"The Boltons are defeated!" Lord Cerwyn exclaimed, getting to his feet. "The war is over! Winter has come. If the maesters are right, it'll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."

He looked around the hall at the other Northern lords, who nodded and murmured in approval.

For the second time in less than a month, they had all gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell at Jon's behest, but the mood this time was different, charged, almost mutinous. A white raven had come from the citadel, announcing the beginning of winter. Eager to return to their keeps and protect their own through the dark and the cold, Jon's bannermen had not taken kindly to his command that they prepare for another war. From where she was sitting beside Jon at the high table, Charleen had watched them shaking their heads and exchanging sullen looks until Lord Cerwyn had finally given voice to their grievance, gathering audible support as he spoke.

Out of the corner of her eye, Charleen saw Ser Davos, who was sitting on Jon's other side, glance at him uneasily. Jon waited patiently for the noise to die down; then, he took a deep breath and rose to his feet.

"The war is not over," he declared calmly, "and I promise you, my lords, the true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm."

Once again, a murmur ran around the hall, but it was hushed this time, tinged with doubt.

"The dead are coming," Jon continued. "I've seen them."

A silence followed, broken only by the crackling of logs in the hearth, and the people in the hall seemed to draw closer together, huddling against a sudden shiver of cold.

"This war is the only war that matters," Jon said. "If we don't prepare, we'll all end up as corpses marching in the Night King's army. I want every Northern maester to scour their records for any mention of dragonglass. Dragonglass kills White Walkers; it's more valuable to us now than gold. We need to find it, we need to mine it, we need to make weapons from it. Everyone aged ten to sixty will drill daily with spears, pikes, bow and arrow."

There was another silence, long and terse, and it was finally broken by Lord Glover's rumbling voice:

"It's about time we taught these boys of summer how to fight."

The hall erupted in chuckles and exclamations of assent. As the tension broke, Charleen exhaled deeply, but Jon had not finished.

"Not just the boys," he said. "We can't defend the North if only half the population is fighting."

The noise died down almost instantly.

"You expect me to put spears in my daughters' hands?" Lord Glover scowled, rising to his feet.

On the other side of the hall, Lyanna Mormont imitated his gesture.

"I don't plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for me!" she exclaimed. "I might be small, Lord Glover, and I might be a girl, but I'm every bit as much a Northerner as you."

"Indeed you are, my lady. No one is questioning –"

"And I don't need your permission to defend the North!" Lyanna cut him off, and Charleen leaned forward slightly in her chair to exchange a faint smile with Ser Davos.

"We will begin training every man, woman, boy and girl on Bear Island," Lyanna declared, her eyes moving between Lord Glover and Jon. A murmur of assent followed her words, and some of the men thumped the table with their hands.

Pressing his advantage, Jon spoke over the noise.

"While we're preparing for attack, we need to shore up our defences," he said. "The only thing standing between us and the army of the dead is the Wall, and the Wall hasn't been properly manned in centuries. I'm not the king of the free folk," he paused, and at the far end of the hall, Tormund leaned forward in his seat. "But if we're going to survive this winter together…"

Tormund rose to his feet and took a step forward.

"You want us to man the castles for you?"

"Aye," Jon said, ignoring the murmurs of his men. "Last time we saw the Night King was at Hardhome. The closest castle to Hardhome is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

"Then that's where I'll go," Tormund declared. He looked around the hall, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Looks like we're the Night's Watch now."

To Charleen's surprise, hardly a mutter came from the men as their eyes remained fixed upon Jon.

"If they breach the Wall," he continued quickly, "we'll make our stand here, at Winterfell. Maester Wolkan tells me that we currently have four thousand bushels of grain in store. If you and your men have to come back, that won't be enough. We need to start building up our stores with regular shipments from every keep in the North. If we don't use it by the end of winter, we'll give it back to you. But if you have to flee to Winterfell, you won't have the time to bring wagonloads of grain with you."

He paused, and exhaled deeply.

"Go, make your preparations. I hope they'll prove unnecessary."

He sat down heavily among the babble of many voices and the scraping of benches as his men rose to their feet and slowly began to leave the hall. For a moment, his gaze remained fixed upon them; then, he turned his head to look at Charleen.

"You're good at this, you know," she said, before Jon had the chance to speak.

"At what?"

Charleen jerked her head towards the hall, indicating the retreating backs of the men.

"At ruling."

"No," Jon scoffed, "I'm not. It's –"

"You are," Charleen cut him off. "You are. They respect you, they really do. You –"

She stopped short as her eyes fell on Maester Wolkan, who had entered through the door at the back of the hall and was approaching their table with a scroll of parchment in his hands.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly, "my lady, Ser Davos, my apologies for the interruption. There was a raven from Dragonstone." He held the parchment out to Jon. "It bears the seal of House Targaryen."

"House Targaryen?"

His brow furrowed, Jon unfurled the scroll, scanned its contents, and then handed it to Charleen without a word.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, invites you to Dragonstone, she read silently. My Queen commands the combined forces of Dorne and the Reach, an Ironborn fleet –. And then came three terms that she had not encountered since her girlhood lessons with Maester Luwin.

Unsullied. Dothraki. Dragons.

Her eyes darted to the name suffixed to the letter.

"Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen," she read aloud. "What is Tyrion Lannister doing as Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen?"

She passed the letter to Ser Davos, but it was Maester Wolkan who answered.

"I would expect that he is hiding from his sister," he said. "Queen Cersei holds him responsible for the death of their father and of King Joffrey her son, and she has offered a handsome reward to the man who brings her his head."

"But –" Charleen looked at Jon uncertainly, "do you think it's really him? It could be someone trying to lure you into a trap."

"Read the last bit," Jon said, and Ser Davos held out the letter to her.

"I appeal to you, one bastard to another, for all dwarves are bastards in their fathers' eyes. What does that mean?"

"It's something he said to me the first night we met," Jon explained, and after a pause, he added, "Tyrion is not like the other Lannisters."

"It's too great a risk," Charleen declared. She glanced back at the letter. "The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny."

"He sounds like a charmer," Ser Davos remarked with a hint of sarcasm, holding out his hand to take back the letter. "Of course, the casual mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied and three dragons is a bit less charming."

He hesitated, and Jon turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Fire kills wights, you told me," Ser Davos replied slowly. "What breathes fire?"

"You're not suggesting Jon meet with her?" Charleen asked doubtfully.

"No," Ser Davos shook his head, "too dangerous."

"But –?" Jon prompted him.

"But if the army of the dead makes it past the Wall, do we have enough men to fight them?"

Jon looked away from Ser Davos, but before he could reply, the door at the far end of the hall opened and two guardsmen entered. They approached the high table with a slightly sheepish look on their faces, and Jon took the letter and gave it back to Maester Wolkan before turning to the men with a deep exhalation of breath.

"Sorry to interrupt, Your Grace," one of the men said, a tall fellow with close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. Charleen raised her eyebrows at him, but his next words were enough to drive any thought of the Targaryen queen completely off her mind.

"There was a girl at the gate who claimed to be Arya Stark. We told her to wait. We were standing right next to her, and –" he faltered, looking at his companion for assistance.

"And – and when we turned around, she'd gone, Your Grace," the other man finished. "She was nothing," he added hastily, "some winter town girl…"

"She comes in asking for, er, Ser Rodrik," the first man stammered.

"Ser Rodrik, aye…"

"And a Maester Luwin…"

"Luwin, aye… Don't – don't trouble yourself over it, Your Grace, we'll, er, we'll find her...," the second man trailed off.

Charleen turned to cast a meaningful glance at Jon, and he returned her look with a faint smile on his lips.

"You don't have to," he said to the guards. "I know where she is."

GoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoT

The crypts of Winterfell were dank and gloomy, illuminated only by a few candles that were casting long, flickering shadows over the stone statues of the honoured dead of House Stark.

Jon and Charleen advanced with bated breath, their steps echoing loudly from the stone walls and ceiling. The vault appeared deserted, but when they reached the alcove that held the statue of Lord Eddard, a familiar voice rang out behind them.

"You used to be taller."

Both of them whirled around, and there she was, Arya Stark, dressed in a tattered woollen cloak, with her sword girt at her hip and her dark hair pulled back from her face just like her father's had been.

"How did you sneak past the guards?" Jon asked her, his voice breaking.

"How did you go from the Night's Watch to King in the North?"

"It's a long story," Jon replied softly. "I imagine yours is, too."

He started towards her, and Charleen heard her half-laugh, half-sob as she threw herself into his arms, her feet leaving the floor as Jon lifted her and held her tight. When he set her back down, she stood at arm's length, looking him up and down with a disbelieving smile upon her face.

"It suits you, King in the North," she said. "And you," she added, turning to Charleen and embracing her in turn, "Queen in the North?"

"Oh, no," Charleen tried to scoff, but it came out as a sob. "Married to Jon, but not Queen in the North."

"Hm."

Arya smiled at her, but then her face suddenly grew serious, and she turned her head to look at the statue of Ned Stark looming above them in the alcove.

"It doesn't look like him," she said. "It should've been carved by someone who knew his face."

"Everyone who knew his face is dead," Jon pointed out.

"We're not."

"No, we're not." Jon exhaled deeply. "How did you get back here?"

"I was on my way to King's Landing, but then I heard that you'd retaken Winterfell."

"King's Landing?" Charleen repeated, surprised. "Why would you go there?"

Arya hesitated. "Cersei's on my list," she finally replied.

"Your list?"

"Of people I'm going to kill."

Her tone was serious, but then, she suddenly began to chuckle, and after a moment's stunned silence, both Jon and Charleen joined in.

Finally, Jon jerked his head towards the hilt of the sword protruding from beneath Arya's cloak.

"You still have it?"

"Needle," Arya said proudly, unsheathing the weapon and presenting it to him.

"Have you ever used it?"

"Once or twice."

Arya's voice was barely above a whisper, and a suspicion suddenly crept up on Charleen that sent shivers down her spine.

"Who else is on your list?"

"Most of them are dead already."

"What happened to you?" Charleen pressed. "Where were you all these years?"

Arya looked up at her, and there was a darkness in her eyes that Charleen had never seen there before.

"I was in Braavos," she said. "Training."

"Training?"

"To be a Faceless Man." She paused. "It's not a very pleasant story. But our stories aren't over yet."

"No," Charleen said slowly, "they're not."

And with that, she pulled Arya into another long embrace.