Hi! I don't really have anything else to say...haha, enjoy! :)

The frigid air bit at his face as he stood on the bow of the ship. The winds had been kind; they had made it to the North ahead of schedule, as if they knew how desperate he had been to be home. To take his wife home.
She sat on the deck, with her legs crossed, as the pups raced about her. She had tied a knot of rope together and she watched them tug each other around the deck, her laughter echoing across the waters. The soldiers watched her fondly; she had won many a man's heart on this voyage, but none more than his.
The air in the North agreed with them both. They had found themselves in higher and higher spirits the closer they got to home, their laughter coming easier and their smiles more broad. His muscles ached less now, the pain in his leg almost gone from him completely. Jon leaned out over the railing as he watched his wife play with her wolves, and a small smile tugged at his lips.
She joined him eventually, after the cook had provided her with thick marrow bones for the wolves. She gave them one each and left them to their devices, the sound of their chewing the only other sound over the wind. Through the mist, White Harbor came into view, just as the afternoon had begun to turn to dusk.
Enrin heaved a sigh of relief as the snowy white banks before them. Jon wrapped his arms around her waist, tucking his chin into the curve of her neck. He kissed her there, and she felt a tingling in her belly when his lips touched her. "When this is over," he said, "we're never leaving home again." She kissed his ear, resting her hands over his. "Promise me that," she whispered as the ship slid into the harbor.

She sat astride her gray mare again as the snow began to sprinkle from the sky. The air on Dragonstone seemed warm to her now as she sat shivering atop her charger as Jon wheeled his stallion before them. He charged up the snowy hills as the rest of them followed behind, driving their horses at a hard gallop, all eager to be home.
Winterfell loomed before them, the candles dancing in the windows to welcome them. The wolfswood teemed with life as her people left their huts to line their path, and the doors to the castle were open and waiting for them as they rode their steeds through the gates. The people hailed them as they dismounted, and no sooner had her feet touched the icy ground before Jon had her hand in his, pulling her close to him. The wolves veered away from them, straight into the forest, no doubt to run and hunt and do the things that wolves did.
The doors of the castle were flung open for them, the light from the torches spilling into the courtyard. As they entered, the guards bid them a warm welcome, bowing low as they strode over the threshold and into the warmth of the keep. The chandelier of the great hall had every candle lit, and the fire roared behind the high table, cracklling in the night. Sansa sat at Jon's throne, and she looked up as they entered, but she did not rise.
"Brother, sister," she said as they entered, arm in arm, but her tone was cold and wary, housing none of the warmth it had when they had left her, "welcome." Enrin narrowed her eyes. Sansa's wolf, Winter, sat at her feet, a hulking gray shadow. Her ears perked forward, but she also stayed rooted to her spot. They stopped before the high table, and finally she stood. "I see you've kept Winterfell safe while we were away," Jon said, his tone suspicious as they rounded the table to take their seats. Sansa did not embrace him as he thought she might; instead, she only reached for his hand and squeezed it gently, saying nothing. Enrin caught Jon's gaze out of the corner of her eye. Something was amiss.
"Where is Bran?" Jon asked as Dennas appeared before him, filling his cup with ale. Enrin refused her own, but she sipped cool water instead. Her stomach roiled at the energy in the room, and she thought she would rather have her wits about her than have them dulled by the spirits. On cue, Maester Wolken appeared, wheeling before him a frail looking boy with dark hair and a hooked nose, who's eyes looked older than any man's Enrin had ever seen. Jon stood immediately.
"Hello, Jon," the boy said, his tone almost as devoid of emotion as Sansa's was. Jon strode forward and clasped the boy's hand in his. Jon's fingers seemed to swallow his brother's, he was so thin, like a stalk of grain ready to blow away in the wind. "Bran," he said, and his tone was full of awe and worry, "I thought you were dead. What happened to you? Where have you been?"
Bran's eyes met Jon's, and there was something strange there, something robotic. It was almost as if he was trying to remember how he felt about Jon, his brother, whom he had not seen in years. "I have been everywhere, and nowhere," the boy said, only riddles falling from his lips as Jon pulled his wheeled chair closer to the table. Bran's eyes found Enrin's then, and she felt her back stiffen. "You," he said, and he reached for her hand. She took it in hers. "You must be Enrin," Bran continued, and his grip was weak in hers, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you." Enrin's eyes narrowed once more, as she tried to decipher the strange feeling the frail boy gave her. "Yes," she said, pulling her hand from his, "yes, a pleasure. I'm happy that I get to meet so many of Jon's siblings."
"The ones that live, anyway," Bran said, and Jon could not hide the shock on his face. "What happened to you?" he asked, and Bran turned his steady gaze on to him, his eyes seeming far away. "Everything, and nothing," Bran riddled again, "I'm the Three Eyed Raven now."
Jon turned to Sansa, who only shrugged. "I dont know what it means either," she said, sipping dark wine from a silver cup. She stood then, throwing her long hair over her shoulder. The firelight made it look even redder, like blood. "There is someone else I think you'd like to see, Jon," she said, and her tone sounded less strange, less cold. Jon's brows knit in confusion, but he followed her eyes to the door.
The girl who stood before them was small in stature, almost as thin as Bran, but her thinness was not from frailty. Her body was lean and hard, her face more angular now than he had last seen her. Her hair was cropped short about her shoulders, and she wore leathers, like his, brown and blue in the colors of House Stark. A sword was belted at her waist, a small thing, and tears pricked his eyes to see it.
"Arya."
She stood with her hands folded behind her back, her face a calm mask, but as he said her name her features broke and light shone from behind her eyes, the light of recognition. She started to run.
Arya vaulted over the table in front of them, flinging herself into Jon's arms, burying her face in his neck. He gripped her tightly, squeezing her to him, to hold her here, here. Home, in Winterfell, finally, where they all belonged.
Jon thought that he could burst as he set her down on the floor in front of him, his hands touching her face gently, pulling her eyes to look into his. Both of his little sisters were here, they were home, healthy and alive and breathing here with him. "What happened to you? To all of you?" His tone was hushed with wonder. Arya only shrugged and shook her head, her steely hard eyes softened a bit. "It doesn't matter," she said, and her hands gripped his forearms hard, "we're here, and we're going to fight whatever is coming for us. We're going to do it together." Her eyes cut to Sansa, who met her gaze, her chin inclined haughtily.
"We'd like to hear what happened on Dragonstone," she said, returning to her seat as Dennas appeared to fill their plates with bread and cheese. Enrin would have liked something hot, but she was loathe to wake the cooks at this hour. Arya turned to her then, as if she had just remembered she was there. "Who is this?"
Enrin opened her mouth to speak, but Jon got there first, chagrin coloring his tone. "Arya, this is Enrin, my...my wife."
The girl's big brown eyes widened, and they looked Enrin up and down, so scrutinizing it was almost rude. Enrin sat very still; something told her that it would be death to be on Arya's bad side. "Where did you come from?" Arya asked, and her tone was not arrogant, only curious. "I don't think I've ever seen you before. What's your House name?"
Enrin looked at Jon, who tried to look encouraging. He loved his siblings, he loved his wife, and he knew that it would be eaiser on all of them if Enrin and Arya got on as well as Enrin and Sansa had. "I don't have a House," Enrin said, sitting straighter. She suddenly wished she had accepted the wine. "I was born North of the Wall. In the True North."
Arya's eyes lit with excitement. "Can you fight?"
Enrin snorted. "I was fighting before I was walking."
At that, Arya squinted. "I like that." She popped a piece of bread into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "But if you hurt my brother, I will kill you."
Jon's shoulders stiffened as he moved to stand between them, but Sansa gripped his forearm. Enrin raised her brows. "I would never dream of hurting your brother," she said, and she realized in that moment that she liked this little wild girl who reminded her of herself, "but if I ever did, I will come to you myself." They grinned at each other, and Arya took another piece of bread and tore it between her teeth. Jon all but sagged in relief.
Jon told his siblings the story of their time on Dragonstone, about Daenerys and her dragons and their meeting at the dragonpit. Sansa spit when she heard that Lannister soldiers were marching here to Winterfell, and Arya commented that most of them would die of the frost sickness before they made it. Jon only shrugged. "I won't turn down soldiers," he said, "not when I know what is coming for all of us." His siblings had nothing else to say after that, only nodding, their eyes grave. Enrin's eyes were on Sansa through the whole meeting, watching as she gazed at Jon with some sort of contempt. Soldiers marched to and fro; men of Winterfell, free-folk, and the little pointed man Enrin had not liked. He lurked closer than all of them.
"Jon," Enrin said suddenly, cutting over him in the middle of his sentence, "do you think your brother and sister might like to meet the rest of the pack?" Her stomach roiled with unease, and his eyes were confused as they found hers. He nodded, standing. Sansa remained seated, Winter dozing at her feet. "I think Winter would like to see her brothers and sisters again after so long away," Enrin said pointedly, and Sansa looked bored before she finally stood.
They made their wait slowly into the wolfswood, and Enrin whistled once. Ghost came first, circling around Arya and Bran like a worried mother, sniffing their ears. Night and the pups appeared next, black and gray fur mingling together as they strode from the trees. Arya could barely contain her awe.
When they were well into the wood, Enrin's eyes met Night's, who slunk off into the trees. Enrin could hear her prowling their perimiter, searching for prying ears and eyes. She took Sansa by the elbow and turned her almost roughly to face her. "What is the matter with you?" she said, and Jon said her name in a chastise. When Sansa looked at her, her eyes were afraid.
"I know you told me to stay away from Lord Baelish," Sansa said suddenly, her words falling from her mouth in a hurried whisper. Night prowled around them again, her ears perked and listening. "He's been...talking to me," she said, and Jon stepped forward with his hand on his sword. "Bran told me. If it weren't for Bran, I would have believed Lord Baelish, I would have, but Bran told me everything. Jon," Sansa turned to him then, and tears pricked her eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm so happy you're home, but Lord Baelish cannot know. He thinks he's winning, and he has to think he's winning, you see, he has to." Jon pulled Sansa close to him, tucking her under his arm. "Calm down," he said, his words a gentle whisper, "Take me to Lord Baelish and I'll have him answer for whatever he's done." Sansa only shook her head. "You can't," she said, and her tone was pleading, "Jon, you can't. The Knights of the Vale are loyal to him, only to him, and we need them if we are going to have a chance in the wars to come." Enrin ran her fingers through one of the pup's fur as they passed her, shadowing their mother's footsteps as she rounded them agian. They spread out through the trees, like woodland spirits, teeth ready to sink into any man who should not be there. "But are they?" she said, and Jon looked at her questioningly. "Are they loyal to Lord Baelish? Or do they only follow him because of his ties to you? Sansa," Enrin reached for her sister's hand, who took it in both of hers. Sansa's grip was hard and fast, pouring her fear into Enrin's fingers, "Ser Royce is loyal to you. A blind man could see his hatred for this Lord Baelish a league away. We do not have time for his games. He has betrayed you, he has betrayed the North, and he must answer for his crimes." Enrin saw the hurt in Sansa's eyes, as she relived all this man had done to her. Anger flamed in Enrin's chest. She turned to Jon, hand outstretched. "Give me Longclaw," she said, "and I will do it myself."
Jon put his hand on the hilt of his sword, turning away as Enrin reached for it. Sansa's eyes were wet and wary, and she only shook her head. Arya scoffed. "You don't have the heart for it," she said, squaring her shoulders so she stood straight, "I do. I'll do it. Just say the words." It was Bran who spoke next, his voice and eyes far away. "It is not time," he said, and then he turned his head to face them all, "Soon, sister, soon. But not yet. Sheath your blade."
Jon had a sour taste in his mouth, but he nodded. Whatever Bran had seen, it had made him wise. "By your leave, Sansa," Jon agreed, "and only then."
They left the wolfswood together, Jon pushing Bran in his wheeled chair. Enrin walked between Arya and Sansa, as Arya regaled her of stories from their childhood. Jon looked back at them, indulgently, and his happiness glowed through his eyes like the light of the morning. The wolves had stalked off, back into the woods, and Arya asked if she could see them again on the morrow. Jon's heart ached. Nymeria had been lost to Arya, so many years ago. He did not know what happened to her, only that she was not with Arya, and the thought of it made him sad.
"Of course," Enrin said, and she touched Arya lightly on the shoulder, "one of them may even take a liking to you, like Winter has to Sansa. They may choose to follow your footsteps, like Night follows mine." Arya smiled at that, a real true smile, and bid them goodnight as they entered the castle again. Sansa disappeared into her chambers as well, and Enrin's worried eyes followed her as she walked. She did not like this Lord Baelish, and she didn't want him anywhere near her sister.
They wheeled Bran to his chambers, together, but he refused them when Jon asked if he needed help. "I'm alright, thank you," Bran said as he wheeled himself over the threshold. He turned to Jon again, suddenly, as if a passing thought had made him remember something important. "Come talk with me tomorrow, Jon, when you please. We have much to discuss."
Jon's brows knit together, but he nodded, and bid his brother goodnight.
Jon and Enrin wandered back to their chambers, arm in arm, nodding to guards and servants as they passed them. They were glad to see them home, almost as glad as Jon was. Whatever faced them, to the north, to the south, he felt they could face it here. He felt stronger within the walls of Winterfell, his steps more languid and his shoulders more relaxed. He felt the ghosts of his ancestors here, of his father, his brothers, everyone that he had loved and lost. He felt them here, a part of him, and as they opened the doors to their chambers, he smiled.
"What?" Enrin asked as they entered, pouring them cups of wine from the pitcher on the table. The fire had been lit and it burned angrily, the flames casting monstrous shadows on the walls. He walked to her and wound his arms around her waist as she faced away from him, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. It smelled of the winter wind and the rose oil she had dripped into their bath the previous night. He pulled her flush against him, his hands splayed across her belly. "I'm glad to be home, with you," he said simply, trailing his lips down her shoulder, pulling aside the sleeve of her shirt to reach more of her skin. Enrin leaned her head back into him, pressing her lips to his cheek. He turned her then, shrugging off his cloak onto the floor. His hands found her waist as he untucked her shirt from her pants, pulling it over her head in one swift movement. She grinned wryly at him, undoing the belt from his hips and pulling his jerkin over his head. "You're in a good mood," she said, her lips finding his throat. He wound his hand in the end of her hair and pulled her head back, the strands tugging at her scalp. He turned her face to his and found her lips, claiming them, pouring everything he had into their kiss. She pushed away from him suddenly, raising an eyebrow. She backed away, a challenge in her eyes. "You've got to work for it, Your Grace," she said, and Jon smirked. "As you say, My Queen," he replied, falling into a hunter's crouch as she continued to back away from him, and suddenly she turned, racing across their chambers, and he gave chase. She jumped onto the bed and he followed, their laughter echoing across the stones. She feignted left as he reached for her, his fingers skimming the skin of her naked back. She rounded the desk, gripping it with both her hands, her laughter breathless. His hair had fallen loose and tumbled about his face in a thick mane of ebony curls, and she thought he had never looked more beautiful as he stood before her, shirtless, grinning, his cheeks red with mirth. His eyes seemed younger as they watched her hungrily.
Suddenly he was moving, vaulting over the table at her, and she was so distracted by looking at him that she moved a moment too late. She yelped as his arm snaked around her waist and he thre her over his shoulder, swatting at her rear. "I'm still faster than you," he said as he dropped her onto the bed, pulling her legs free of her pants as her hands fumbled with the ties of his own. His hands found her, ready and waiting, and she sighed as he slid two fingers into her. He worked them deeper into her, again and again as she writhed beneath him, the skin of her chest flushed as she pulled his lips down to meet hers. He felt her quickening around his fingers and suddenly he was in her, swiftly, their hips fitting together like they were always meant to. She clutched him to her as she found her release, and he moved with her, his arm supporting her back off the bed. "Do you know how much I love you?" he whispered as they moved together, but she could only mumble his name incoherently as they both found their release again, falling into the bed of furs, his hands still wrapped in her hair.

Enrin ran her fingers over the scars on his stomach, the fire crackling at the edge of the room The candles had long burned away, and the embers gave the room a dusky glow, like a new dawn. Jon yawned beneath her, and he opened his eyes slowly to find her watching him. "You're doing it again," he said, a smile playing on his lips, "staring instead of sleeping."
Enrin shrugged, tucking her head into his chest once more. "Just memorizing your face," she replied, but she closed her eyes anyway. She felt him heave a sigh beneath her. "I want it to always be like this," he said, and his words were filled with melancholy, "I just want to be here. With you. With my sisters and my brother. I just want to live." Enrin gripped him tighter, but left her eyes screwed shut. She knew how his face looked now, how his lips and the corners of his eyes would droop in sadness, and she knew that she could not bear to see it. "It will be," she said, her words a promise, because she knew that she would give anything to give him this. A life without fighting. All he had done is fight. "It will be," she said again, and this time she did look up at him. "When we defeat the Night King, and that blonde bitch in the South, we'll come back home, and it will be as you say." Jon looked down at her, but he did not look convinced. There was fear behind his eyes, hidden by his doubt, but she could see it plainer than the light of day. She could not blame him; she was afraid too, of what faced them, of how it would end. He managed a half smile, and she knew it was only for her benefit. He kissed her again, long and slow, and they lay together well into the light of morning, both pretending to sleep.

Jon had left her early that morning, his eyes tinged with red from their sleepless night. He had to wait for Davos to return, he said, and breif the other Northern lords on what had happened on Dragonstone. They needed to begin drafting their plans for battle, and so he had gone, leaving her in bed. He had hated to do it, but they were home now, and Kings and Queens had to do what Kings and Queens must.
Enrin dressed quickly, pulling her roughspun white dress over her head. She wore black fur lined leggings beneath it, as she usually did, and laced her boots high up to her knee. She strode to the door and pulled it open, and a man stood before her, his eyes shrewd. His beard was a pointed as his chin and cheekbones, his nose long and severe, but Enrin knew him immediately. Disgust twisted in her gut.
"Lord Baelish," she said, and her tone was as cool as an autumn morning. The pointed man bowed low, his rich black overcoat sweeping the floor. "My Queen," he said, and offered his arm, "I've come to escort you to the great hall. Your husband awaits."
Enrin took his arm, but her fingers hovered over his elbow. He reached over and closed her hand, patting her fingers firmly with his. She wanted to recoil, even to slap him, but she refrained. She grit her teeth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked, and she tried to keep her voice light, but suspicion colored her words. "I haven't yet gotten to know you, Your Grace," Littlefinger said as they started down the hall, his steps slow and precise. "I've spent a great deal of time with your new sister-by-law while you were away, and she told me a great deal about you." Enrin cocked a brow. "Did she?"
Littlefinger smiled, his secrets hidden by his teeth. "Nothing of the negative variety," he said, and his tone sounded as if he wished the opposite. "Tell me, how are you enjoying your new husband?"
Enrin bristled. "We enjoy each other rather well," she replied. Littlefinger smiled at her then, and her eyes were level with his. He was a small man, truly, and Enrin couldn't place the threat she felt. She could easily shout for the guards, or even overpower him herself. She was suddenly very aware of the sharp dagger she had strapped to her thigh, hidden by the folds of her dress. All she had to do was reach for it, and he wouldn't have the time to scream. "I'm glad to hear it," Littlefinger said, but his grin said otherwise. There was always a secret meaning to his words, something only he knew, and it made her skin prickle. "Is it safe to assume that there will soon be a little prince or princess of the North on the way to join us in the Great Wars to come? If you are enjoying each other so well."
Enrin's eyes flickered to him, and when she spoke, her tone was sharp. "My heirs are none of your business," she spat, her words like ice, but Littlefinger only smiled sweetly next to her, poison behind his eyes. "Your heirs?" he asked, and she felt as if he were laughing at her, "My Queen, they are the King's heirs, after all," he continued, "his son will rule after him, and his son after that, and so on and on for the rest of time." His words cut Enrin to the quick, and anger burned in her throat like bile. "His sons are my sons," she nearly growled. The great hall came into view then, and she saw Jon, who poured over maps with Robett Glover and Yohn Royce at his side. He looked up as they entered, and his lip twitched with fury at the sight of her arm through Littlefinger's. The pointed man smiled next to her, releasing her, and bowing low again. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, but his eyes flitted down to her stomach, and he tutted in disappointment, "if you say so." He took his leave then, disappearing into a crowd of soldiers as they milled about the doors. Jon strode over to her, his hand on his sword. "What the hell did he want?" he spat, taking Enrin's hand in his and pulling her with him over to the map table. Lords Glover and Royce bowed as she neared. Her eyes followed Littlefinger as he wove through the crowd of soldiers, melting into the shadows again. Her brows knit together. What had he meant?
She shook her head. "I'm not sure," she told Jon, and accepted a cup of hot wine from Cedrick as he appeared at her elbow. She sipped slowly, but her stomach was in a roil. She cleared her throat, leaning over the map table so that she could see what they were looking at. Their forces were garrisoned around Winterfell. She heard the sharp sounds of steel against steel outside, and knew that the soldiers had already begun training. "Bran told me that he last saw the Night King and his army here," Jon ran his finger over a crudely drawn area of forest, North of the Wall. It was closer to Eastwatch than Enrin would have liked. She gulped her wine again, wishing it would make her brave. She nodded for him to continue as she handed her cup to Cedrick for another draft. "I have little hope that the Wall will hold," he said, "and I have called the Night's Watch here, to Winterfell. Your father and the rest of Eastwatch will depart today. Edd and Castle Black will depart on the morrow." Enrin all but sagged with relief at the word that her father would come home, but her scalp prickled at his words. "You think the Wall is going to come down," she said, and it was not a question. When he looked at her, Jon's eyes were grave. "It is my hope, of course, that the Wall will keep us safe as it has for eight thousand years," he said, but he shrugged, "if it does not, we must be ready. The Night King and his army will be there within the fortnight. Daenerys' army marches on the King's Road, and should be here by the nightfall. She flies slowly to protect their back, but I have little fear anyone in the North would come to contest them." His eyes flashed to the lords next to him, who balked. "Your Grace," Yohn Royce said, bowing slightly, "The men of the North are yours." Jon thanked him, and turned back to his wife. "I have a job for you, if you'd do me the honor," he said, and nodded to his lords as he offered his arm to his wife. They bowed, and turned to pour over the maps again, bickering about this and that. Enrin took his arm and allowed him to escort her into the courtyard.
It was alive with commotion as they entered, and Jon pulled off his cloak and placed it over her shoulders. Boys of all ages clashed with practice swords in the yard; the youngest was a little boy of the free-folk, his hair the color of wet sand. His eyes were large and frightened, covering his ears from the noise. He could not have been more than six.
Enrin released Jon and strode to him. She put her hands gently over his where they covered his ears, and he jumped to feel her there, whipping around to face her. "Hello, little thing," she said, and her voice was more gentle than Jon had ever heard it. "Are you afraid?"
The boy watched her for a moment, his big brown eyes flickering to the practicing boys, then back to her. He shook his head, puffing out his chest. "The free-folk aren't afraid," he said, and his voice was higher than the tinny of a bell. Enrin smiled. "There is no shame in fear," she said, and she held her hand out for him to take. He did, adjusting the leather jerkin that covered his furs. It was several sizes too large. "You see," Enrin said, and she led him over to Jon, who stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, "when a man is afraid, that is the only time he can be brave. Isn't that right?" She looked to Jon then, who smiled down at the frightened boy, and he nodded. "The Queen is right," Jon said, and he crouched down to be of level with him, "what's your name?" The boy fidgeted under his gaze, but answered anyway, his voice strong. "Stygir, Y-Your Grace," he stammered, but he held Jon's eyes steadily. "A strong name," Jon said, and the boy stood taller. "It was my father's name," Stygir said, and his words were filled with pride. "And what of your father now?" Enrin asked, and the boy's fingers tightened in hers. "The Others took him at Hardhome, Your Grace," he replied, and my brother, Garluf. He was older than me, you see, so he stayed behind to fight with father while mother and I boarded the ship. He said he would come, but he never did." Stygir's small brown eyes found the ground then, and Enrin held his hand in both of hers, heartache slicing through her chest. "I can fight, though, Your Graces, I can," Stygir said, and his voice was earnest, "my mother works in your kitchens now, and she's been teaching me at night with the sword, but it's never so loud as this." Jon stood, and offered his hand to the boy as well, and Stygir took it eagerly. His eyes met Enrin's, and he was touched by the sadness there. "Would you like to try something a little quieter?" She asked, as they started over to where the targets stood perched into the ground. A few clumsy boys stood there, aiming arrows half heartedly at the bullseyes. Stygir nodded eagerly.
"You're in luck, it seems," Jon said, "I would ask the Queen if she would help teach the young ones archery. She's the best shot I've ever seen." Stygir's eyes found Enrin's, and they were big and bright. "Truly?"
Enrin cocked her eyebrow and reached for a bow. Jon took a rough wooden one from the weapon rack, handing it to her. She felt the weight of it; it was clumsier and heavier than the ones she was used to, but it would do. She knocked an arrow and closed her eyes.
The arrow sang through the air, landing with a dull thud in the middle of the target.
Stygir clapped, his eyes bright and wild. "Again! Do it again!" He shouted, and the other boys came to watch the clamor as well, as Enrin shot arrow after arrow into the bullseyes. When she had hit every target, she turned back to Jon, breathless. He watched her with a soft smile on his lips, pride shining through his eyes. She handed the bow to one of the larger boys, a lad of fifteen with mouse brown hair and eyes to match. "Go on," she said, and showed him how to place his hands, "it's your turn now."

They trained well into the late afternoon, until each boy had hit the bullseye at least once. Stygir pouted when she sent them in for supper, and she placed a soft hand on his head and promised they would work again on the morrow. Her hands were rough with calluses as she wandered into the play yard again, following the sounds of practice swords and shouting.
Jon had worked the young boys tirelessly, and sweat beaded on his brow as he twisted away from what would have been a killing blow, if the sword the boy wielded had an edge, and if he were skilled enough to land it.
"Good!" Jon shouted, but he twisted away again as the young one before him raised the sword above his head to bring it down again. He rolled, tossing his shield. He parried the boy, who grunted as Jon's practice sword found its way to his throat. They broke apart, laughing. He clapped the boy on the shoulder and turned, finding Enrin there watching him.
"We'll meet back here tomorrow," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. They bowed as he walked away, turning to mutter excitedly between themselves. They were boys of Winterfell who had just been personally trained by their king. Enrin knew that this would shape their future; she thought that they would receive knighthoods. If any of them made it through the war, she would see to it herself.
Jon reached for her hand and she met him, twining her fingers in his. "You're good with them," she said as they started back toward the keep, and Jon's grin was almost shy. "I trained the young boys at Castle Black," he answered, shrugging it off. "You're going to make a wonderful father, one day," she said, but her gut twisted as she remembered Littlefinger's strange words from the morning. Jon sensed her unease, and squeezed her hand tighter. "What is it?"
She swallowed a lump in her throat, shaking her head. "Nothing," she replied, averting her eyes, "I'm just hungry. Come."

Enrin set down her fork, taking another long draught of wine. Jon eyed her plate suspiciously, but said nothing. She had left almost all of her food there, and tossed it around to make it seem like she had eaten. She would fight with him if he mentioned it, he knew; she had been oddly defensive through their supper, her eyes casting warily about the room. He felt her discomfort like a weight on his shoulders, and he reached under the table to squeeze her hand. When she looked up at him, his eyes were concerned.
What Littlefinger had said to her sat on her heart, gripping it like a vice. Surely, if she were able to give him an heir, it would be growing in her belly as they spoke. She wondered if it was, but her blood had just been upon her, and remembering it dashed her hopes. His reign was in danger until she produced an heir for him, she knew that. She also thought of him today, with Stygir, how he had been so sweet with the little boy he had just met. Yes, she thought, she wanted to make him a father to see him raise her sons and daughters, to share that with him. Enrin looked down at her flat stomach, wondering why it betrayed her.

Davos entered the great hall then, and Jon rose to meet him. They clasped forearms, both looking relieved. Enrin's melancholy was momentarily forgotten. She heard the roar from outside, the screams of the terrified people, and knew the dragons must have landed. She stood and raced from the great hall, Jon hot on her heels.
The guards outside raised their swords as Drogon hissed, and she saw the fire glowing low in his throat. Daenerys sat astride him, and she had a placating hand on his great neck, but the dragon was having none of it. Enrin put herself in front of the guards, between Drogon and them, glowering. "Put away your blades," she said, and they looked at her doubtfully. "Queen Daenerys is here to assist us, not kill us, you know this. We've told you. I said put away your blades!" They did then, sheathing them at once, bowing their heads as they backed away. Daenerys walked down Drogon's wing and Enrin reached up to help her, linking her arm through hers. "Welcome to Winterfell, Daenerys," she said, as Drogon took to the air, sending her hair whipping about her face. "You look troubled," Daenerys said, squeezing her friend's arm. Enrin felt her cheeks redden; she wondered what her face must look like.
Jon met them at the doors of the keep, waving them in. He welcomed Daenerys, leading them back into the great hall, where the lords of the North stood waiting to greet them. They looked at Daenerys with distrust plain on their faces, but she held her head high as she strode past them, up to the long table, where Sansa and Arya sat waiting with Bran. She greeted them both in turn, and Jon pulled her to the map table, where they stood with their heads bent low together, whispering the battle plans. Davos stood with them, but Enrin remained with Jon's siblings.
She felt a presence at her shoulder and turned. Littlefinger stood before her, his pointed lips beneath his pointed beard pulled up into a grin. "They seem to be quite close," he said, his words a whisper to only her. She turned her head to face him, but she saw Sansa instead, standing behind Littlefinger with loathing in her eyes. She knew he was planting seeds in her, she knew that he was seeking to cause strife, to weaken their ties and, in turn, weaken the North. But even still, his words stung her.
"You must be tired after your journey," she heard Jon say, and realized that they had made their way back to her. Daenerys nodded. "My soldiers will set up their camp outside the walls," she said, "and I would be happy for a bath and a hot meal."
"We shall have some sent to your chambers," Enrin said, and she tried to sound friendly, but only succeeded in sounding tired, "Cedrick will show you to them. Please seek us out if there is anything you should need." She sounded too formal, too unfamiliar, and Daenerys' brows knit together. She nodded, and turned to leave, and Enrin saw Jorah waiting for her there at the doors of the great hall. Enrin swallowed thickly. "I think I will retire as well," she said, and she strode from the hall as Littlefinger leaned in to whisper into Sansa's ear.

Jon threw open the doors to their chambers and Enrin shoved her head farther into the pillows of their bed. "What is it?" he demanded as he slammed the doors behind him, pulling the blankets roughly away from her. She gripped the pillow tightly, pulling it over her head. "Its nothing," she said, her voice muffled by the fabric, "it is stupid and I know that it is stupid, but it bothers me yet still."
Jon sat on the edge of the mattress, and he ran his fingers up her back. She shied away from his touch, and he sighed. "Tell me."
She looked up at him then, and her eyes were filled with sadness. "If I couldn't give you heirs," she said, "if I couldn't give you sons. Would you leave me?"
Jon's eyes widened a fraction, and and then he squinted. "What did that shit say to you this morning?" he demanded, standing to pace the room, his hand on his sword. Enrin only shrugged, saying nothing. Jon swore.
"Of course I woudln't leave you," he said finally, after a long bought of cursing. He sat on the bed again, and pulled her over to him, putting her head in his lap. He stroked her hair, his fingers lighter than a feather. "You silly woman," he sighed, "there are other ways to choose a successor. One of us, realistically, I'm sure, will die first. I name you as my heir. And after, you will name Sansa."
Enrin closed her eyes, the feel of his fingers in her hair calming her nerves. "I don't want to talk about us dying," she said, and she felt him chuckle beneath her. "You worry too much," Jon said, and she opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her, "you do. You try to hide it, but I can always see it on your face." He leaned down to kiss her, slow and gentle. "It hasn't been too long," he said, as he ran his fingers through her hair again, "it's been no time at all, really. I hope we don't have a child before the wars are over." His voice was sad as he spoke, and she touched his hand where it cupped her face. "I don't want them to grow up like this. I want them to be happy." She nodded, kissing his palm. "It was only Littlefinger's words," she said, her voice quiet, "nothing more. Sooner or later, whichever comes first." He kissed her again, and her heart felt lighter than it had all day.
The knock on their door startled them both, and they jumped from the bed like frightened animals. Jon opened the door a crack, big enough for his head to fit through. Sansa stood before them, her face a calm mask. "I'd like for you both to come to the great hall, if it please you," she said, and turned quickly on her heel. Jon and Enrin exchanged glances. That was Littlefinger's Sansa, they knew, not theirs. They quickly followed her down the hall.

The torches burned with low light, only half of them lit. Sansa sat in her seat at the high table, with Bran seated to her left. Jon and Enrin came to sit beside her, both of them looking confused. Yohn Royce stood among the Knights of the Vale, his cloak tucked into his great breastplate. The doors opened, and Arya strode forward, her face impassive. She stood before the table, her hands folded behind her back. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked, her eyes on Sansa, who sat back in her chair. "It is not what I want, but it is what honor demands," Sansa replied, and then she stood.
"You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you answer for these crimes...Lord Baelish?"
Jon moved to stand, but Enrin gripped his elbow hard, pulling him back down into his seat. "This is not for you," she whispered desperately in his ear, and she could hear his teeth grind together, "by her leave."
Littlefinger stood for a moment, shock plain on his face. Arya turned to him, a small smile playing on her lips. "My sister asked you a question."
"Lady Sansa, forgive me, I'm a bit confused." Littlefinger strode to stand in front of the table.
"Which charges confuse you?" Sansa asked, and she looked more regal than she ever had before. "Lady Sansa, if we could only speak alone," Littlefinger said, and his voice had a nervous edge. "You stand accused of murder," Sansa said, ignoring his request, "you killed our aunt Lysa. You threw her through the moon door. Do you deny it?"
"I did that to protect you." Littlefinger gripped the table in front of them, but released it as Jon almost lunged forward. He backed away, into Arya, who only watched him as he shied away. "You stand accused of treason," Sansa said again, her voice strong, "you betrayed our father and got him imprisoned in the black cells of King's Landing. In doing that, you had a hand in his murder at the hands of the false king Joffrey. Do you deny it?"
Littlefinger smiled then, but his teeth were on edge and his jaw too square. "None of you were there!" he shouted, and his words were a desperate plea. "None of you know what truly happened. I deny it!"
"You held a knife to his throat," Bran said, and Jon thought he may implode with anger as it coursed through is veins like black water, "you told him, 'I did tell you not to trust me'. Do you deny it?"
Littlefinger whipped around, striding to Yohn Royce, who looked on him coolly. "I am the Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to see me safely back to the Eyrie," Littlefinger demanded, and Yohn Royce only smiled. "I think not," the man said, and the Knights of the Vale all stood fast with him, none of them moving.
Littlefinger turned, and fell to his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes, hot and wet. Enrin sneered in disgust. "Sansa, please," Littlefinger begged, his hands cupped in front of him, "I loved your mother."
"And yet, you betrayed her." Sansa's voice was no longer brittle; it was strong, like the set of her shoulders, and she leaned across the table to stare into Littlefinger's eyes.
"I loved you," Littlefinger cried, "more than anyone."
"And yet you betrayed me."
Arya moved then, and Enrin gripped Jon's arm so hard she thought she may break his skin. He held her fast, his hand squeezing her knee. "Look away," he said, but she only shook her head.
"Sansa-"
The knife made no noise as it sliced through the skin of his throat like butter, and he choked. Blood shot from his mouth as he coughed once, twice, and suddenly his throat opened. Blood sprayed from between his fingers, soaking the front of his doublet. He sputtered and wheezed, slumping, until he fell forward onto the floor, his life's blood spreading around him like a great red blanket. Sansa stood then, and strode from the room, Arya pushing Bran's chair behind her.
Jon and Enrin were the last two to leave, as the Knight's of the Vale lifted Littlefinger's body by his arms and dragged him from the hall. His blood made a macabre painting behind him, like the wet trail of a snail. His glassy eyes stared at Enrin as they passed her, and suddenly, she had never felt safer.