AN: So I'm back from NaNO (I lost, as I do every year, lmao) buuuut my internet is out and will be till 12/12, unfortunately ( australian readers please join me in bitching about what a colossal clusterfuck the nbn is). I need to watch a couple of episodes before I can write more (gotta refresh myself on a certain character) and I've signed up for the yuletide exchange on ao3 which has to temporarily take priority because it's time sensitive. But I am back, and I'm working on what I can!

"D'you believe it?" asked Robb, holding his torch out in front of him. "That we traded with the White Walkers?"

"Not a single clue," said Jon, ducking under a spiderweb. The crypts were full of the stuff. "But I agree with Sansa and Arya; something doesn't add up with the stories."

"It's just so hard to imagine Bran being evil," sighed Robb.

"But it wasn't Bran," replied Jon. "Just a parasite using his body as a puppet." He spat the last word.

Robb licked his lips nervously. "You know, when you put it like that, it almost sounds like the wights."

"I'm sorry?" said Jon.

"The wights," repeated Robb. "Raising a body to use it as a puppet."

Jon stopped in his tracks. "What if that's it?" Robb glanced back at Jon, quirking an eyebrow upwards. "What if the Three-Eyed Raven really was using Bran's body the same way as the wights? Arya said, once, that when Bran skinchanged, he could even skinchange into Hodor's body. What if the White Walkers are just skinchanging into dead bodies?"

"So some really fucked up version of a skinchanger?" asked Robb.

"The Children could do skinchange, and so can humans, apparently," said Jon. "Why not White Walkers?"

"Skinchanging into a dead body might be even easier than skinchanging into an animal," mused Robb as they began walking again. "There's nothing there to fight for control with."

Jon readjusted the stack of scrolls and fragile books in his arms. "Maybe," said Jon. Neither of them knew enough about skinchanging to do anything more than speculate.

They were only a few levels from the entrance when Jon stopped again. "There's a chest," he said, nudging Robb and pointing to it. It was hidden behind a tomb, but Jon was wary enough in the crypts that he examined every tomb he passed.

"It could have more documents," suggested Robb, approaching the chest.

"It can't," said Jon. "These levels aren't that old - a few hundred years old, if that." He settled his stack of documents next to the chest. Robb held the torch over the chest and nodded at him. Jon took a deep breath and pulled it open.

At the top of the chest was a cloak, dirty white with a grey dire wolf emblazoned on it. Jon glanced back up at the tomb reflexively, but it – like every other tomb in the Stark crypts besides Aunt Lyanna's – belonged to a lord, not a lady. And yet, unmistakably, a wedding cloak.

Jon lifted the cloak out carefully and rested it beside the chest. A silver harp rested beneath it. Jon couldn't resist plucking at one of the strings as he picked it up, but the string snapped at the tension.

"It can't be that old, if the strings hadn't rotted away altogether," pointed out Robb.

"So why leave it so far down?" wondered Jon. The chest wasn't going to be important to the White Walkers, he knew. But his curiosity was getting the better of him, and he kept digging into the chest. Underneath the harp, he found small, wooden toys: a dragon, a dire wolf, even the lizard lion of the Neck. At the bottom of the chest was another piece of black fabric, and Jon lifted it out with bated breath, wondering if it would provide answers.

It provided the opposite. It was another wedding cloak, but Jon knew that no Stark had ever married into this House, or the other way around. A red dragon was embroidered on to the cloak, the symbol of House Targaryen.

"There's a note," whispered Robb. Jon glanced down. Robb was right; the parchment had been hidden underneath the Targaryen cloak. Jon held it up to the torchlight and began to read.

My wonderful Lyanna,

I do not know where I will be when you read this – if I will be meeting Robert Baratheon in battle or if I will be riding back to you and to our Visenya. I can only hope that this will bring you comfort in the days to come.

I will never forget when I first found you in Harrenhal's Godswood, or the moment that I crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty. You were the most beautiful women I had ever seen, and your actions at the joust only proved that you, and you alone, were the one woman that I needed.

By the time I return to you, our Visenya will likely have been born. I hope that you will have already told her of her father. I hope that your words will be kind.

Your dearest husband

Jon sat the letter back into the chest with shaking hands. "Rhaegar married Aunt Lyanna," he murmured to himself. It was so very different to the story he had been told about Lyanna.

Rhaegar's words were fond – kinder than he expected a rapist to use – but that last line made him wonder how far the truth really differed from the story he had always been told. I hope that your words will be kind. How delusional did the prince have to be, to expect the woman he had kidnapped to speak of him kindly?

Jon looked up to Robb, but Robb was staring at him with wide eyes, his face pale even in the torchlight. "What?"

"Lyanna was having a child," said Robb. "Nobody ever mentioned it. Nobody."

"She must have died with Aunt Lyanna," said Jon, beginning to place the cloaks and harp back into the chest. "We should move the chest to be by her tomb."

"Jon," said Robb. Jon stopped, looking back up at Robb. "Why would nobody have mentioned it? It would make for a great song. Why isn't her chest by her tomb already? Nobody mentioned it because nobody knows."

"Why would anyone bother to hide it?" asked Jon. He felt like he was at the edge of a great precipice, clinging on to it with only the very tips of his fingers.

"Because Father came back with a child," said Robb. "He came back with you."

Jon clung tighter to the precipice. It's impossible. It's impossible. It's impossible. I am Ned Stark's son, nobody else. "Rhaegar called the child Visenya – a daughter."

"How would Rhaegar know?" said Robb. "He said himself the child hadn't been born yet. The child could easily have been a son."

Jon's jaw worked. I am Jon Snow, the bastard son of Ned Stark. That is all I am. He shoved the Targaryen cloak into the chest, letting go abruptly as if it was made of fire. He wasn't a dragon; he was a dire wolf, through and through. He even had Ghost to prove it.

He rode Rhaegal, named after Rhaegar Targaryen, Sansa had said.

"Oh, gods," said Jon, crawling away from the chest. "I rode a dragon. I rode a dragon. The only other person who could do that -"

"- was Daenerys Targaryen," finished Robb.

"And the Night King," said Jon, feebly. He couldn't look into Robb's eyes, knowing there would be pity there.

"The Night King only rode a wight dragon," said Robb.

Jon buried his face in his hands. "I can't be. I can't be, Robb. I'm Jon Snow, that's all."

He heard shuffling, then a hand rested on his shoulder. Jon opened his eyes to see Robb kneeling before him. "You are my brother," he said firmly. "No matter what Father says, you are my brother, now and always."

"Now and always," echoed Jon in a whisper.

"Meet me in the Broken Tower," Theon had told her as they had all left Bran and Rickon to their lessons with Maester Luwin.

Sansa knew that Maester Luwin had to have finished with Bran and Rickon by now. She'd heard Bran shout only a few minutes earlier, laughter in his voice – not at all the kind of yell one used in lessons. Theon had to have made his way to the Broken Tower by now.

The Broken Tower was still empty, work having been discontinued until the lords left. She didn't find him on ground level, so she took the stairs up one level and then the next. It was there, on the third floor, that she found Theon. This floor was the highest that had been completely redone, and as it stood at the moment, it was a long, empty room. It didn't quite match up to the Great Hall, but Sansa knew it would be used as such, when the time came.

Theon was standing in the centre of the room. She walked over to him. She still didn't know what he wanted; there wasn't much to be done in a room as empty as this.

"What are we doing?" asked Sansa.

"The most I've seen you smile since we came back was when we were dancing," said Theon. "Ramsay was in the room, but Florian and Jonquil's song was playing, and you were smiling. So we're going to dance." He held out his hand and half-bowed. "Will you do me the honour of dancing with me, Lady Sansa?"

Sansa couldn't help the smile stealing across her face as she reached out and took Theon's hand. "It would be my pleasure, Lord Theon." He straightened, taking her right hand in his left and resting his other hand against her waist. Quietly, she began to sing. "Six maidens in a pool…"

As she sang, they began to move, feet in time across the open space. Alone in the hall, they didn't need to mind other dancers, so Theon twirled her out into wide spins. Her skirts spun outwards as she twirled, and she cackled as Theon stumbled on the fabric. He righted himself, a sheepish grin on himself, and brought her back in close to him. They kept moving, feet timed to her heartbeat, movement becoming more grandiose but less polished with every passing moment. They had stopped dancing to anything Septa Mordane had ever taught them. In fact, as Sansa found herself tucked against Theon once more, she suspected that the Septa would have a heart attack if she ever saw the two of them dancing like that.

Theon was more fluid in his movements than he had been since she had left him for the first time in Winterfell, years and years ago. Sansa, who had largely lost her love for dancing in the Red Keep, forced to dance with Joffrey or Tyrion or whoever Joffrey had wanted to embarrass her with that night, found herself laughing from the exuberance as twirled and pirouetted to the music. Dancing with Theon was like being a child again, stumbling on her partner's feet as she pretended that they were a prince. For a few brief, shining moments, all that existed was Sansa and Theon, dancing in an empty room, all her anxieties and traumas put aside, at least for now.

As she sang the last notes of the song, Theon and Sansa slowed almost to a stop, rocking together in the middle of the hall. Her head was nestled into the crook of his neck, and Theon rested his chin against the top of her head. The last note faded out of existence and she pulled back.

"I can't remember the last time I had so much fun," she whispered.

"That was the idea," said Theon, his smile cocky. Sansa's own smile widened to match his. She hadn't realised, until now, how much she had missed that expression, but something eased in her chest at the sight. Ramsay hadn't taken it from him.

Sansa moved her hand to rest on the back of his neck. "Thank you," she told him, and stretched up to press her lips to his. She kissed him gently, long enough to give Septa Mordane a conniption. Theon's shoulders softened under her hand, and he pulled her slightly closer.

Sansa Stark had been kissed before, but she had never kissed anyone of her own choosing. Kissing Theon was nothing like any other kiss she had received. It was not violent, not stiff or a demand. It was soft and kind and felt more like coming home than it did a battle. Theon's lips were chapped and his hands were rough and calloused from use – not exactly the perfumed prince she had once dreamed of, but he certainly treated her more gently than Joffrey ever would have.

After a long moment, standing kissing in the centre of the empty room, Sansa finally pulled away. Theon followed her for half a heartbeat before he let her go. There was no cockiness on his face now, but neither was there any of the fear or agony that had once been his constant companion. Sansa couldn't help it, taking in his tender green eyes behind long lashes; she pressed another quick kiss to his lips, too fast for Theon to even react.

"Come on," she said. "I know what we should do next."

She pulled him gently by the hand towards the door. He let her tug him along, following down the stairs and out into the courtyard. She let go of his hand, a mischievous grin forming on her face. She dashed away from him and ducked down, where she carefully – on account of her wrist – packed together a snowball. Before Theon even realised what was happening, a snowball smacked him straight in the face.

Theon spluttered as the snow dripped from his face. Sansa let out a loud cackle, dropping back down to start packing together a new snowball. Theon had an advantage over her, though, in having two functioning wrists. Before she could finish her own snowball, cold snow slapped against the side of her face. Sansa couldn't stop herself from laughing, determinedly packing together the snow. She turned and threw it, but Theon was already advancing on her, snow in hand. He picked her up with one arm, spinning her round, and rubbing snow into her hair with the other.

"Let me down!" she squealed, squirming in his arms. Theon was laughing too hard to listen, though, so Sansa tried to toss her hair free of the snow – and maybe to get him in the face with it, too. Nothing was out of bounds in a snowball fight.

The gates to crypt slammed open and Theon and Sansa stopped in their struggles. Theon dropped Sansa back to the ground as they both turned to look. Jon was marching out, a chest Sansa couldn't remember seeing in his arms. He didn't so much as look in Sansa and Theon's direction as he stormed towards the keep. Behind him, Robb doused his torch in the snow and ran after Jon, casting a worried look in Sansa and Theon's direction, but not stopping to chastise them.

"Shall I get Arya?" asked Theon.

Sansa nodded. "Quick as you can," she said over her shoulder as she took off after her brothers.

She caught up with them in Ned's solar. Ned and Catelyn were already there, seated by the desk. There was parchment scattered across Ned's desk, but he wasn't looking at it anymore, because Jon had dropped the chest in front of it and swung it open.

Ned stared at the chest, his jaw clenched. "You were never meant to find this," he whispered.

"So it's true?" demanded Jon. "I'm -" He broke off, unable to say it.

"I should have gotten rid of it," went on Ned. "I should have burnt it. But I couldn't destroy all that was left of Lya. I left it as close to her tomb as I dared." Ned squeezed his eyes shut, looking pained. "I should have known it wouldn't stay hidden, not when we were traipsing up and down through the crypts."

"What's going on?" interrupted Sansa. "Is that not from the room we found?"

Jon wheeled on her. "Did you know?" he demanded. "You and Arya, did you know and not tell me?"

"Know what?" asked Sansa, refusing to let Jon's tone bother her.

"That I'm Lyanna's son, not Father's! That I'm a Targaryen."

Sansa almost staggered under the shock of the revelation. She turned to look at Ned, waiting for him to deny it, but Ned only looked down at his desk, not meeting anyone's eyes. Catelyn was staring at Ned as if she had never see him before.

"Rhaegar's son," she whispered. "The boy is Rhaegar's son?"

"There's a letter and everything," said Jon, rifling through the chest and pulling out the offending piece of parchment. "Wedding cloaks, toys, everything."

Ned stood up. "Close the door, Robb." He waited until Robb had done as he had asked then continued. "Lyanna met Rhaegar for the first time at the Tourney of Harrenhal. In truth, I don't know what happened between them there, but I know how it ended: Lyanna went with him, and went with him willingly. I don't know if she stayed willingly, but I know that leaving was her decision."

Ned took a deep breath. "Ben warned me, but I didn't fully believe him until I arrived at her side. She was dying of fever, but she lived long enough to make me promise her one thing: that I keep you safe. That I never tell anyone of who you were, because if Robert ever discovered your parentage – well, I don't know he would react. He loved Lyanna, and to this day he believes that she was kidnapped and raped. If he discovered that Rhaegar had gotten her with child…" Ned pressed his lips together, then said, "Well, I told him and everybody that you were -"

The door opened, and Ned broke off, but only Arya entered. "Theon said I was needed," she said, glancing around the room. She could obviously sense the tension in the air, and she slid to stand by Jon.

"Go on," said Jon, his voice rough.

"I told the world that you were my bastard," said Ned. "Only Benjen and Howland Reed – he was with me, that day, when I found you and Lya – know the truth." Arya's eyebrows shot up and she looked at Sansa. 'Later,' Sansa mouthed back at her.

"Did you know?" Jon asked her and Arya again.

Sansa shook her head. "No, Jon. Father died and the secret died with him. I would never have guessed."

"But you said I rode a dragon," protested Jon. "Did none of you guess? Not one person realised?"

"Daenerys Stormborn loved you," said Sansa. "That's all it was. That's all we thought it was, at least, that the dragons let you ride them because their mother loved you. I would never have thought…" She blinked, tears stinging at her eyes abruptly. "You were my brother. I never questioned it, Jon, not once."

"He still is our brother," snapped Arya.

"You still are," amended Sansa. "I didn't mean to say that you weren't. You're my brother, Jon, and you are a Stark."

"But I'm not," said Jon. "Don't you see? I'm not a Stark, and I never was. I was a Snow and now I'm a – a Targaryen." He stumbled over the words. "Fire and blood, isn't it? Gods know why Ghost even wants me."

"Don't be ridiculous," hissed Arya. "He wants you because you're a Stark of Winterfell, same as any of us. There wouldn't be six dire wolves if there wasn't six Stark children."

Jon looked away from her, not letting her meet his eyes. He turned to face Ned. "I was so proud, to be your son," he whispered. "Even just your bastard. I was so proud."

"Oh, Jon," said Ned. He left the table and caught Jon up in a hug. Sansa saw Jon tense, knew that he wanted to fight it – but he relented the moment Ned put his arms around him, burrowing into the hug like he was still a little boy. "I was proud to call you my son. You have grown into a good man, one that Lyanna would have been proud of."

The chair screeched as Catelyn stood abruptly. She pushed her way out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Sansa stared after her mother, wondering if she should go after Catelyn, but couldn't bear to tear herself away from what was unfolding.

"She named you," said Ned. "I couldn't call you it, not without raising suspicion, but she did name you."

"What did she call me?" whispered Jon, his voice cracking. Ned released him.

"Jaehaerys," said Ned. "You had a brother and a sister, named Aegon and Rhaenys, but they both died before you were born."

"The letter called Jon Visenya," said Robb.

Ned nodded. "Aye, I remember," he said. "Evidently, Rhaegar had chosen a theme for his children's names, but he did not even stop to think he might have two sons instead of two daughters."

"I already have brothers," said Jon. "And sisters. I don't want…" He shook his head like he was trying to rid himself of a fly. "I don't want any of this." With that, he wrenched himself away from Ned and stormed out of the room.

"I thought that I'd find you here."

Jon didn't turn his gaze away from the statue in front of him at Arya's words. She walked into his line of sight and kneeled before Lyanna's tomb, carefully placing a handful of flowers at its feet.

"I asked Father," said Arya. She came and sat by him, across the hall from Lyanna's tomb, knees drawn up to her chest. "He said that winter roses were her favourite flower."

"Do you know what Lady Stark's favourite flower is?" asked Jon suddenly.

Arya blinked in surprise. "The poppy flower. It grows in the Riverlands – turns whole fields red, she says."

Jon leant his head back against the wall. "You knew that. You barely even thought about it. I never even had the chance to know that kind of thing about my mother."

"You know some things, though," said Arya. "You know that she loved you. That's more than some people can say."

Jon sighed. He had been trying to imagine Lyanna, the whole time he had been sitting there, staring up at her statue. Everyone had always said that she looked like Arya, but the statue didn't look much like her – was the statue accurate or not? Did Lyanna look like Arya, or like the statue, or something in between?

What had she looked like, with a crown of winter roses on her brow? Had she smiled when she'd been crowned Queen of Love and Beauty? He imagined someone like Arya, sitting in the tills at a tourney, smiling as a handsome prince lowered crown of flowers on to her head – but that's where it always fell apart, because he couldn't imagine someone like Arya smiling at that. Sansa, maybe, but the Sansa of before, not the one now who would think first of the political implications of the prince crowning someone who was not his wife. He couldn't imagine any version of Arya being pleased at such a public romantic declaration, not at a prince abandoning his lady wife.

So who was Lyanna Stark? Arya was right; he knew that she'd loved him. But very little else about her added up: people who knew her said that she was like Arya, and perhaps she was as impulsive as Arya, fleeing a betrothal she didn't want for the man she did. But other parts of her story didn't sound like Arya at all, and only a little like Sansa.

Even knowing her name, his mother remained a mystery to him.

"Do you think she regretted it?" he asked. "Running away with Rhaegar. Do you know think she ever wished she'd just married Robert Baratheon after all?"

"I don't know," said Arya. "I don't think there's any way of knowing. Whoever she was, and whatever she wished, died with her. All that we have left now is stories of her." She reached out and grasped his hand. "But I also think it'd be hard for anyone to regret you, Jon."

Jon couldn't help but snort. "Do you really think that?" he asked. "Do you think the North would ever have knelt to me if they'd known that I was -" The words stuck in his throat. "You think they wouldn't have regretted it, if they'd ever known?"

"I think that they crowned you because you were you, Jon, not because of your family name," said Arya.

"They crowned Ned Stark's son," said Jon, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Now, I'm not even that."

"Do you think that the Wildlings cared whose son you were?" demanded Arya. "Or that the Night's Watch made you Lord Commander because of the father that you disowned when you made your vows? And if the Northern lords had really cared so much for inheritance, they would have crowned Sansa before you or – if a cock was really that important – they would have taken the crown back and given it to Bran when he came home. They chose you, Jon, not Ned Stark's son. You."

"Yoren!" called Mormont as the wandering crow and the rest of the party spilled into the Great Hall. Winterfell had always been a typical stop for new recruits heading north to the Wall, for a warm meal and a night of decent rest. Yoren rubbed his hands together to warm them as he approached Mormont and Ned and Benjen.

"Lord Stark," he acknowledged with a quick bow of his head before he turned to Mormont. "Commander. Ranger Stark. I didn't expect to see you both here."

Benjen exchanged a glance with Ned as Mormont replied, "We were called to Winterfell on urgent business. We'll join you riding north to the Wall."

"Of course, Commander," said Yoren, flicking his eyes curiously to Ned.

"We'll have to brief the entire Watch upon returning to Castle Black," said Benjen. "You'll hear what's happened then." Yoren nodded.

"Is Jon Arryn with you?" asked Ned, craning his neck to inspect the rabble that had accompanied Yoren. He hadn't seen Jon among them, but perhaps…

"I'm sorry, Lord Stark," said Yoren, bowing his head. "We were set upon in the Riverlands. Jon Arryn was killed in the struggle, along with two other recruits."

Ned squeezed his eyes shut. Sansa had warned him. She'd told him from the start that one of the forces in the Red Keep would ensure Jon was killed, that saving him would be nigh impossible when his death was the easiest way to push the Seven Kingdoms into instability and, eventually, into war. He thought he had prepared himself for it.

A hand grasped his arm and squeezed gently. Ned opened his eyes to see Benjen watching him with worried eyes.

"It's fine," he said. "I'm fine. You'll just need to excuse me for a moment."

He left the Great Hall and leant against the entrance, breathing in the frigid, northern air. The door opened only a half-moment after Ned had let it close, but it was only Benjen.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.

"I knew it was coming," admitted Ned. "I knew that the chances of him making it to the Wall alive were slim. I just hoped that we had saved him."

"I'm sorry, Ned," said Benjen quietly.

"Jon knows," said Ned abruptly. "Our Jon. He knows about Lyanna, and so does Cat, Robb, Sansa and Arya, since he confronted me about it in front of all of them."

Benjen stilled. "Is he still safe?"

"I think so, yes," said Ned, then, more certainly, "Yes. Robb and the girls wouldn't do a thing to harm their brother, and Catelyn…" He knew that Catelyn and Jon's relationship had always been non-existent at best, and rocky at worst.

But Catelyn also only wanted to protect her family. She didn't consider Jon family in the same way the rest of them, but exposing Jon would only endanger the rest of them. Maybe, in time, now that Jon was no longer the living evidence of Ned's betrayal, she might come to view him better. But in the meantime, her children's safety would outweigh any potential spite. "Catelyn won't say anything," he finished.

"How did he find out?" asked Benjen.

"He and Robb found her chest in the crypts," said Ned. "I should have thought it the moment we decided to search the crypts. I can't believe I forgot." What if Robert had wanted to see what they found in the crypts, and spotted it on their way back up? Ned could have destroyed everything with his lapse.

"You've had a lot on your plate," said Benjen, shifting so that he leant against the wall next to Ned, arms crossed.

Ned shook his head in disgust. "My daughters and my ward woke up with memories in their heads of their own deaths, and told me that an ancient evil had awoken again, but somehow, Jon Arryn dying and our Jon finding out about Lya almost had made me feel more off-balance than ever."

"You've lived up to your promise, Ned," said Benjen, his voice soft. "You've done more than Lya asked. You don't have to keep torturing yourself."

Ned speared him with a withering look. "You swore yourself to the Night's Watch because of what happened."

"And mine was a lifelong oath," said Benjen. "Yours wasn't. You've protected Jon all of these years, but he's almost a man grown, and none of the people who know will expose him. You've done well. Lyanna couldn't have asked for anything more."

"I still could have done more for Jon Arryn," said Ned. "I should have sent a warning myself, told him there was a price on his head. He would have listened to me more than an anonymous note."

"And if that person had intercepted your letter, then you would have told all of our enemies about Sansa and Arya," said Benjen. "The world's full of hard choices, Ned. Sometimes all the choices you have are bad ones, but you still have to choose."

Jon knew that he was going to be the last of the party to reach the courtyard, but there was one thing he had to do first.

Arya welcomed him into her room with a broad smile on her face. She looked far too excited for just a farewell, and Jon stopped in his tracks.

"You already know what this is, don't you?" he asked.

Arya nodded eagerly. "Needle."

"Is that what you named it?" asked Jon, unwrapping the small sword from its covering. Arya watched reverently.

"It's the only thing I was able to keep," she said. "Through everything, through the Riverlands and across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, when I was barely Arya Stark at all – I always had Needle."

"Then I'm glad I chose well," said Jon. He hesitated as Arya took Needle from him, holding it carefully. It was clear as soon as it was in her hands that Arya knew how to handle it; he had heard some of her stories, but he had never seen her with a weapon in hand before. Any doubt he might have had would have vanished at the sight. "I don't know when we'll see each other next…"

"But we will," interrupted Arya. "If I could get through all of my last life and come home to Winterfell and see you again, then we can do it again, so you mustn't talk as if we'll never see each other again."

"Thank you," he said firmly, "for everything."

Arya placed the sword on to her bed before leaping on to him in a hug. Jon laughed as he staggered back, spinning her around in a circle. "Be careful up north," said Arya. "Don't start any fights you can't win, and for gods' sake, don't try to capture any wights."

"I won't do anything stupid," promised Jon.

Arya harrumphed. "We'll see about that."

Benjen and Mormont were both already waiting by the gates, having said any of their goodbyes. Sons and daughters of the North were spread across the courtyard, farewelling any family that still remained in Winterfell.

Sansa was the first one to reach him. She fell into step with him as they walked across the courtyard. "Remember that the Wildlings don't bow to anyone because of their family," she said. "If Tormund or one of the others by some miracle remembers, then use them, but you can't rely on having their respect like you did in my future."

"I remember, Sansa," said Jon. Sansa had talked him through the Wildlings at least twice before. He knew that she was just scared for him – for everyone – but he couldn't help but wish that she had something else to say, before he rode off and didn't see her or anyone in their family for who knew how long.

Sansa hesitated. "Stay away from Alliser Thorne."

Jon's eyebrows rose at that. She'd never mentioned that to him before. "I will," he promised, knowing there wasn't enough time to get a full story out of her.

She stopped, reaching out to grab his wrist so he stopped as well. "Be careful," she said. "Don't do anything stupid. If you see a White Walker, then run. If you see a wight, don't try to fight it, or capture it. Just get the fuck out. Promise me."

Jon's eyebrows climbed higher. He'd never heard Sansa curse before, but her face was deadly serious. "I won't put myself in any unnecessary danger, Sansa."

"That's not the same thing, Jon," she said, a little impatiently.

"I promise that I'll get out if I see a White Walker or a wight," said Jon. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief until he put his hand up – "if it's feasible." Sansa glared at him for a long moment before groaning.

"I suppose that's the best promise I'm going to get out of you, isn't it?" she sighed.

"I'm afraid so," he said, offering her a tentative smile. To his surprise, she threw her arms around him so quickly and so forcefully it almost knocked him to the ground. Feeling Sansa bury her face into his neck, he hugged her back.

"Just come back alive," she whispered into his ear.

"Of course I will," he said. "You can't get rid of me that easily." Sansa pulled back and gave him a tremulous smile.

"Go," she said. "Uncle Benjen and Commander Mormont are waiting for you." She withdrew to where Theon was standing across the courtyard.

Robb reached him next. "I presume that Sansa just lectured you on being careful," he said.

"Of course she did," said Jon.

"Don't go taking the black behind my back, alright?" said Robb. "I'm going to need your help before all this is over."

"Well, it's not like I stuck with them last time," said Jon. "If I didn't then, without knowing all that I do now – well, I guess it's not for me."

Robb watched him out of the corner of his eye. "How are you doing with all of that?"

Jon shrugged. "Well as can be expected, I suppose."

"You're a Stark of Winterfell," said Robb. "You've got the dire wolf to prove it. Now just make sure that you come home, and that you don't do anything stupid."

Jon sighed. "Why does everyone keep saying that to me?"

"Because we know you," said Robb, a mischievous grin on his face.

Ned was walking towards them from where he'd been talking with Benjen. As he reached them, he said, "Are you ready, Jon?"

Jon nodded. "I am, F – Lord Stark," he said, stumbling over his words. Ned looked pained.

"You can still call me Father, if you want," he said quietly. A lump formed in Jon's throat and he nodded quickly. "When you get back, we'll talk more about your mother," promised Ned. "I wish I had more time to tell you now."

"Will Uncle Benjen tell me anything?" asked Jon.

"Probably," said Ned, nodding. "I told him that you know." More and more people were starting to assemble by the gates, and Ned cleared his throat. "Be safe," said Ned. "I know that Arya and Sansa have told you all that they can, but listen to Benjen and to the other men of the Night's Watch. They've been north of the Wall. Sansa and Arya can tell you about the Wildlings, but not about the land. Listen to them."

"I will," said Jon. He rushed out the next few words. "Be careful in King's Landing. Please don't -"

"I won't," reassured Ned before Jon could will himself to say die. Then, surprising Jon even more than Sansa's embrace, Ned hugged him fiercely, before all of the lords in the courtyard. "I've been proud to call you my son, Jon. Don't forget that."

When Jon finally mounted his horse, he felt exhausted, as wrung out as an old rag. He nudged his horse ahead so that he rode next to Benjen underneath the gates of Winterfell, facing north, towards the place Jon had once believed would be his home.