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Adela wakes as a cold dawn begins to glow through the shutters of the chamber. She lies still for a moment, afraid to move, afraid to disturb the silence of the world around her. The room is full of trunks, some shut and sealed, others half-packed and with dresses and cloaks spilling out the sides. Books have been pulled from the dusty shelves and stacked haphazardly either side of the door and jewellery and trinket boxes add to the overflowing mess of clothes and papers and shoes carpeting the flagstones. Adela's own room has been packed away and locked and so she shares Sansa's for their last week before the journey south. She looks down at Sansa still soundly sleeping beside her. Her cousin's mouth is swept up at one corner in a small smile. Smiling in her sleep, Adela thinks fondly, news of her betrothal is sweet to one Stark at least. She eases herself from the heaviness of the furs and blankets and bites back a gasp as dull pain starts at the base of her skull. Two weeks, she curses, and still this hurt clouds my head. Unbidden, memories of that snowy night begin to surface. She closes her eyes furiously, hoping to quell them, but they rise and fight to push through. The sting of snow through her dress, the dots of blood on the snow beside her head, a warm body against hers, dark eyes, and those lips, those lips . . .

She wrenches herself up from the bed, breaking from the hundred images flooding her mind, her head hurting just as much as her heart, and she remembers with dread what day it is, realises why she has woken so early and afraid. She feels her throat tighten, her chest constrict, her ribs ache with the dull beat of her heart. Today Jon Snow rides to the Wall. To a place of ice and fire, she remembers wearily, a place from where no man comes back. She remembers too her oath before the weirwood in the godswood and can hope only that the Old Gods honour it. In a daze, she goes to the window and pulls back the shutters, a sad smile starting on her face as she watches Jon Snow make his way through the courtyard from the stables and disappear into the archway of the tower opposite her. On his way to bid farewell to poor, sweet Bran, she muses, I can only hope Lady Stark will have some words of kindness . . . or none at all. She forces herself from the window and sets fresh wood onto the fire, watches as the flames grow and flicker hungrily. Sparks loom up, red and hot as blood, and she kneels before the fire, her face burning from the heat of it, watching the ash from last night's blaze being swallowed up and breathed again as the flames spread within the hearth. She sees her father's face in the flames, glowing and twisted, orange-flamed and looming, his smile turning to despair.

"What are you doing down there, Addie?" comes Sansa's voice from the bed. "You'll catch fire and lose that beautiful head of hair if you stay like that."

She smiles into the flames now and turns back to her cousin. They dress to the sound of Sansa's chatting as she details what her wedding gown will look like, how the ceremony will be, how she cannot wait to feel the cloak of Joffrey's house rest upon her shoulders.

"You will look splendid," says Adela, brushing Sansa's hair before the looking glass.

"I can hardly wait," says Sansa. "But I have to wait months and months – and it is still weeks till I will see him next!" She sighs heavily. "It's so terribly unfair."

"Very unfair," agrees Adela on a monotone, beginning to plait the red-gold locks. "Will you say farewell to Jon?"

"Yes," sighs Sansa, fussing with her sleeves. "Father has requested it."

At this remark and the look of boredom in Sansa's eyes, Adela bites her tongue, but she keeps her smile. She fastens Sansa's plait and helps her up from the stool. They put on their cloaks and walk from the chamber, down the winding steps and into the cold air of the courtyard. The clang of steel rises as they close the heavy wood door behind them and turn to see Robb and Jon duelling with the practice swords. Adela listens to their laughter, their curses at each other, and feels her throat tighten again with sobs she coughs away angrily. The family have gathered to say goodbye and it is to them Adela and Sansa now walk.

"Hello, little one," murmurs Adela.

"I'm not little," says Arya, her voice angry but threatening tears, and when Adela holds out an arm Arya does not hesitate to lean against her, her hand finding her cousin's.

They watch the boys duel in silence; Ned brooding, his grey eyes searching the horizon absently, Arya sniffing angrily, Sansa looking down at her hands, her head full of a hundred dreams of marriage and queenhood, and Adela stands amongst them all, her heart quietly breaking. She lifts her eyes from the cobblestones beneath her feet as she hears the growing sound of hooves approaching the courtyard. Several horses emerge on their way to the gates, a few mounted guards, a black brother of the Watch, and the strange Lannister half-man, cocksure and grinning as always. A stableboy holds Jon Snow's dark horse and the company pull up to wait.

The boys have long stopped their duel and watch with tightening faces the arrival of the party heading to the Wall. Without word, Robb and Jon turn to each other and embrace fiercely, their heads pressed into each other's shoulders, red hair mingling into black.

"I will miss you, brother," says Robb, as he draws back from the embrace, clasping Jon's arm still. "Keep yourself safe. I'll see you next when you're all in black."

"Farewell, Stark," says Jon, his eyes glittering.

"And you, Snow," says Robb, his smile trembling only slightly.

Sansa steps forward and does a little curtsey as Jon approaches their father before she turns on her heel and heads back toward her chamber. Adela watches her go with faint disbelief before turning back to watch the farewells. She cannot hear the words her uncle murmurs to Jon but the light on the boy's face is enough and he accepts his father's embrace with a smile.

"You may not have my name, but you have my blood," says Eddard, clearer now as he looks down at Jon. "You are a Stark of Winterfell, and you will do this house proud."

"I'll look after Needle!" cries Arya, hurtling from Adela's side and leaping into Jon's arms.

He laughs as he hugs her hard, tears shining in his eyes. "You'll come visit me soon?" he says to her. "Promise?"

"Promise," she pipes back desperately as he sets her down.

Finally, he comes before Adela, his stare hard on hers. She feels the sob begin to leap back into her throat, the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She swallows hard.

"Well, Jon Snow," she whispers. "You're off to become a man."

"I'm off to make a name for us bastards," he murmurs in reply. He takes her hand hanging uselessly by her hip and carries it to his lips, his dark eyes melting into hers. "My lady."

At this, the sob breaks loose and she throws her arms around his neck. He holds her close to him, oblivious of the stares Robb and Ned are giving them. She feels his heart through all the layers of boiled leather and fur he wears, feels the beat strong and sure against her own. She grips onto him for a moment more before ripping herself away, the tears dried now on her cheeks.

"Get on that horse, Jon Snow," she whispers furiously, her smile small and sad. "Your destiny awaits."

He smiles at her and with only one backward glance at all of them gathered in the cold of the courtyard he strides over to his horse and mounts it. The party moves off finally, and Arya comes to lean against Adela once more, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Ghost bounds out of nowhere and comes to a stop at the gates as Jon Snow halts for a final time to look back at them all. Her eyes take in the red stare of Ghost with a silent smile before she raises her gaze. Dark eyes, dark, dark eyes.

"I'll be seeing you, Snow," calls Jon, raising his arm once, before he turns and disappears through the gate, the white shadow of Ghost following at the horse's side.

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