The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.

"Are you really a crow?" Bran asked.

Are you really falling? the crow asked back.

"It's just a dream," Bran said.

Is it? asked the crow.

(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 17, Bran III)

Chapter 13

Jon had intended to follow the fugitives immediately, but once Viserion was in the air, he hesitated. Even though the winter sun was setting and darkness would soon follow, he couldn't be sure that they wouldn't be watching the sky for a dragon, now they knew of its existence. Jon would not risk the stable boy's life. Why should yet another child suffer for Littlefinger's perfidy and betrayal?

Jon's communication with Viserion had become ever easier over the weeks, and it just needed a thought and a few whispered words to get the dragon to circle the castle and fly over the Wolfswood. Jon knew where the fugitives were going, besides. Baelish would not risk trying to get to the Vale in winter – he would simply take a ship from White Harbor. As for any inconvenient ravens, anyone who'd spent any amount of time with Lord Manderley would have heard endless stories about spies in his household. Doubtless they would increase, now, Jon thought, seeing as an actual Lannister of Casterly Rock was at Winterfell, rather than a Lannister of Lannisport, which Lord Manderley's family seat was apparently saddled with.

A mental twinge of impatience from Viserion roused Jon from his brooding. Yes, he thought, they'd been given time enough. He took his bearings from Winterfell and headed East, following the White Knife to the Bite. The moon had risen in the meantime, and, besides the silvery light, what struck him was the silence. He'd expected at least the sound of owls or even wolves howling, but there was nothing. Perhaps the wind rushing past him as Viserion flew was preventing him from hearing anything on the ground, but the whole scene below him seemed dead, painted in stark lines of black and white.

The snowstorm was on him in an instant, and he was fully enveloped and almost blinded before he even realised it. Jon made Viserion circle around and back, and then take widening flights until he saw . . . well, something he could hardly believe.

It was a wall of flying snow, with the wind howling, but only within a small area. He thought he could hear shrieking in the air but wasn't sure if his ears were deceiving him. Viserion flew around and around, but still the bizarre blizzard persisted. Was that the sound of clanging swords that he heard?

Just as suddenly as he'd flown into it, the barrier of flying snow diminished and sank to the ground, and where it had been was a pile of wights, tearing at something on the ground beneath them. As his eyes strained to make out features in the moonlight, one of the wights raised its head and screamed defiance at him through bloodied teeth. With horror Jon recognized the rich cloak and finely coiffed head of Petyr Baelish, whose apparent loss of an arm wasn't holding him back.

Viserion reacted to his horror and descended, opening his mouth, ready to blow fire, but Jon glimpsed something else – there was a living man on the ground, on his back, reaching for them, weakly. Also, a few yards away, a knight of the Vale was trying to fend off some wights, although the wights looked to be winning.

As Jon pondered, the man on the ground fell back, dead. At least, Jon hoped he was dead. His injuries were too horrific to survive. When Viserion came around again, Jon reached a decision, and said a word. The tableau went up in flames, and Jon urged Viserion to land near the only survivor, the knight of the Vale.

"Get on," Jon shouted, reaching for the man. He'd never had a passenger on Viserion before, but he needed to know if the dragon would allow it. Best try with someone whose life or death was immaterial to him, he thought with a small measure of guilt, wondering if this was his Targaryen side coming to the fore.

The knight ran towards Viserion, but his hands were full. In one there was an ornate longsword, and in another there was a severed arm. Its fingers were moving.

"Proof, your Grace," the Vale knight shouted, his eyes seeming crazed. "For those who still doubt!"

Jon was filled with any number of uncharitable thoughts, not the least among them the fact that the last doubters were now wreathed in flames. Still, he took the twitching arm and wedged it as best he could between a few of the spines on Viserion's back. Then he pulled the man onto Viserion, urging the dragon to take to the sky. The wights were not completely gone. More dragonfire was needed.

Now would be the time for the knight to use that sword of his to stab Jon in the back, Jon thought, but he didn't. He just clung to Jon and the dragon, with sobbing breaths which eventually just became sobs. Jon didn't blame the man. He'd wanted to cry too, that day at Hardhome, watching the Night King raise his arms and bring the dead to life.

Viserion flew around in ever widening circles, every pass spreading more fire, until the wights, Baelish and Corbray were ash. Jon allowed himself a twinge of regret at the loss of Corbray, who had been, if nothing else, a great swordsman. He was about to mourn the loss of yet another Valyrian sword, when he caught a glimpse of the one the Vale knight was holding, his fingers clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

"How is it that you survived?" Jon shouted, trying to be heard over the rushing wind. He wasn't going to ask for the man's name. He did not particularly care.

The knight started babbling before Jon had even finished speaking. "The horses went mad, my l- your Grace! I was thrown, and hit my head. When I woke up, it was madness! Dead men attacking, Ser Lyn being butchered . . . he threw me his sword . . . "

Jon would have liked to give the man a sceptical look, but he was focused on not falling off Viserion. Yes, he truly believed that Ser Lyn Corbray had given this traitorous knight the ancestral sword of his House. He aimed his next words over his shoulder.

"You can give the Lady Forlorn to Lord Royce, then. He will return it to House Corbray when all of this is over."

A faint "Yes, your Grace," reached him before the words were blown away, as Viserion approached Winterfell. What, no pleading for his life, Jon wondered. Though the man was almost mad with fear – there was a wildness in his eyes spoke to that.

As Viserion prepared to descend, Jon saw that the main gates of Winterfell were open, and Dothraki and Unsullied were standing near, holding torches. He shook his head. That was much too dangerous, and he needed to tell them that.

Viserion landed in a great spatter of snow and mud, and Jon dragged the Knight off his back, telling him to get the arm, which had not stopped its useless movement. He patted the dragon on the neck, telling him to find a place for the night, and Viserion sent him the image of the cave he'd found when they'd first arrived at Winterfell.

With that exchange over, Jon vaulted off the dragon and watched it till it flew out of sight. Once inside the courtyard, he was greeted by the spectacle of the knight on his knees in front of Lord Royce, who was holding Ser Lyn's sword.

"Your Grace!" Royce exclaimed, and started to kneel, but Jon waved him upright irritably.

He was about to ask after Sansa, when he spied a wave of people coming from the great Hall. He felt strangely annoyed – possibly due to hunger and thirst – and was about to ask for some water, when Sansa approached, holding a steaming cup in both hands.

"Spiced wine, husband," she said, bowing as she gave it to him.

He managed to restrain himself from showing the more obvious signs of shock, though Arya, who he could see out of the corner of one eye, could not hold back a very obvious eye-roll. Brienne was there too, smiling indulgently, and he turned to her, after taking a long, much needed swallow.

"The boy?"

She forestalled any further questions. "Safe with his mother, your Grace. Unhurt."

Jon closed his eyes momentarily, a feeling of relief washing over him. No children had died tonight, at least.

"Your Grace?" Lord Royce sounded oddly tentative, and Jon turned, only to see the man holding Ser Lyn's sword gingerly, as though unsure what to do with it.

Jon had to clear his throat – or at least, he pretended to need it. "Ser Lyn gave his life trying to save Lord Baelish. The Lady Forlorn is all that remains . . . besides yonder knight," he added, nodding towards said knight, who hadn't moved from his kneeling posture.

"So Littlefinger is dead, then?" Sansa's tone was coolly neutral, but it seemed to Jon that everyone in earshot was listening carefully to his reply.

Jon simply pointed towards the kneeling knight, who threw on the ground in front of him the only remnant of the men who had ridden out of Winterfell a few hours before. It was the arm of Petyr Baelish, cut off, yet still moving. The fingers flexed and tried to grasp something, anything, and in their movement, everyone could clearly see the rings they'd all become familiar with – the biggest one flaunting the sigil of the mockingbird.

"There you have it!" Jon saw how people started at his words and his tone. Still, he knew this had to be done. Too long had he been kind. "That is all that remains of Lord Baelish, the Protector of the Vale! He chose to cut himself off from all of us, at a time when we must stand together." Yes, those were Frey words, to be sure, but when had the Freys ever stood with anyone besides themselves? Anyway, the Freys were gone. "The last I saw Lord Baelish he was a Wight gnawing at his men's entrails." Was he going too far? Or maybe, not far enough. Still, it was late, and they needed to rest. There was work to be done in the morning. Jon sighed, and gestured for a torch. He set fire to the twitching arm, making sure that everyone saw what he was doing. "Let us rest, for the night. Ser Davos will set up the night watch, and we will meet tomorrow morning."

Davos nodded in agreement, and Jon turned to Sansa, who had stayed behind. "Lannister and his men will need rooms . . . "

Sansa gave him a look. "I've been planning for that ever since I got your letters, Jon. And it's all been done, while you went on your little . . . jaunt." She accompanied her words with a small wave, and Arya, who was standing close, could not suppress a little smile.

"That's what it'll be like, being married to my sister," Arya sighed, pretending to pity him. The merry sparkle in her eyes belied her words, though.

"Actually, I was wondering when my lady learned to use a crossbow," Jon enquired, and they both looked at Sansa, who started to blush.

"Yes!" Something else occurred to Arya. "And why wasn't I invited? You only asked me to sew!" The disgust was palpable in her voice, and Jon had to bite his lip to keep the laughter in.

"I didn't trust you," Sansa answered, her voice sharp, though moderated by her smile. "And you," she aimed at Jon, causing him to wonder if her words were as sharp as her bolts, "you never even suggested teaching me how to defend myself."

"You never said anything," he answered, his tone mild. "Also, I think you need to teach the women of the keep what you have learned, my lady."

Jon snuck a look at her as she walked by his side, and caught the small, proud smile on her face, and breathed a sigh of relief. He'd finally said the right thing.

"I certainly will, my lord."

Arya, walking on his other side, rolled her eyes, and he grinned at her. "You're invited, too."

The next few weeks seemed to fly past, caught up as they all were in preparations for a siege of Winterfell by the Night King. For surely, that was how they would be attacked. Surely. Why hadn't his armies come yet? And why hadn't they received ravens in such a long time? Jon knew he could simply fly anywhere on Viserion, but he was loath to leave Winterfell again. Besides, there was so much to do – supplies of food needed to be organised, as well as fodder for the livestock. There were some who argued for a widespread cull so that they would have enough food for everyone, and Jon had never thanked the gods that he was king as on that day.

Even so, he did not have to argue against it, as Sansa's passionate words were enough, especially with his support. As he would have argued, culling was only a short-term solution – once the meat was finished, they would have no livestock in the spring, if spring ever arrived, and no way of getting any more.

Sansa always had much to say, whether it was to the assembled lords, or to him. Now that Jon thought about it, in those short weeks he spent more time with Sansa than he had when they were growing up together, at Winterfell. She always seemed to be at his side, whether it was in the Great Hall, or supervising the distribution of weaponry, or helping train all those who could not use swords in the use of a crossbow. Sometimes he felt as though she was expecting something from him, but he never really understood what it was. He rarely disagreed with her, although there was one time he wanted to, when she suggested they needed a feast.

"What for? Did we not just say we need to safeguard our provisions?" He was conscious of the whine entering his voice and tried to banish it.

Sansa spoke patiently, as if to a slow-witted child. "There has been no harvest feast at Winterfell this year, nor last year, nor the year before. Do you remember the harvest feasts . . . my lord?"

Of course he did, Jon wanted to say, and then he bit his lip, and thought before speaking. Harvest feasts had been about more than eating, drinking, singing and dancing. They had been a way for Eddard Stark to get to know everyone who lived at Winterfell, whether it was servant or lord, septon or maester. That had been how he showed himself the true Lord of Winterfell. Jon and Sansa exchanged looks, and he caught the pleased smile on her face when she realised that he'd understood.

"Anyway, we would not use more food than what is usually served at the evening meal," Sansa continued. "Besides, we have a wedding to arrange."

Lady Brienne had been blushing for a while, anticipating the topic, while Ser Jaime's sardonic smile seemed to be painted on his face. Jon remembered that a septon had been found amongst the Highgarden men – and he had agreed to wed the two, as well as perform any spiritual service that was asked of him by those who followed the Seven. One of them was Ser Davos, something Jon always forgot. They had found a small, unused room in the Bell Tower, which became a Sept, and Ser Davos had shyly offered small figures of the Seven that he'd carved. He'd told Jon, in confidence, that he felt he needed to offer penance for having allowed the Lady Melisandre to burn so many – statues as well as people. Jon had tried to reassure the man that surely he would have suffered the same fate if he'd really tried to cross her, but Ser Davos accepted no such comfort.

Jon made his courtesies and walked off to oversee the distribution of the dragonglass, when he heard a voice calling him. Sansa was hurrying to catch up with him, and he stopped, curious about what she wanted.

"I thought the feast could also settle our situation, my lord," she said, out of breath.

Jon found himself frowning. What situation? And why so formal? They were alone – or, as alone as one could ever be in a fairly busy passage in an enormous keep.

Sansa seemed to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "It is time you moved in to the lord's chamber, Jon."

By the gods, he must be especially slow today, he thought, because he could not fathom her meaning. "I don't . . . but that is your room . . . where will you . . ?" He didn't have to finish.

"With you, of course! We are husband and wife, now!" Her voice increased in volume all of a sudden, and Jon felt his face burn.

He approached her, whispering urgently. "Sansa, I promised, you don't have to . . . I mean . . . "

"Oh, Jon!" She pulled him into a shadowed alcove, cradling his face in her hands. There were tears in her eyes, he noted, amazed. "You're so stupid, sometimes!" With that she kissed him, her face hot and wet with tears, her hair a perfumed cloud that he lost himself in, before he found his arms at her waist, pulling her closer. They kissed for hours, or even years, as time ceased to have meaning. People passed them by, pretending not to notice them, Jon surmised – he certainly did not see anything besides Sansa.

"So, Jon? Is it agreed?" There was love in her eyes, he realised – love for him? Could it be? He didn't trust himself to speak, and simply nodded, wishing himself alone so he could lick his lips and taste her again. He stood there for a while after she left, until Ser Davos found him.

It could not be truly called a harvest feast, because winter had come – it could not be called a wedding feast, because Lady Brienne had insisted that there should only be few witnesses and little pomp for their marriage. Once Jon had read Lord Selwyn Tarth's answer to Ser Jaime's request, he'd understood why. He still had to ask Lannister if he really agreed, though.

"Lord Selwyn says he will only consent to your marriage if you take on his name and you become the lord of Tarth upon his death, Ser Jaime." He could see Sansa's narrowed eyes, and practically read her thoughts – can't you be a little diplomatic, she was thinking at him, and he answered her in the same way, though she couldn't hear him. No. He couldn't.

They were standing outside the small room which had been turned into a sept, waiting for the Lady Brienne. In the end, only he and Sansa would witness the wedding of Ser Jaime Lannister to Lady Brienne, of House Tarth.

Ser Jaime did not answer, at first. "The things we do for love," he finally tossed Jon's way, just as the Lady of Tarth came down the walk. She was wearing skirts, unusually, but just as simple and stark as any armor. The colour was a rich and deep blue, and stitched along the hemline were the crescent moons and bright suns of her House. But Jon was still thinking of Ser Jaime's words – love? Did Ser Jaime really love Lady Brienne? That she loved him, there was no doubt.

Jon was so lost in his thoughts that he missed most of the long prayers the Seven seemingly required in order to bless a wedding, and only surfaced when the septon wound a ribbon around the couple's wrists, proclaiming them married. He'd never seen the Lady Brienne look so joyous, and even Ser Jaime's habitual smirk seemed more sincere than usual. Perhaps he does feel for her, Jon thought.

The feast passed in a whirl of music and dancing, and while there was food, Jon could see that Sansa had in fact been very prudent, using mainly the foodstuffs they had a surplus of, and making sure there was sufficient beer and spiced rum to keep everyone happy enough. A peal of laughter made him look up and he couldn't help the ridiculous smile he was sure was all over his face. Arya and Sansa were laughing, together, at some joke Arya had just told.

Jon swallowed a yawn which threatened to crack his jaw. He craved sleep more than anything, but did not want to interrupt the merriment which was still in full swing in the Great Hall. So, he decided to sneak away, and soon found himself at the door to his old chamber, before he realised that all his belongings, such as they were, had been moved to the lord's chamber. Flushing with embarrassment, even though he was on his own, he entered the larger set of rooms, glad that there were no guards to witness his mistake and gossip about it. A large fire had been lit, and it dawned on him, through the fog of his tiredness, that there was someone asleep in the heavy chair before the fire. He tried to shut the door quietly, but the sound woke her up.

"Sansa?" He took one step towards her and halted, unsure of his welcome, even now.

Her smile was tentative, and there was worry in her eyes. But she was smiling, even so, and as she smoothed down her skirts, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen her dressed like that before. It was a rich looking green velvet gown, with a wolf and a dragon embroidered along the bodice. They were entwined. Jon swallowed.

"New dress?" He wondered if she would remember that time at Castle Black.

Sansa beamed. "I made it myself . . . do you like it?"

"I like the wolf . . . and dragon bit . . .", he answered, and he had hardly finished when Sansa burst into giggles. He pretended to frown. "I'm not a poet!"

"Clearly," she answered, still smiling. Then she blushed, gesturing at the bed. "They've laid out nightwear . . . for us."

He walked towards the bed, and saw that there was a nightshirt prepared for him, as well as for Sansa, but he found himself strangely reluctant to take off his clothes. What if she had changed her mind? What if she hadn't meant any of it, and simply wanted the court to think they were . . . his mind shied away from the words like a frightened horse. He hadn't been with a woman since Ygritte, he realised, and the pain of her passing was a spasm, like a sore tooth. But distant, not so sharp as it had been. Was he forgetting her?

There was a little throat clearing behind him which brought him back to the present. "Perhaps we should prepare for bed . . . and then see how . . . " He faltered, unsure of what else to say, and snuck a look at Sansa. She was blushing bright red, and nodding, so he started the process of unlacing his surcoat and shirtsleeves, pulling the whole assemblage over his head to shorten the time he spent bare-chested. That he hadn't been quick enough to grab the nightshirt was proven when Sansa gasped.

She covered her mouth, her eyes filled with tears as she looked at his chest. "What did they do to you?"

He looked down at himself – his scars actually looked better now than they had in a while. He took her hand and gently put it against his heart, which beat faster in response. "They don't hurt anymore, Sansa."

Sansa blushed even deeper, but she didn't snatch her hand back. Then her eyes widened, as she seemed to remember something. "I can't unlace this dress on my own – or my, um . . . stays."

Jon grinned. He had an idea that undressing a high-born lady would be much less simple than a woman of the Free Folk – and that was the last time he would think of Ygritte, he told himself, sternly. He was a married man, now. His duty was to his wife. "I'll give you a hand," he answered, as he quickly pulled the long nightshirt over his head, after making sure it was intended for him. The length was equal on both, but there was much less lace on his, he reckoned. Also, he could take off his boots and breeches underneath the shirt.

She turned around, and instructed him how to unlace her bodice and stays, which went well enough, and she quickly slipped the fine linen nightgown over her head as the rich silk velvet fell to her waist. She didn't cover her back immediately, though, and didn't turn around, either.

"There was something I wanted to show you, Jon." Her voice was steady, though he could tell it was an effort on her part to keep it so.

He looked down. It was an effort of will to keep silent, but he couldn't stop a short intake of breath when he saw the way a patch of skin had been removed from the small of her back. It was scabbed over and looked to be healing. It took him a heartbeat or two to realise that he was grinding his teeth.

"Jon," she said, reaching behind her for his hand. "It doesn't hurt anymore." She placed his fingers on it, and while she didn't pull away, her skin twitched under his fingers. "Is it terribly ugly?" she asked, and his eyes stung.

"It is beautiful," he replied. "A badge of honor." Jon pulled the nightgown over her shoulders and pulled her around to face him. Her eyes were as shiny as he supposed his own were, and once again, she was the one who pulled him in for a deep kiss.

Sansa pulled away, words on her lips, he thought, but then was surprised and amused to watch an enormous yawn, instead.

"Let's just rest, tonight," he said, and she agreed with a sheepish nod. She told him how to unpin her hair, and he couldn't resist running his fingers through the bright red strands once he had them loose over her shoulders, a perfumed wave which reached almost to her waist. This time he went in for the kiss.

Soon, they were dozing off in each other's arms, and he wondered that he wasn't disappointed that they hadn't gone . . . further. Still, he thought, as his eyes closed, and he drifted off to sleep, they had time. What was the rush?

It did not seem strange to Jon that he walked through the main courtyard of Castle Black, even though he seemed to remember that he slept in Winterfell, now. He was wearing the black livery of the Night's Watch, again, and, once again, crunched through the snow to a wooden board, on which had been scratched one word: TRAITOR.

"Jon?" He turned around and it was Arya in front of him, Arya, all in black, with a sweet, poisonous smile on her face. "For the Watch," she hissed, as she stabbed him low in the belly, punching the knife through him.

Sansa was next, in a black gown, her hair drawn back from her face, so severely . . . her face was a porcelain mask. "For the Watch." This knife was to his heart.

He dropped to his knees, but looked up, only to see a figure out of a tale of horror told around a winter's fire. It was Lady Catelyn, but a Lady Catelyn long dead, partially rotted, her throat cut to the bone.

"Jon . . . Jon!" That wasn't Lady Catelyn's voice, Jon thought, even as the hot blood seeped through his warm fingers as he clasped his chest. Another figure in black was approaching, a tall young man with a familiar voice, and face. But who was this boy? Had he been a brother of the Night's Watch?

Lady Catelyn hissed something at him, and the young man turned towards the wraith, waving impatiently at her. She vanished, and when Jon looked around him, they were alone.

"Jon, this is a dream! You must listen to me, I can't stay here for long." The familiarity of the boy's voice was overwhelming. But it couldn't be-

"Bran?"

Bran smiled.

Jon felt as full of joy as he had been full of fear, earlier. Still, how could this be? "But how are you walking? And what do you mean, this is a dream?"

"You must come here, to Castle Black – I've tried to send ravens, but they're being stopped on the way. I can't get to Winterfell. You must come to me; you must use him," Bran continued, and pointed to Jon's right.

When Jon looked, Viserion flapped his wings, almost bowling him over. Of course, Jon thought. He had Viserion now. He wasn't in the Night's Watch any longer. But it was so hard to focus, and Bran must have realised this.

"You must come, Jon! And bring him with you!" Bran pointed to Jon's left side, and when Jon looked in that direction, a fully-grown lion opened its huge jaws and roared.

Jon woke up and remembered everything. He knew what he had to do. He sat up, and gasped. Sansa was there. Not the dark, forbidding figure from his dream, but his sweet Sansa, her hair tousled around her face in a mass of red curls. She looked worried – perhaps he had cried out in his sleep. He tried to calm her with a gesture, but the stubborn look on her face spoke volumes. He would have to explain everything to her. Of course, he would. The only question was . . . how?

.

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Notes

Just a quick comment. If you go to the reviews page, you'll notice that I have a case of the signed-in spambot garbage "reviews". I can't remove them, but I've reported them to the admins, and many userids are being reported. I hope once the site admins wake up the accounts will be deleted and the reviews will disappear.

Until then, please don't comment on them in any reviews. Just ignore them, as I'm doing!