Jon

"Your Grace," a faint voice called from beyond the latched door. Jon stirred. "Your Grace," it called again. This time more insistent.

"A moment," Jon rasped, his voice thick with sleep. He slid onto the warm stones and fumbled in the darkness for his smallclothes. He swung the door open. His eyes met with candle glow.

"I beg pardon, Your Grace," the small northern boy garbed in Stark livery squeaked. Outstretched in his hand was a small scroll. Jon snatched it eagerly. "A message from," the boy hesitated, looking uneasy. "Lord Stark," Bran. Jon thanked the boy, his voice laden with tension. Daenerys had bestirred herself, lighting the candlesticks beside the bed. The chamber began to unfold before him, as he tore the seal and read.

"It's Bran," Jon said after scanning the scrawl. He snatched his leather gambeson from a chair back and began lacing, his fingers clumsy with sleep. Daenerys slid from the bed and padded to where a jug of spiced wine sat. She poured one cup. And then another.

"Drink." It was a command. Jon took the cup and downed it swiftly, a trickle of wine dripped from the corner of his mouth.

"You'll need to dress as well," he said wiping his chin. Dany looked up from her cup, her violet eyes full of questions. "I do not speak Valyrian."

The acolytes had assembled in the chamber where the battle preparations were made. Jon noticed a brazier had been erected, and from it deep orange flames licked an ornate bronze brim. There must be a dozen, thought Jon as he examined their faces. There were men and women, their faces hailed from every corner of Essos, yet all so eerily indistinguishable. Their robes were a deep burgundy and all of their eyes seemed to drink the firelight. One woman stepped forward, her dark hair gleaming, and bowed low and reverential before Jon and Daenerys. Jon eyed the ruby at her throat and was filled with skepticism.

"Your graces," she bowed once more. Jon could not place her accent.

"You have journeyed far, my lady," Daenerys said. "I spent many years in Volantis when I was a girl. Your order is welcome here, with us." The faces around the room seemed to float upon the firelight, their heads bobbing up and down in a sea of black.

"We are the Fiery Hand," Kinvara eyed Jon now. "Servants of the Lord of Light. We have journeyed to Winterfell to stand with the living." In the corner of his eye, Jon noticed his brother, silent and alone. For a moment the flames washed his face in golden light and a soft smile blossomed as he gazed into the fire.

"You have our thanks, my lady" Jon said curtly. Their eyes met. And in that moment, it seemed to Jon that the priestess knew everything there was to know about him. He felt naked and in his mind's eye he saw the blackness that followed the steel. Blackness, the cold, and then a thirst for blood. He remembered the taste of it as it filled his mouth, warm and sticky. He remembered the crunch of snow beneath him and the silver glow of the moon overhead, and still, blackness. Blackness until the words called him forth from the shadows. He had been consumed with fire ever since.

"Allow me to speak plainly, your graces," Kinvara said, her words silky and lyrical. She moved toward the table, her bronze arms outstretched."If it please you," she added. Jon nodded.

"Why is it that you do not speak of your time in the embrace of R'hllor?" Dany turned to Jon, eyes wide.

"There is nothing to speak of, my lady. It was the blackness that embraced me. Nothing more."

"Yet still you seek to hide the truth." At this Jon said nothing, but Kinvara stepped closer. "You remember more than blackness," she murmured. "I can see the fiery wildness in your eyes. Red eyes. Blue eyes. Violet eyes. You cannot hide the truth from yourself, Jon Snow." She turned to Daenerys, then. Her eyes searching. "The mother of dragons," she said, bowing once more. "And yet, shadow still lingers over you still. Free the Lady Melisandre from her chamber," she continued. "Let her work among us." Daenerys gazed upon the priestess, her face hard and cold as stone.

"Torgo Nudho," Daenerys called, her voice flat and featureless. Grey Worm emerged from the shadows. "See that the Priestess and her attendants are housed, fed and seen to. They are my welcome guests." She turned to Jon. He knew what she asked of him.

"And see that the Red Woman has the freedom of the castle," he added irascibly.

The High Priestess bowed and excused herself, a stream of acolytes following as Grey Worm led them from the chamber. Jon shivered in spite of the flames.

The rest of the morning unfolded much like the days before. Battlements were inspected, carts were loaded and women, children and men unable to fight were seen on their way south to Moat Cailin. A steady stream of sullen northerners, their faces salt streaked, unsure whether they would ever see their men again. And between it all, Jon kelt at the heart tree and prayed. He prayed the old gods would send him the strength to do what needed to be done. And it was there, under the boughs of blood red that he heard the single horn blast: riders from the north, but not enemies.

The bedraggled stream of the few remaining men and women who remained north of Winterfell poured into the castle bailey. Hoods drawn, their faces were miserably indistinguishable. Some wore roughspun from castle holdfasts, others wore the skins and furs of the Freefolk. Blood soaked bandages were wound across foreheads, shoulders and hands. They were the lucky ones Jon stood watching the sullen lot trod into the castle when suddenly his nose flooded with the acrid tang of wet earth, the stench of unwashed men, and the stinging smoke of the castle forges. He braced himself on the wall behind him, his eyes burning from the rush of senses. The sensation did not ebb, but with every passing moment, he grew more alert, stronger, and able to withstand the rush of heightened senses. Jon knew who guarded the rear column of Northmen and wildlings: The men of the Night's Watch and his direwolf. Ghost.

Jon watched as Edd Tollett, Tormund Giantsbane, and Beric Dondarrion ladled mouthfuls of steaming stew into their mouths. He would let the men eat their fill in the silence, then the questions would come. They had seen the Night King's army. Jon could see it in Edd's eyes. When the last piece of gristle had been tossed to Ghost who dozed by the hearth, and the final bit of broth wiped from their beards, Jon spoke up.

"Where did you find each other?" he asked. The great hall had emptied save for the comings and goings of the household.

"We met up at the Last Hearth," Edd said, sipping from his goblet. A serving wench rid the men of their trenchers.

"The dead got there first," Tormund said gravely.

"We went around the main host," Edd added. "What you saw with us is all that remained living North of Winterfell." Soft footfalls upon the cobbles interrupted the men. Daenerys entered. Her gown was white leather trimmed with ivory furs dyed red, her hair pulled back in intricate plaiting. Upon her head, a silver circlet, its circumference adorned with seven blood rubies.

"My lords," Jon stood up from the bench followed by the northern trio. "May I present Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," the men bowed.

"Your Grace," it was Lord Beric. "I did not get to offer my proper thanks for what you did beyond the Wall." Daenerys steeled herself. In his mind's eye, Jon could see Viserion's lifeless body slide beneath the ice.

"There is no need, my Lord," she said, the waver in her voice detectable to Jon alone.

"I've seen giants and mammoths and the dead rise." It was Tormund now as he downed the remains of his ale. "But if someone asked me if a dragon-riding goddess would save me from the dead," dregs dripped from his amber beard. "Well, I could have called them one crazy fucker." Dany smiled warmly.

"You are kind to say, my lord. But I am no goddess. I am merely a dragon rider like my ancestors before me," she touched the circlet that crowned her silver hair.

"Aegon's crown," Lord Beric of Blackhaven murmured. Daenerys nodded.

"You have a keen eye, Lord Beric," she smiled. "It was a bride gift from my husband," she turned to Jon.

"A replica, but a meticulous replica to be sure," he nodded.

"You bastard!" Tormund leapt across the table, grabbed Jon by the scruff of his neck and mussed his hair. Edd and Beric raised their goblets in tribute. Ghost roused himself from beside the fire and loosed a low, throaty growl at Tormund. "Alright! It was a jest, you beast," Tormund released Jon amidst fits of laughter.

"Ghost," Jon said, "to me." But as the direwolf padded from Tormund to Jon, he stopped beside Daenerys. "Ghost," he reiterated, "to me." The wolf would not budge. Jon exchanged glances with Tormund.

"It seems your dog has a new master, crow" Tormund snorted. Jon looked to Dany, her face beaming as she scratched behind Ghost's ears. Jon's chest tightened and suddenly a future he never allowed himself to possess seemed so close. Daenerys beside a raging hearth after a day of ruling, Ghost by her side. Maybe a silver-haired babe or two. Jon knew it was all folly. The dead marched south and they had little and less time to prepare. The Last Hearth, Jon remembered.

"How much time do we have?" Jon asked suddenly. The warmth from the room seemed to vanish. The three men looked at each other, searching for the answer. It was Edd who spoke first.

"Until the sun sets on the morrow."