Chapter XI: The Only Option

His guilt kept him from concentrating on anything at all, and he had to dismiss Davos shortly after. He had told him about Tyrion Lannister's raven, and told him to gather the Lords within the week for a meeting, and Davos had complied, but not before advising him to think clearly about the matter.

"She is a Southern Queen, Your Grace," he had said. "We have Wildlings in the North now. And Southerners don't harbour any goodwill towards Wildlings. Don't make your decision just yet. Talk to Tormund, your family."

Sansa was against him, but she hadn't raised any voice yet, and Arya... He had no doubt Arya wouldn't hesitate to raise her voice if she truly opposed his decision, and he hoped that she wouldn't. They were walking on a thin wire already, he didn't want to make the situation worse.

He was thinking of apologizing. He knew he shouldn't have used his King voice, especially not in front of her, but Arya had left him little choice. He couldn't let her go and attack a castle, much less a castle taken by Jaime Lannister. He was an apt Knight, even without his arm, and as much bravery Arya possessed, she would never be able to come out of Riverrun alive.

She killed Walder Frey though, another voice inside his head said, and no one learned a thing.

It would be wrong to say he wasn't a killer himself, but the thought of Arya murdering someone felt alien and unbelievable. He remembered what he had seen in her eyes when she talked of her killing. Triumph? Pleasure? Her eyes had burned with vengeance, and he knew she wasn't wrong. The Freys, the Lannisters, they had killed their family, in the most brutal ways possible. But Arya was still a little girl to him, full of innocence.

Does she live only for revenge now? He wondered. Did she come back here for her family or only for the sake of retaliation?

But it was wrong of him to think that, because he felt like he barely knew her at all. He didn't know where she'd been, or what she'd been up to. He didn't know how she had survived in a world full of monsters, what had happened to her that she'd have to start killing people. And through all of it, it was the bitter agony that pooled in his heart that he should've been there for her. He should have showed her the way, should've guided her, helped her to keep his little sister inside of her alive.

We should never have left Winterfell.

Sansa's words had never rang truer in his ears.

He was slowly losing calm, and starting to panic. The men rushed about heeding his orders, but Jon had a voice inside of him saying that it wouldn't work.

The stableboy ran to him, barely catching his breath.

"One horse is missing, Your Grace."

Jon clenched his fists.

Stubborn girl.

For another half an hour they searched, but there wasn't any sign of her. He finally asked them to stop, realizing it would be of no use.

His heart was beating inside its cage mercilessly.

I cannot lose her. I cannot lose her.

He hurried to his chambers and shut the door behind him. The windows were open and in another time he would've cared about the cold and closed them, but the only thing in his mind right now was that Arya was gone. He had just got her back and she had ran off.

She should have let me make her understand, he thought.

She would running to her death.

But she had her pack, and Nymeria would keep her safe.

Jon closed his eyes, and for the first time in his life, tried to intentionally skin-change into Ghost. He knew Ghost would be with Nymeria, and even if he wasn't, Ghost could find them through their scent.

It wasn't working, and Jon was getting frustrated. He had never slipped inside his wolf while wide awake, and he didn't know how to, but he had to try. For the sake of him and her.

But five minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty, without Jon accomplishing his task. The moon peeked through the clouds, and in a distance he heard the caws of crows seated on the branches of the tree in front of his window, and the sounds irked him more, making him restless and more worried.

"Jon?" The voice outside his door made him turn his head around sharply, and open it quickly. Sansa looked at him worriedly and took one step ahead.

"Are you-"

"Will the Knights of the Vale follow her?" He asked, interrupting her.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, then took a deep breath.

"Yes, if she wishes so. But she told me she will send word if she needs them to."

"How could you do this?" He roared, shaking her by the shoulders. "How could you let your own sister run to her doom?"

"She doesn't run, Jon," Sansa said, determinedly. "She rides. Our sister is not a novice. She knows what she is doing, and I trust her. Why won't you trust her as well?"

"Because she is just a girl!" He yelled, fisting his hair so hard by the roots that all of his nerve endings were jolted awake.

"I have to go to her," he whispered. "I will gather every man I have, and I will go. I need to be with her."

"No." Sansa stopped him by his arm. "She told me no one is to disturb her plans."

Jon shot her a sharp look.

"Please, Jon. She is not alone. She has friends." Jon's cocked up his eyebrow. Sansa held her chin up. "And a pack of wolves, with Ghost and Nymeria at the head. If she needs men, she will tell us, but until then, let her do as she wishes. You know I will never put her life in danger intentionally."

Are you so blinded by revenge, he wanted to ask her. That you would willingly risk her life?

Jon shook the boy awake, and he woke up in a frenzy, wiping the drool off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Two horses, now," he ordered, and the boy bowed, hurrying to do as his King asked.

"You sure about this, King Crow?" Tormund asked from beside him. The Wilding and Davos were the only ones he told, the only ones who he knew would understand. Davos knew the worth of family, while Tormund was a trusted friend.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. There was no question about him following her. He would do it every time.

"Well, then," Tormund patted his back. "Let's get that Wildling sister of yours back."

"She isn't a Wildling," he heard himself say. He watched the stableboy saddle the second horse.

Tormund guffawed.

"Aye, mayhaps not. Never seen a Wildling lead a pack of wolves before, nor go into battle alone. Aye, Jon Snow, she's worse."

The horses were brought, and both of them mounted them. The stableboy managed a clumsy bow and backed away. Jon turned to Tormund, who looked different with a cloak around him. His skins were forgotten, as they would be no use in Riverrun and would only warm him up. He wore furs and leathers, and looked almost like a Northerner, if not for his burgundy hair.

Jon prayed to the Old Gods, that they keep her safe until they reached her.

Stubborn girl, he thought. Don't do anything stupid just yet.

They pulled the reins and rode off.