Today the story ends, my friends. I've been putting off uploading because I think I just wasn't ready. Jon and Enrin's story ends...but maybe their line doesn't have to? More things to come!

Thank you for everything. We'll see you soon ;)

Five years had passed, and still the ground was frozen.

The wind whispered through the trees as it always did, the tinkling of the ice in the branches making a sweet music across the courtyard. She could see everything up here; perhaps that's why Jon liked it so much.

He had his men sweep the battlements for her daily, to prevent the ice from forming. After all this time, he still treated her like a doll that would break at the slightest provocation. She sighed, but couldn't begrudge him that.

The sound of the small laughter reached her on her lofty perch on the battlements. The dark haired boy grinned up at her from the ground, his hair tousled by the wind.

He looked so much like Jon that sometimes it made her heart ache. His hair was dark, almost black like theirs was. The only difference was his eyes; five years and it still shocked her to see them staring at her from across the courtyard.

They were a blinding, light amethyst; the only evidence to who he truly was.

When they had returned from the Great War, her recovery had been hellish. Even still, when the wind blew colder than usual, her chest would seize and pain would slice through her, gone as quickly as it had come. Enrin had been bedridden, or so they'd told her; she had made it to the Great Hall for dinner every night with her husband, who loathed to be away from her.

Tale of their victory had spread amongst the North and the remaining six kingdoms like wildfire. More and more people flocked to Winterfell; to bend the knee, some to just get a look at them. Daenerys had flown for King's Landing almost immediately, as soon as she had ascertained that Enrin's beating heart wasn't just a fluke.

It was a month after the War that she'd felt a sort of quickening in her belly. She'd sought out Maester Wolken immediately. The Maester had confirmed her suspicions; she was with child, their first heir.

She told Jon that night, alone in their chambers. She'd still had thick bandages wrapped around her chest over her healing wound, draped in the silk dressing gown she hardly wore, but the constraints of tight clothing made her uncomfortable.

He had sat with her, his expression worried.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said, pulling her into his arms. She'd been fidgeting all day, her concentration elsewhere.

"I'm pregnant."

She'd said it quickly, as if afraid of his reaction. Jon stared at her for a few long moments, his face impassive.

"With child?" He asked, almost stupidly, looking at her as if he'd just seen her for the first time.

When she nodded, he'd swept her up in his arms so quickly he almost knocked them both down.

She smiled now, to remember it. Her pregnancy had not been an easy one; her sickness lasted almost all of her day, and toward the end she was under strict instruction not to leave her bed. She had listened to the Maester, for it was not just her life at stake this time.

When their son was ready to come into the world, she labored a day and a half. The pain was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, but she had taken it in stride, almost breaking Jon's fingers each time a contraction tore through her. He'd insisted on being with her the entire time, although it was custom for most noblemen to go off hunting when it was their wife's time. For her people, the men would post themselves outside of the hut, guarding the door from anything that would be alerted by the birthing screams and the smell of blood.

They had not discussed his name; Jon had thought he was a girl, and he was so sure that Enrin almost believed him. Deep within her, she knew it was their son.

When the Maester laid him on her chest, his eyes opened, gray meeting lilac. He did not cry, only watched his mother with a kind of innocent curiosity, his eyes blinking in the light. Enrin felt her heart may burst.

"Eddard," she said, and looked at Jon for his approval. Her husband had only nodded, tears in his eyes.

Having a son was something Jon had never known he needed. The moment Ned was old enough, Jon had put a sword in his hand and strapped him to the saddle of a horse. Enrin had been worried.

"Let him be a baby a while longer," she'd begged her husband, "let him be a child."

It was Ned's third name day, and Jon had gifted him his own dragonglass blade, the size of a large dagger.

Jon had looked at her, and his eyes were sad.

"He can be," he'd told her, "only for a time. He's a prince." He'd shrugged, taking his wife's hand and kissing her knuckles.

"Princes don't get to be children for very long."

She could not begrudge him, though; Ned had his time for his friends and his play. As she watched him now, he raced across the courtyard below her, kicking up dirt behind him. Four fat wolf pups flocked after him on short, stubby legs; they'd only just opened their eyes, and yet all of them followed as closely to Ned as they could. They were all a stark white, with golden yellow eyes, so similar one could hardly tell them apart. They had their father's coloring, but their mother's eyes.

From deep in the forest in the distance, Enrin could hear the voices of their brothers and sisters dancing over the wind.

She felt him before she heard him; the soft prodding of his presence behind her woke her from her memories. How long had she been standing there?

Jon stopped beside her, leaning against the battlement, his shoulder brushing hers.

"I see you've taken my place as the watcher on the wall," he joked, and she leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. His beard was rough under her lips.

When she pulled away to look at him, she noticed it was beginning to gray around the edges. She reached out with her fingers to brush the small smattering of hairs lightly. Jon reached up to grasp her fingers, pressing his lips to her palm. "What is it?"

His brows were knit together again, those wrinkles forming on his forehead. Worried, always worried, she mused. No wonder he was going gray at thirty.

"Nothing, my love," she replied, leaning against him again. Black or gray, she loved him still.

Jon wrapped his arms around her, his hands splaying over her stomach where it had begun to swell.

"Girl or boy?" Jon asked, resting his chin in the curve of Enrin's neck. She leaned into him, pulling his cloak around her as another breeze whipped past them. She placed her hands over his, breathing deeply.

"A girl," she decided, and she felt his chuckle tumble deeply in his chest.

"You're trying to kill me," Jon remarked, his eyes scanning Ned's every move as he raced back and forth across the courtyard again and again, the wolves trotting after him.

They watched their son for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

"Daenerys has written," he said, and leaned away from her to pull a scroll from the sleeve of his jerkin. Enrin took it, remembering all too well the lilting curvature of Daenerys' writing.

"She's given birth," Enrin remarked, her eyes flying over the page, "a girl. Rhaella."

Jon nodded. He'd already read the scroll, of course; Dennas had delivered it to him personally.

"Read the rest," he said, and his voice was almost grim.

Jorah and Daenerys had flown off on Drogon together, almost immediately after Enrin had woken from her wound. Jaime Lannister and his army had followed on horseback, trailing the great dragon slowly. They had crowned her Queen of the Six Kingdoms almost immediately, with Tyrion Lannister serving as her hand.

Daenerys' and Jorah's wedding had been a quick one, without the usual splendor of a wedding befitting a Queen. Enrin had been unable to travel, and Jon had refused to leave her side. They'd send Sansa in their stead, and while there, Daenerys had agreed to annul the marriage that still bound her and Tyrion.

Enrin smiled at her husband. "What with the grave face then?" She asked. "This is happy news."

Jon pursed his lips.

"Keep reading."

Her brows knit together as her eyes fell slowly to the page again.

She had reached the end, and then read it twice more, just to make sure that she hadn't gone mad.

"She wants to wed Ned to Rhaella as soon as she's of age," she said, and her eyes found her boy again, her sweet boy, rolling in the dirt with his wolves.

"To unite our houses," Jon finished for her, looking almost cross.

"No."

Jon looked up at his wife, and her gaze was ice and steel, the same look she'd had in her eyes the first time she'd stepped foot in Winterfell.

"No," Enrin said again, and she folded the letter gently, "I have a great love for Daenerys, I do. I know that their blood relation is so distant that it may not matter but...I can't decide for him. We can't decide for him."

She took Jon's hand, and he held it to his lips.

"I agree," was all he said, pulling her close to him.

He enveloped her in his cloak, his arm wrapped around her. His hand rested on the soft curve of her belly.

"When they're old enough," she began again, and this time her tone was hopeful, "when they're both of age, they can decide for themselves."

She felt Jon's nod against the top of her head. They stood for a while, silent, watching their son frolic in the open courtyard. The wind blew again, ice against their skin, and Enrin shuddered.

"What is it?" Jon asked, tightening his grip on her.

"It scares me," she murmured, her eyes tracing every step Ned took, "to love something that pain can touch."

Jon held her fast, pressing his lips to her hair. His heart twisted.

"Everything that ever threatened us," he said, "is gone. We killed them. We killed them all."

He pulled away to face her. His hand pressed against her belly again.

"You're safe. He's safe. We are safe now."

"Mother! Father, come look!"

It was Ned's high pitched squeal of joy that brought them back from the past, shuddering, clutching to each other like one might fade away. They made their way down the battlements as fast as Jon would allow, his fingers locked around her elbow on the off chance that Enrin slipped.

When they entered the courtyard, the wolves swarmed them with hot, furry bodies pressing against every side.

Ned raced to meet them, his fur cloak billowing out behind him. His cheeks were pink with exertion and glee.

"What is it, son?" Jon asked as Ned launched himself from the ground into his arms. Ned pointed imperiously, to a small patch of dirt near the gates.

"Over there, Father, I'll show you!"

They walked slowly, hand in hand, Ned clutching to Jon's shoulders. The sky was beginning to turn pink in color; the sun would soon set, and the scents of dinner wafted to Enrin's nose from the open windows of the keep. Her stomach snarled, their daughter doing somersaults in her womb.

"There, look!"

It was just outside the gates of the castle, agains the stone wall under a blanket of snow so thick that one may have missed it if it weren't for her eagle-eyed son who had been playing there moments before.

Jon knelt with his son in his arms, brushing the snow aside.

It was a bush, so small that they even wondered if it could be called that. The leaves were small and waxy, glittering with dew as the snow melted away from the heat of their breath.

"What is it, Mother?" Ned asked, his voice high with excitement. In his five years, he had barely seen a blade of grass. He'd only heard of the rolling green hills of the North in stories told to him before his bedtime.

Enrin reached down slowly, her fingers like feathers over the branches. A small bulb protruded from her fingers, blue as ice, and Jon leaned Ned closer so that he could see.

"It's a bush," she said, and her voice was as childlike in her wonder as his, "a Winter Rose bush."

In her belly, their daughter did another somersault.

"What does it mean?" Their son asked, reaching out to gently run his fingers over the bulb in his mother's hand.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. He was all his father; the same curly black hair, the gentle curve of his nose. His cheeks were red with exertion and excitement, his purple eyes dancing. Jon held Ned close, whispering in his ear, showing him the other bulbs that had begun to protrude from between the leaves.

So many things had changed in the six years since she had met Jon; the fire that had burned in her had dimmed, replaced by other things. Softer, warmer things. Love. Safety. Duty. She was a wife, a mother, and a Queen.

Enrin had never thought this was where her life would take her. She remembered her ire at being asked to marry Jon; she hadn't wanted that life. She had never thought of herself as anything more than what she was; a warrior, ready to fight and die in the heat of battle. She would have let them take her if she'd had to. If that were to be the end of it all.

Jon had given her something to fight for. Jon had give them hope.

"It's a sign, my love," she whispered, kneeling next to them in the snow. She felt Jon's free arm snake around her waist, to rest against her belly where their daughter lived. She felt the warmth of his fingers there, where they belonged. Where she belonged.

"Spring is coming at last."