THE CROW FLIES NORTH

Jon II

It was snowing again, as it had been for almost a full moon now. Even with the tireless work of Winterfell's residents to clear away the snow and transport it beyond the outer walls or to see it melted into drinking water, the ground was still blanketed with several inches of fresh fall. Their last well had frozen solid the week prior and with the ever growing number of people arriving in Winterfell a limit on firewood consumption had already been put in place. As yet, all the roofs were holding fast, but they would have to be managed carefully as the weight of fallen snow took its toll. Jon knew that the outer building had taken more than their share of damage over the past few years and their ability to withstand winter as they were designed would, therefore, be limited. Then there was the need for ample latrine pits to be dug before the ground froze to the point of impenetrably…

Jon sighed as he trudged across Winterfell's frozen courtyard. Some days he honestly couldn't fathom why anyone would want to rule.

But then, some people did seem able to thrive under the weight of responsibilities and logistics, and one such person was the woman he was searching for. He found his sister in the glass gardens examining the stunted sprouts the gardener had managed to get started before this latest freeze. Her back was to him, and he took a moment to marvel at the incredible woman the vapid little girl from his childhood had grown into. Her mother would be proud, he thought, and he knew with certainty that their father would be.

Stepping fully into the glass garden, he cleared his throat to announce his presence. "Will they mature?"

Sansa turned to face him with a curiously closed off expression creasing her face, but blinked it away before Jon could pinpoint the emotion behind it. "Cauller thinks so. It will be a limited crop, but he seems impressed with the suggestions the free folk gave him."

"Good," Jon nodded before shifting the subject to the reason he had sought her out, "Baelish came to speak with me earlier."

"I know."

Somehow that didn't surprise him, although the fact that Littlefinger had come to him rather than his sister certainly had and the news he brought even more so. "He says the Freys are dead."

Something of his disbelief must have shown on his face because Sansa frowned. "You think he's wrong?" she asked.

"You don't?"

"He rarely is."

Jon swallowed the decidedly un-kingly scoff that sought to escape at his sister's words. "And yet he sold you to the Boltons."

Sansa sighed as she fingered one of the sprouts in the raised bed beside her. "And you wonder if he was wrong about Ramsay? Or about selling me? Or both, perhaps?"

"Was he?" Jon asked sharply. If Baelish had known about what Ramsay was when he traded Sansa away like some shiny little trinket he would murder the man himself, the allegiance of the Vale be damned…

"It hardly matters now."

Jon stared at his sister in disbelief, but her expression was still frigid and so he chose not to argue. "So you believe him," he said instead.

Sansa shrugged and flicked the dirt from her fingers before turning to him once more. "In this instance, yes."

"And what do you propose we do about it?"

"Nothing."

Jon blinked. "Nothing?" he repeated.

Sansa gave him that indistinguishable expression again. "You've already called the Northern Houses and the Houses of the Vale to Winterfell, they're bringing what resources they have with them and destroying the lands they leave behind. Whatever may or may not be happening in the Riverlands, it would be suicide for it to come North. As, I believe, was the point of the summons?"

"Yes," Jon admitted. She was correct, of course, but if they were to believe Baelish's report then an entire House had just been slaughtered. When he'd given the order to gather his people at Winterfell and leave nothing behind his reasoning had been to ease the burden of keeping everyone fed and sheltered through winter, and to make it near impossible for Cersei to attack from the South without bringing unreasonably large stores of food and heat with her. He hadn't meant for it to keep them protected from forces as near as the Riverlands… "But I confess I hadn't expected the orders to be followed so thoroughly." And that was true as well. He'd expected people to be far more resistant to leaving their homes and livelihoods behind, yet most were obliging without complaint and their pilgrimage was progressing much faster than he'd foreseen.

"You're their King, Jon," Sansa replied with the tone of someone explaining something very simple to a particularly dim child, "And the people respect you, of course they obeyed."

Jon frowned. "The people, but not you?"

"I respect you, I just think you're an idiot."

"Sansa…" Jon racked his brain for anything he might have done to upset his sister. They'd been getting on so well of late… Perhaps this was coming from his decision to travel to the Wall? "If this is about me going north, you saw the letter from Edd — that is, from Lord Commander Tollet — I have to go. Edd and Tormund are the first line of defence against — "

"The Dragon Queen?"

Ah. Well, fuck. He'd planned on telling her, truly he had, but the right moment had never presented itself… "How do you…?"

Sansa laughed coldly. "You go on nonstop about how only fire can kill these 'wights,' and how we need more allies. You have us building trenches to be set alight around Winterfell's exterior wall and throughout the encampments being built beyond it. You have oil being stockpiled within the Keep, and no one has seen Ser Davos in over a month. It's not a difficult leap."

"Sansa…" he interjected warily. His sister was angry, yes, but she was reasonable. She would understand his reasons…

But Sansa paid him no mind. "She's a Targaryen, Jon." she snapped, "She has three grown dragons. She can burn the North to rubble and there is nothing we can do to stop her! And you invite her here!?"

A hot surge of anger cut through him unexpectedly. Why could no one see? This wasn't about a throne. Gods, this wasn't even about surviving winter. The situation was so, so much more dire than that. "Then at least we die warm!" he fired back, "I don't know this Daenerys Targaryen, I don't know if she's a friend or foe, but I do know that the dead are coming and what we have right now can't stop them! I know they can't be reasoned with. I know they can't be bought. I know they can't be outmanoeuvred. We need help if we hope to survive, and I'd much rather take my chances with the Dragon Queen than Cersei Lannister."

His sister didn't back down, but then she rarely did these days. "So you'd bend the knee, just as Torrhen Stark did? You'd submit our people to another foreign ruler who will burn them for sport?"

"You underestimate the North, Sansa," Jon sighed, the fight leaving him as quickly as ever. He'd never been able to hold on to anger like his siblings could. "And me, it seems. I may not have wanted the crown, but I have no intention of relinquishing it to anyone other than you."

That set her on the back foot somewhat, and her next words carried markedly less bite. "An alliance, then?" she translated, "That's what you hope for? How? We have nothing to offer."

"We will, if she chooses to come North. Daenerys Targaryen has never set foot in Westeros, she's never experienced our climate, and she certainly doesn't know from winter. Half her army has never seen snow, let alone fought and survived in it. The only ones who have are those from the Reach and Iron Islands, and they still don't know the snows like we do. Winter is here, Sansa. That's what we have."

Sansa looked decidedly unimpressed. "That and the dead, apparently."

And it was at that moment that Jon realized. "You don't believe me." The words were soft, and he couldn't be bothered to mask the hurt that slipped out.

"I do believe you, Jon," Sansa sighed, "I do. I believe that you believe in what you're saying. But I worry that you're so focused on the dead and only the dead, and if it's not the threat you think it is…"

Jon's chest was behaving oddly, contracting in that tight and painful way a body reacts to freezing water and stealing his breath away. "They built the bloody Wall to keep the White Walkers and their army out, how much more of a threat do you want them to be? I don't see any walls built to keep dragons out, nor lions for that matter," He was essentially pleading now, he knew that, but he didn't care. They had been doing so well. "You could come with me," he suggested, desperately, "Come to the Wall and see for yourself…"

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

The all too familiar feeling of a knife plunging between his ribs and into his chest cut any remaining fight out of him. She was right. Of course, she was right. And he was no Stark. He'd always accepted that truth, so why did it hurt now?

"And someone needs to be here to handle your Dragon Queen should she arrive without the intention to turn us all to ash," Sansa continued.

But Jon wasn't listening. He turned away from his sister and raised a hand to his chest, rubbing at it in a halfhearted attempt to loosen the pressure building there. "Of course…"

"Jon, I didn't mean it like that — "

Sansa's voice faded behind him as the Bastard of Winterfell stalked back the way he had come.


Jon was in conversation with three of the younger heads of Houses later that evening when Brienne sought him out. It was Alys Karstark who noticed Sansa's sworn shield first and stumbled over which title to address her by. Jon took pity on the girl and performed the necessary introductions himself while Lyanna Mormont took in her knightly attire with undisclosed respect and poor little Ned Umber simply stared up at her looking every bit the boy he was. Jon dismissed the children promptly and gestured for Brienne to walk with him out onto the ramparts. She obeyed without a word.

The wind had picked up earlier as the sun had set and snow swirled around them as they stepped outside. Brienne kept pace well for someone who had not grown up with ice underfoot, and for a time they walked in silence.

It was Brienne who finally spoke, her voice clear even in the wind. "Your Grace, Lady Sansa has requested that I pass along a message on her behalf."

Jon paused and turned to rest his elbows on the stone wall as he stared out into the darkness. He didn't reply, but inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. He was not so petty as to deny his sister that. More than that, he realized his reaction had, perhaps, been a tad excessive.

"Lady Sansa stands by her position but would like me to assure you that she meant her final comment as nothing more than a reminder that it would be unwise for both of you to leave the castle unattended. She hopes you will join her to continue the discussion," Brienne relayed with her usual efficiency.

The darkness beyond the reach of Winterfell's fires seemed to shift tauntingly. The dead were out there, waiting in the black, and no one believed him… Jon sighed, "Thank you, Brienne. Please inform Sansa that I will speak to her in the morning."

"At once, Your Grace," she bowed.

At least, Jon assumed she bowed. She seemed the type. Still, he did not look away from the encroaching darkness, trusting Brienne to find her own way back indoors. The biting wind was oddly grounding, and he allowed his eyes to slip closed as he breathed in deeply. The wounds in his chest stretched uncomfortably beneath the binding Sansa had secured in place a few nights previously, but the icy air numbed some of the pain, and he repeated the action a few more times.

"Your Grace?"

Jon very nearly startled when Brienne's voice cut through his moment of peace, but suppressed the reaction in time. Turning, he noted that the lady knight was still standing where he had last seen her, a few paces behind him and off to the side. Her face bore an air of uncertainty, or perhaps she just didn't find the winter wind as calming as he did.

"I can only assume that your desire to return to the Wall was the cause of your disagreement with your sister," Brienne continued, obviously watching for any indication that her words were overstepping her position, "If I might make a suggestion? Perhaps it would be wise to take a small delegation with you to see the situation for themselves? I would gladly send Podrick as a representative of Lady Sansa and myself."

Jon blinked. That was quite a good thought. If he could show the major Houses what the Brothers of The Night's Watch were up against — what they were all up against — and get them on side it would certainly make explaining his decision to parley with Daenerys Targaryen easier to explain when it inevitably came to light. "Your suggestion is appreciated," he told Brienne honestly, "Thank you."

This time, his earlier suspicions were confirmed as Brienne bowed politely in reply before leaving him to the dark and the wind.