarmed when Rose begins sobbing and wriggling.

"Myrish fire," Yara replies. "Keep her still."

Rose's hand flies out and grabs Jon's, squeezing it so tightly, her knuckles turn white. Her loud cries are muffled by the pillows in her face. He does his best to soothe her, whispering comforting words, stroking her hair, but she doesn't let up. Finally, her head twists around, and she gazes at him with big, watery eyes.

"It's my fault," she whimpers, her breath hitching, uncontrollably. "Sansa . . . I should have stopped it. I n-never wanted her to get hurt, I was just trying to h-help."

"I know." Jon tries a warm smile. "Rose, it's not your fault."

She shakes her head as if she hasn't heard him. Her eyes squeeze shut. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Jon continues, his chest constricting. "You're home now."

"No!" she splutters, writhing against the covers. "No, I don't have a home . . . I haven't had a home in — no, make it stop!" she chokes, suddenly, as more Myrish fire is spread across her back. "Please, make it stop!"

Firm hands grip Jon's shoulders. He finds himself being yanked out of the way, staggering backwards against the bedpost. Yara takes his place. She sits on the edge of the bed and grips Rose's wrists, pinning her down.

"Rose," she barks, trying to be heard over her frantic sobbing. "Look at me. No one's gonna hurt you. We're here to help. Do you understand me? Tell me you understand." Rose manages a small nod. "Deep breaths," Yara instructs, softening her grip. Her sobs subsiding, she takes a few, sharp breaths. "That's a good girl."

As Rose's eyes drift shut once more, sniffling as she slackens on the bed, Yara looks up. Theon stands in the doorway, having watched the scene with empty eyes, clutching onto the blankets with clenched fists. She'd never seen him look so broken.


Sansa hurries up the staircase towards the Lord's Chamber, Brienne trailing behind her. When she reaches the door, Jon is stepping out, dark circles under his hollow eyes, sighing, wearily. Instantly, she feels nauseous. "Where is she?"

"In there," Jon croaks. She goes to open the door, but his hand closes around hers. "Sansa, she . . ." he trails off, swallowing. "It's not—"

"I need to see her," Sansa interrupts. Her lips press together. "I need to see what he's done to her."

Jon gazes back at her. After a silent moment, he nods his head. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze and heads into the room, holding her breath. Brienne closes the door behind them.

It's not nearly as bad as she imagined. It's worse.

Rose sits on the side of the bed, a fur-lined blanket draped around her shoulders, hugging her legs to her chest. Guaranteed, she looks far better than she did when she first arrived. She is dressed in a clean, cotton nightgown that belongs to Sansa — which explains why it doesn't fit quite right on her body — and her hair is damp from bathing. Now that all the blood is cleaned from her, the distinctive wounds stand out across her pale skin.

Her Tully blue eyes, the eyes they share, dart upwards to meet hers. Before she can say anything, Sansa leaps forward and crouches down, wrapping her arms around her. Gently, so as not to further injure her. It takes her a moment, but Rose sinks into the embrace, burying her face in her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Her voice sounds scratchy and raw.

Sansa draws apart, blinking away the tears. "What are you sorry for?"

"I never should have let you marry him." She bites down on her bruised lip. "We could have avoided all of this—"

"No, it's my fault. It was my decision—"

"I wanted to protect you so badly—"

"I wanted to protect you," Sansa exclaims. "It's all I ever wanted. For us to be safe." Forcing herself to smile, she rubs a soothing hand up and down Rose's arm, minding the cuts there. "We are, now. I promise."

Rose nods, her eyes watery. A part of her is overwhelmed, seeing her little sister kneeling before her, and looking so, so grown-up. There's a heaviness to her eyes that wasn't there before, even after all that Joffrey had done to her. But her chin is lifted, and her jaw is set, like she's prepared for battle.

A timid knock on the door turns both of their heads. In walks Littlefinger. Rose has to clutch at her legs to refrain from leaping at him. Instead, she glares back at his smiling face, feeling such a surge of anger, it momentarily overshadows all of the pain in her body.

"Sansa." His eyes dart to the heavily armoured woman standing near the bed, who has clutched onto the hilt of her sword at his entrance. "Lady Brienne."

The three women stare back at him, unsmiling.

"When I heard you had escaped Winterfell, I feared the worst," he tells Sansa, his voice wavering at the look on her face. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you unharmed."

Sansa straightens up, frowning. "Unharmed?" she repeats. "What are you doing here?"

"I rode north with the Ironborn and the Knights of the Vale to come to your sister's aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak."

"The Knights of the Vale never passed Winterfell's gates," Rose whispers. The rawness of her voice makes him visibly flinch, and he struggles to even look at her, his eyes fixated on the floor. "You had no intention to waste them with my rescue."

"Did you know about Ramsay?" Sansa asks, coolly. "If you didn't know, you're an idiot. If you did know, you're my enemy." She takes two, bold steps towards him. "Would you like to hear about our wedding night?"

Littlefinger remains still, and silent.

"He never hurt my face," Sansa says, not waiting for a response. "He needed my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of me . . . he did what he liked with the rest of me. As long as I could still give him an heir." Her voice goes deadly quiet. "What do you think he did?"

Littlefinger shakes his head, meekly. "I can't begin to contemplate—"

"What do you think he did to me?"

Again, his eyes drop to the floor. The room fills with an uncomfortable silence that has Rose holding her breath. Eventually, Brienne's hand tightens around the hilt of her sword. "Lady Sansa asked you a question."

"He beat you."

"Yes, he enjoyed that. What else do you think he did?"

"Sansa, I—"

"What else?"

Littlefinger's brow furrows. "Did he cut you?"

A small, dark smile twists up Sansa's lips. "Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along," she murmurs.

"I didn't know," he insists.

Sansa tilts her head. "I thought you knew everyone's secrets."

Littlefinger lifts his hands, his eyes gleaming. "I made a mistake," he implores. "A horrible mistake. I underestimated a stranger." He tries to step closer, but Brienne shifts at their side, and he stops, immediately.

"The other things he did, ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things, but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time," Sansa whispers, thickly. For the first time, she sounds genuinely distraught. "I can still feel it. I don't mean in my tender heart. It still pains me so. I can still feel what he did in my body, standing here right now."

Rose feels a sharp pang in her chest. Her worst nightmare is being realised.

"I'm so sorry," Littlefinger whispers, his face pained.

"And your wife?" Sansa continues. She lifts her chin, putting the force back in her voice. "I suppose the marks on her skin leave little to the imagination, but you haven't even asked her. It's because you're afraid to know the answers. The truth of what your scheming has done to her. To us."

He pauses. Finally, his eyes fixate on Rose. Her arms curl, instinctively around her legs under his gaze. "I married you because you promised to protect me and my sister," she rasps.

"And I will," Littlefinger presses. He leans forward like he wants to hold her. "You must believe me when I tell you that I will."

"It's too late." Rose shakes her head, furious tears springing to her eyes. "It's far too late. The worst came for us, and you stood back and watched it all unfold."

"We don't need you anymore," says Sansa, coldly. "You can't protect us. You won't even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down." Her eyes flash, the thought lighting them up. "And, why shouldn't I?"

Littlefinger winces. "Do you want me to beg for my life?" he asks, weakly. "If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do. But, remember, we are family, so long as your sister is my bride."

"She wants you dead as much as me," Sansa snaps. "I don't even need to look at her to know."

Littlefinger does. His eyes bear into hers from where she sits, across the room. Again, his body tenses with the ache to go to her, to touch her. She can see it. "Is that true, my love? You want me to die?" he asks, softly. His only response is a stony glare. "Then, I will die."

Sansa's lips purse. "You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family, and you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family."

He glances at her, nodding. Again, the room goes silent.

Rose clutches the blanket, tighter around herself. Slowly, she gets to her feet, ignoring the fierce aching of her limbs, and crosses the room towards Littlefinger. He watches her, swallowing. Then, she is standing directly in front of him, their faces aligned.

"Leave," she commands, darkly. "Go back to Moat Cailin. If you ever come this far north again, I will root you out and execute you myself. I don't want your army. I don't want your alliances. And, I certainly don't want you." At this, he frowns, hurt, but she ignores it. "My family and I will take back the North on our own."

"I would do anything to undo what's been done to you," he says, softly. "I know that I can't. Will you allow me to say one more thing before I go? Your great-uncle, Brynden the Blackfish, has gathered what remains of the Tully forces and retaken Riverrun. You might consider seeking him out. The time may come when you need an army loyal to you."

Rose frowns. "We have an army."

"Your brother's army." Littlefinger looks down at her, his smug air returning. Leaning in, he gives her a kiss on the forehead that makes her shudder. Drawing back, he cups her cheek in his hand. "Half-brother."

Without another word, her husband turns on his heel and swiftly leaves the room.


She finds him in the common hall, sitting on one of the tables. He faces the front, looking thoughtfully at the timbered high table. For a second, she feels bad for disturbing him. Then, her foot creaks on the floorboard, and his head whips around.

A dim smile crosses his lips. "You look terrible."

Rose chuckles. "So, do you."

Tightening the cloak around herself, she walks towards him. His eyes watch her, intently, looking for signs of distress. Other than the nasty bruises across her face, she seems relatively sound. She stops in front of him, and her smile fades. "I came to say goodbye."

Theon frowns. "Goodbye?"

"Yara tells me that your uncle, Euron, has taken the Iron Islands. That he killed your father." She shakes her head, her brow furrowing. "I'm so sorry, Theon."

His eyes close, momentarily, his jaw clenching. When he opens them again, he stares down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "She should be our Queen," he murmurs. "She'd do a better job of it than I ever could."

Rose arches an eyebrow. "That's the wisest thing you've ever said," she teases.

Theon's face breaks out in a wide grin. "Oi."

He watches in awe as she laughs again, wondering how she's managing to do so after everything that's happened. Carefully, so as not to startle her, his hands find her hips, and he tugs her towards him, between his legs. "I want to fight for you," he implores. "Like I should have done, years ago."

Rose nibbles on her bottom lip. "Your place isn't here anymore." She runs a hand through his curls, tilting his head up to look her in the eye. "Jon sent you away for a reason. Your family needs you, just as mine needs me."

Theon shakes his head. "I can't even begin to make up for the things I've done," he mutters. "Fighting for the Starks in the name of the North seems like a good place to start."

Rose smiles, sadly. She laces her arms around his shoulders. "Take your home back," she pleads. "I'll take back mine. And, we'll find our way back to one another again. Like we always inevitably do," she adds, and he chuckles, wryly.

His eyes, green like sage, gaze into hers. A powerful ache fills her chest, but she resists the urge to cry. Instead, she dips her head against his, relishing in the feeling of his closeness. "Thank you for saving me," she whispers, curling her fingers through the back of his hair. "I'll return the favour someday."

Again, he grins. "I'll hold you to that."

Together, they laugh. The sound dies the moment their lips touch, and she kisses him, fervently. All the pain, the things that Ramsay did to her in that room, all the distance that has separated them in the past few years disappears. All she knows is him. Theon, holding her, kissing her. She never wants him to let go.

Of course, he does, their heads drawing away. Not having the strength to say goodbye again, she turns and heads for the door. The moment his arms slip from her, she is enveloped in coldness.

"Rose?" he calls. She looks over her shoulder. He straightens up, swallowing. "Should you need me again . . ."

She grins. "I'll count on you to cross the oceans."


The days pass in a strange calm. Rose spends a lot of that time in bed, resting when she has the nerve to close her eyes. Sansa checks in on her every now and then, to bring her food or fresh clothing. She cannot help but feel somewhat resentful, knowing that everyone is planning and preparing for the battle while she is stuck on bedrest.

Not to mention, Jon hasn't visited at all. She knows why, in the back of her mind. She remembers his face when he saw her, lying in that bed, screaming and crying. He looked so utterly helpless.

And, Rose hates feeling so fragile. Even as the pain in her body lessens, and the bruises begin to lighten on her skin. The nightmares still wake her every night. Her little sister still sees her in such a dreadful state, growing weaker while she grows stronger by the day.

One morning, as the snow falls heavier outside of her chambers, sticking to the window, she climbs out of bed and crosses the room, to the mirror above her table. She looks at her reflection, seeking her out. The girl who spat in Ramsay's face. The girl who pulled a knife on the Hound, on Littlefinger. The girl who brought an Ironborn to his knees. The girl who truly believed she could rule the North someday.

Instinctively, her mind goes to Loreena.

They sing songs for your family, for House Stark. Praying for even the dimmest of lights in a blackened realm . . . that the Rose of Winterfell will return to take her rightful place as Wardeness of the North. That she'll rule with the same honour and grace as her father . . . they've already chosen, Lady Stark. They choose you. A thousand times over, they'll choose you.

Amidst the piercing stab of grief, her chin lifts. Her decision made, she turns away from the mirror and picks up a handful of clothes Sansa had draped over the chair.


When she enters the courtyard, the wind blows the snow in her face. Squinting against it, she heads down the staircase, scanning the number of horses, the men mounting them. At the front, she can see her sister sitting near the Red Woman and Brienne. Behind them, she can see Podrick and Tormund and a handful of other men, all staring at the gates like they've signed their own death sentences.

When she reaches the bottom of the staircase, Jon turns his head. He frowns when he sees her approaching, but it quickly morphs into a soft smile. "You were put on bedrest for a reason."

"Well, you know me." She sighs, grinning. "Restless."

He looks her, up and down. She wears crimson riding breeches, and a thin coating of chainmail under a fitted, leather breastplate with the Stark sigil engraved on it. Her hair is pinned backwards, braided away from her face, showing the healing bruises on her skin. Draping over her is a thick, fur cloak of the darkest black. She looks battle-ready, and it makes him wince.

"Rose, you don't—"

"I'm tired of sitting back, watching all of you getting ready for a fight I know I can help you win," she interrupts, curtly. "I'm a Stark. My place is with my family. Not shut up in this miserable old dump."

Jon stares at her, then chuckles. "Anything I can say to stop you?" he asks. Rose tilts her head, giving him a look. He sighs, still grinning. "You've grown stubborn."

"Hmh. I learned from the best."

His brown eyes bear into hers for a long moment, staring at her like he cannot quite believe she's there, standing in front of him. Then, he removes one of the belts from around his hips. "Yara recovered this from Winterfell." He holds it out, and she catches her breath. "Seems to think it belongs to you."

Rose bites down on her bottom lip, a bright smile spreading across her face. "Redthorn," she breathes.

Tenderly, she takes the sword back into her hands, where it is sheathed beside Robb's curved dagger. Struggling under the weight of her cloak, she fastens the belt around her own hips. The small amount of fight she had left inside of her swells, burning through her veins.

Her eyes dart upwards to gaze at Jon. Ignoring the ache of her body, she throws herself at him, burying her face in his own fur cloak. Silently, his arms circle around her. Then, he is holding her, as tightly as he can, his eyes closing over her shoulder. They hold each other for a while. When she pulls apart, she beams up at him. "I missed you, big brother."

Jon sighs, shakily. "I missed you, too," he rasps. He drops a soft kiss on her brow, his hand cradling her head, then crosses over to where Edd is standing, watching the scene unfold.

Rose heads over to the horses, catching Sansa's eyes. For a moment, she looks baffled. Then, a knowing grin crosses her lips. Rose smiles back at her as she mounts her horse. Once she's settled, her head turns to face her sister. "He'll suffer for it," she says, calmly. "A thousand times over."

Sansa nods, swallowing. In front of them, Jon mounts his horse. Together, the party following behind them, they march through the gates of Castle Black.


A/N: Rose is about to become an official game-player. I am so flipping excited for this second half of the series! Did Rose make the right choice sending Littlefinger away? Will she realise she's made a mistake? Or, will Sansa be doing some scheming behind her back? Also, why do you think the Ironborn couldn't find Rickon in the dungeons? Let me know your thoughts!