A/N: Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews!I'm posting this from my IPad, so the formatting may be off. It looks right to me, but who knows, amirite? Anyway, please bear with me. Also note I will be replying to reviews next time I'm on a desktop.

Jon's Commands to Ghost: Natasha had the Starks train their wolves like military K9 units. The words Jon uses are German, and are the commands used by a police officer I know with his dog.

Last Hearth

27 Years Previous, Westeros Time

No matter how many dragons they have under their command, they will never win this war so long as any of the White Walkers live. The humans of Westeros are their own worst enemies, every person who dies rising again as a wight, their numbers shrinking even as the army of the Night King grows. Natasha has the opportunity now to turn the tide, to halt the snow, to bring the dawn. Certainly, she could break the grip of the inhuman creature that holds her, she could take Jaime and escape to fight another day. But when will she get this close again? Especially as it is believed that the one holding a blade of rimefrost to her throat may well be the most important of the Walkers. The keystone of their conquest. Identifiable by the circle of horns growing in a crown around his head, the Night King is said to be the one with the power to create more Walkers, however that is done.

If Natasha kills him here, then this war is won. There will be no more Walkers to replace the ones that are slain, and without Walkers there are no wights. The dead will stop rising.

Jaime reads her intention on her face. "Natasha, no!" he screams, trying to pull himself to his feet despite his injuries.

Natasha looks down at the sword in her hand and laughs, ignoring the blackened, frostbitten flesh of her neck where the White Walker's blade touches her bare skin. It's strangely fitting that it is the ancestral weapon of House Lannister that will help her pay this final debt.

The creature that holds her trapped against its chest does not react to her grim hysteria. Perhaps it thinks she's gone mad. Perhaps it isn't capable of understanding her. Perhaps it doesn't care.

"Winter's over," Natasha says. "Summer's here."

Then she reverses her grip on Brightroar, plunging it up and at an angle through her own torso and into the creature behind her, catching it in the heart.

She feels cold.

To those watching, it looks like she and the Night King explode in a cloud of ice shards and silver light.

Bran Stark wakes with a scream.

-l-

Jon Pendragon leaves Casterly Rock at the head of a host, reveling in his new name and thoughts of his lady wife. Who would have ever thought that he, the baseborn bastard of Ned Stark, would turn out not to be a wolf at all, but a dragon. But it is still the Lannisters he owes for his new station in life. It is Tyrion Lannister, his good-father, who gave him land and a name besides 'Snow,' and Jaime Lannister who trained and knighted him. It is Tasha Lannister, now Pendragon, who gave him her heart and her maidenhead and hopefully one day will give him a family. And it is Lady Sansa Lannister who gave him the truth of his parents and a brace of dragon eggs.

It's amazing, how different she is from Lady Catelyn. Sometimes Jon wonders what it would have been like if he were raised as Tyrion's bastard. Somehow he doesn't think Aunt Sansa would have treated him badly, though it's very likely she'd have murdered whatever woman was reputed to be his mother. Or maybe she wouldn't. Jon's never been able to figure out how she thinks, no matter how often Uncle Tyrion lectures him or how exasperated Tasha gets with him. His mind just doesn't work in the same twisty way theirs do. Too much wolf blood, he supposes, though that doesn't stop Arya.

Ah well. He'll leave the skullduggery to his lady wife. (His wife! He's married! To a lady! The most beautiful lady!) Jon will just point his sword where she tells him. It seems to work out well enough for Uncle Jaime.

They make good time to where the Northern forces are mustering at Last Hearth. As the only knight in the company and the good-son of Lord Lannister, Jon is in command. He tries to speak like Tyrion and walk like Jaime, a piece of advice that his good-brother Gerion gave him.

"Father is the perfect lord," Gerion always says, "and Uncle Jaime the perfect knight. If they were one man they would be the perfect king."

Jon doesn't quite have Gerion's easy charm, but he tries, and the men seem to respond well enough. In fact, in some ways they like him more, for he is a bastard who became a knight and wed a lady, while Gerion was born a lord. They see Jon as one of them, what they can achieve if they work hard enough.

Jon doesn't have the heart to tell them that it's more to do with his luck than anything else. He's not stupid. He knows that Tasha loves him, but he also knows that she'd never have married him if he wasn't the best way to shield her family from the wrath of Daenerys Targaryen. It's for that reason that he hopes she's with child. If he dies fighting the wildlings, a child of his blood might one day be the only thing that stands between Casterly Rock and a hail of dragon fire. (While Jon would prefer to be present for the births of his children as Uncle Tyrion was with Aunt Sansa, he would rather his first child be born without him if it means the rest of his family is safe.)

At the edge of the encampment that has sprung up around Last Hearth, Jon dismounts his horse and signals one of the younger boys he's been using as a squire to come take his reins. His white direwolf, Ghost, nearly as big as a pony these days, trots over to stand at attention at his side. Jon holds a silent debate with himself, but then points after the boy leading his horse and says, "Wache!" Ghost pulls back a lip to show his displeasure, but follows after the horse.

Ghost makes most men uneasy, and Jon doesn't have time to soothe their feelings at the moment. He is to go to the command tent and report to Lord Stark.

He takes a deep breath.

When he enters the massive thing of dirty white canvas and grey fur, Ned Stark isn't there. Instead he's greeted by Robb and a man around their age in the black cloak of the Night's Watch.

"Jon? Jon Snow, is that you?" Robb asks, his blue eyes wide. He's broader at the shoulder than Jon remembers, his hair longer and his beard fuller. He looks grim, as if the North has managed to prematurely age him, carving lines around his lips and eyes. (Robb stopped writing as often after Lady Catelyn was made to join the Silent Sisters.)

"It's Pendragon now," Jon replies, unable to help the smile that stretches his lips. "I served the Lannisters well enough that I've been given a knighthood and some land, as well as the hand of Tasha Lannister."

Robb's eyebrows shoot up and his icy facade cracks for a moment. He smiles back. "Oho? That mouthy thing that's best friends with Arya?"

"I happen to like her mouth," Jon says without thinking, then immediately blushes. The Brother of the Night's Watch cackles.

At that moment the fur that hangs at the entrance of the tent is swept aside and Ned Stark enters. Jon turns to look at him, the man he thought was his father for so long. The man who lied to keep Jon alive, even as he allowed him to be mistreated.

Lord Stark seems smaller than Jon remembers, but for the life of him Jon can't say if it's that he's gotten taller or Ned has shrunk somehow.

"Greetings, Ser…?" Lord Stark says in a flat, lifeless voice, and Jon blinks when he realizes his father… uncle… the man who raised him doesn't recognize him.

"Pendragon," Jon says. "Jon Pendragon. Once called Jon Snow."

At that Ned starts, and looks at him more closely. "Jon…? By the Old Gods and the New! Look at you!"

Jon looks down at himself and supposes the difference would be startling for one who hasn't seen him since he left Winterfell. Instead of thick grey wool and furs, he wears fine leather in dark red with burnished gold plate mail, the leather tooled with scrolling designs of lions and wolves running together. The joints and insides of his armor are insulated with thick black bear fur, and his cloak is more of the same. His hair is long, reaching just past his shoulders because it is traditional for Targaryens (and Tasha likes to pull on his curls), and kept out of his face with a multitude of warrior braids. He keeps his beard trimmed into a goatee, though the time on the road has made it scruffy and left a growth of stubble over his cheeks. He favors fighting with two swords in a style he learned from Lady Lannister, and wears his long sword on his back and his short sword on his belt, never mind the various knives, stilettos, and other weapons hidden on his person. (He's particularly proud of the garrote in his left boot heel).

But most striking is his new tabard, made for him by the ladies of the Rock at the same time they were sewing Tasha's wedding cloak, which features his winged direwolf breathing fire and the hastily embroidered words of his House, We Always Return.

"You look good," Ned Stark says.

Jon freezes for a moment that lasts eternity, You lied to me, I hate you, I hate her, Why, Thank you, I love you, I'm grateful, all competing behind his teeth, waiting to roll over his tongue. But this is neither the time nor the place, so all he says is, "I'm here with the reinforcements for the Night's Watch."

The ranger that Jon's almost forgotten about snorts. "What Night's Watch? There's only a handful of us left. The wildlings have taken Castle Black."

Jon looks at him, taking in his tattered black clothes, the patch he wears over one eye, and the scars on his neck that look like they were made by human nails. His hair is oily and plastered to his head, and his face dirty, one of his front teeth missing. Jon abruptly remembers that most members of the Night's Watch are criminals. Rapists, murderers, thieves… And to think, he once wanted to join them.

"This is Theon Greyjoy, Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Lord Stark introduces them.

"Yeah, well, only one left alive that can fight worth a damn, aren't I? And that's only because I know when to run. Those other idiots held their ground, and now they're dead." Theon says, an angry, twisted look on his face. He reminds Jon of a rat. "And don't call me Greyjoy. I've told you that," he adds as an afterthought, followed by a mumbled, "Fucking kinslaying cunts."

Greetings and introductions done, Jon accompanies Lord Stark, Robb, and Theon into Last Hearth where the rest of the Northern lords are gathered around a map, forming a plan of attack.

"Don't mind him," Robb whispers to Jon when Ned moves to talk to Greatjon Umber. "He hasn't been the same since Mother… And with Bran running off-"

"Bran ran off?" Jon demands, barely remembering to keep his voice down. "How? I thought he had to walk with a cane?"

Robb shrugs, staring off into the distance. "Your good-father sent us designs for a saddle that lets him ride. He started having nightmares, talking about crazy things, things like out of Old Nan's stories, and danger beyond the Wall. One morning his horse was gone, and so was he. I think… I think he might have gone mad. Like Mother and Aunt Lysa." Robb gives a bitter chuckle. "Rickon is the only Stark in Winterfell now."

-l-

As a landed knight and commander of the Lannister host until they are officially sworn in as Black Brothers, Jon is offered a bed inside Last Hearth. Instead he camps out with his men, another tip that Gerion gave him. He shares a tent with Theon, since it's already set up and large enough, and their combined body heat will keep it warmer. He's not sure why Theon offers, but he trusts Ghost will keep the Lord Commander from trying anything untoward.

"What's it like?"

"What?" Jon asks, trying to sound grumpy even though he isn't really sleeping. He's not as good at this as Tasha, Clynt, Gerion, and even Arya, but as Uncle Tyrion and Aunt Sansa have told him over and over again, All war is deception. Theon being the only member of the Night's Watch to survive the wildlings taking the Wall seems suspicious to him. He wonders if the Northern lords have considered it.

"What's it like, being with a woman? A lady? You said you're married."

"You don't know?"

"Joined up when I was but a lad to escape the Greyjoy Massacre, and you don't desert the Night's Watch. And s'not like there's a bunch of women hanging around Castle Black. Fucked a couple of the boys in exchange for my protection, but I figure it's different with a lady."

Jon tenses at that admission, though more at the way Theon says it than anything else. He knows about Gerion's dalliances with Loras Tyrell and doesn't have any problem with it since Gerion has promised he won't do it anymore after he marries Jon's sister-cousin. But somehow what Theon describes doesn't seem like the same thing.

"Is she soft?" Theon asks. "Does she smell nice?"

Jon doesn't want to talk about his wife like this to another man. He doesn't want other men to even think about his wife like this. But he knows that Tasha would box his ears and tell him to paint Theon a portrait of her breasts if it will get the other man to spill his secrets, so Jon grits his teeth and says, "Yes. She smells like the sea she grew up swimming in, and the Dornish spices she likes in her food. Her skin is soft, but her muscles are firm. She's a Lannister, and Lannister women are different. I've no doubt that she could kill me with one hand tied behind her back and the artistic way she spilled my blood would perfectly match her dress and the tea service she arranged for the occasion."

Jon can hear Theon's blankets rustling for a moment. Then he says, "Yeah. That's nice. What's her cunt feel like?"

Jon squeezes his eyes shut and realizes it's going to be a long, annoying night.

-l-

It's still dark when the wildlings attack, so Jon can't be sure how long he's slept. True winter is setting in and in the North especially the nights can be so long as to encompass several days.

It seems the Northmen made a mistake when they were forming their strategy. They assumed that the wildlings would dig in at Castle Black, that they would want to reinforce their position there before moving further south. That it would be the men of the North who would be marching on the attack.

They were wrong, and now their men will pay for it.

Jon rolls out of his sleeping furs, glad now that Jaime made him spend hours getting in and out of various types of bedding and immediately strapping on his armor and weapons. He's ready before the wildlings have finished slaughtering their way through the less alert men at the edges of the encampment.

If the men on watch are still alive, Jon thinks, I'll kill them for this.

Striding out of the tent he guts a wildling man as he runs past, spinning to behead another. The blood steams as it hits the snow. A quick glance reveals that the wildlings are moving in a frenzied mob, no discipline among their ranks, blindly thrusting whatever weapons they have through tent walls in the hopes of killing the men inside before they can fight back. "Fass!" Jon orders Ghost, and the white wolf is off, weaving in and out of the tents, hamstringing wildlings with snaps of his powerful jaws, leaping on others and tearing out their throats.

Something is odd about the wildlings. Jon has fought before. Never in the pitched battle of war, no, but he's patrolled the Westlands for bandits and helped put down a riot in Lannisport. He's skirmished on the Kingsroad, and competed in tournaments. He knows how men look when they are determined, when they are greedy, when they are desperate, when they mean to take what they want or what they need by force.

The wildlings do not look desperate. With their frenetic movements, the whites showing around their eyes, and the foamy spittle frothing from some of their lips, they look a step beyond that. This is pure, animal terror.

They're not conquering, he realizes as he kills another that runs straight at him, his swords whistling through the air and his cloak swinging behind him. They're running from something.

"To me, men! To me!" Jon screams once it occurs to him that all of the other lords are inside Last Hearth and no one else will be taking command. The wildlings outnumber them, but if Jon can get the men to form ranks, skill and strategy may yet win the day.

The Westlanders start to obey him, chanting, "Pendragon! Pendragon!" even as a man wielding an axe and wearing Bolton colors demands, "Why should we listen to you?!"

Jon flourishes his swords to fend off a wildling with a spear and turns on his heel even as he does so, his booted foot coming up to strike the Bolton man in the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. "You will listen to me because I am a wolf who learned at the feet of lions!" Jon says, no longer shouting, but pitching his voice to be heard across the battlefield as best he can. "You will listen to me because I am Ser Jon Pendragon and I've earned everything I've got!" In a move too fast for most to follow, Jon sheathes his short sword to free up his left hand, draws a throwing knife from the bracer on his right arm, and flings it into the eye of the wildling with the spear. "You will listen to me because I am going to keep you alive!"

Jon steps in front of the downed Bolton man, taking an arrow that is little more than a sharpened stick with a fire hardened point on the chest plate of his mail, preventing it from striking the Bolton man in the face.

The Bolton man gets up, his hoarse cries joining the chant of, "Pendragon! Pendragon!" as the men form up around Jon.

-l-

The wildlings are routed at last when the men inside Last Hearth join the battle, streaming out of the keep's gates to catch the wildlings between their charge and the wedge of men formed around Jon. Jon had hoped that someone inside the walls would pick up on the opportunity, which is why he'd had his men retreat until the wildlings had their backs to the gate. While a little over half of their forces are gone, Jon is willing to count it a victory since they were caught so outnumbered and unaware, and with this battle they must have routed the majority of the wildling host.

But that victory is short lived.

It starts with a single lumbering figure. Jon is on watch with Robb after throwing what Clynt would call a 'bitch fit' about the previous watchers failing to sound an alarm, when the man comes stumbling out of the trees.

"Halt!" Robb orders.

The figure keeps shuffling forward.

Ghost and Robb's wolf, Grey Wind, are growling. Jon trusts their senses far more than his own. "Veran," he quietly orders Ghost, telling the wolf to search for threats. Ghost barks loudly three times.

Jon says, "Fass."

Ghost closes the distance between them and the lumbering man quickly, taking the man down in one smooth leap. With a wet ripping tear, the man's life is ended.

Jon calls Ghost back, rubbing the wolf's ears and praising him.

The man gets up, his head hanging by a few stringy bits of flesh.

Jon's heart stops, then makes up for it by trying to leap out of his chest. "What?" he mutters even as Robb swears. "By the Old Gods!"

"No one could live through that. How is he standing!" Robb growls. Grey Wind, sensing his master's distress, makes his own attack on the man, ripping the fiend's arm off.

It doesn't bleed. The man keeps coming.

Jon can't think. He's trying. He knows there's some connection he should be making, something he should be doing, some conclusion he should be coming to, but it's like his mind is a horse trying to run on ice. He wishes Tasha was there to tell him what to do. Then he's glad Tasha isn't there, especially if she's with child.

Tasha might be with child.

"It's a wight. Like the old tales. It's a fucking wight," Jon says before he knows what he's thinking himself. "Gib laut!"

Ghost howls, sounding the alarm.

It's pandemonium after that. The men who died in the earlier battle, whether Northman or wildling, rise and turn on the living. The few who were already buried dig their way out of their graves. The ones in piles to be burned climb over each other. The ones that still lay in the battlefield simply stand up.

The remaining men don't stand a chance. The wights are slow and can't think as a man does, can't match a living swordsman stroke for stroke, but they are relentless and they feel no pain. Added to that the sheer horror of their existence - men with fatal wounds, men with missing limbs, men with no guts, with arrows still sticking out of them - up and moving, dead men with the faces of fallen friends, and all of them with soulless eyes that glow an eldritch blue… It is enough to break the bravest spirit.

Jon fights. By the Old Gods, does he fight. But it doesn't matter how many he cuts down. They always get up again. And if they can't get up, they crawl. He's dragged down by a mob of the things and it's only Ghost fending them off and Robb pulling him to his feet that saves him. He's getting tired, and there's fire in his side. Something is wrong with his left foot, but he can't spare the time to figure out what.

Their men are starting to scatter and flee as it becomes more and more obvious that nothing slows the wights down for long. In the distance Jon can hear a voice that sounds like Theon scream, "What is dead may never die!" followed by mad laughter and a bloody gurgle.

They make their way towards the gates of Last Hearth, Lord Stark hacking a path through the wights to join them, but nothing they do will kill the things. Even the detached parts still move. There has to be something. Something! What did Old Nan's stories say?

Ned reaches them and they exchange nods, Ned moving to take the center position as the three of them fall back toward the gate. Ice seems to actually keep the wights down. They lay where they fall when Lord Stark strikes a fatal blow, and they do not get back up again. At least not soon enough for Jon to see. But even with that, there are too many, the crush too deep for there to be any way to close the gates of Last Hearth as Jon had hoped.

"Fire!" Robb exclaims. "We need to burn them!"

It seems obvious once he says it. Jon thinks of the blue dragon egg hidden amongst the things in his tent, and briefly wargs into Ghost so that he can give the wolf instructions to fetch it, his grip on his swords going slack. If the dragon inside the shell is ever going to wake for him, it will be now. (Later he will curse himself for a fool. Even if the dragon miraculously hatched, a newborn wouldn't be able to breathe fire. But in the heat of the battle, the shock of facing an undead host, that fact eludes him. It costs him dearly.)

Jon comes back to himself just in time to see Lord Stark throw himself between Jon and what looks like the wight of Ramsay Snow. Ned makes a strange choking noise and something warm sprays across Jon's face. He licks his lips and realizes it's Ned's blood.

"No," Jon croaks, unable to believe what's happening. He can't wrap his mind around it, it's more impossible than the dead coming back to life. Ned Stark is supposed to be immortal. And yet before his very eyes, the light leaves Lord Stark's eyes, only to be replaced by an unnatural glowing blue.

The wight that used to be Ned Stark raises Ice. Jon just stands there and stares. It's Robb's scream of rage that pulls him out of his stupor. He crosses his swords just in time to block the downward stroke of Ice. Robb goes fucking berserk and beheads Ned - beheads the wight in one swing, then hacks the body to pieces.

"He wouldn't want to be that!" The new Lord Stark repeats as he continues his grisly work; tears, blood, and snot pouring down his face. "I can't let him be that!"

Jon does his best to keep the rest of the wights at bay while Robb dismembers his - their - father and pulls Ice from still twitching fingers. Once the House blade is in his hands, Robb promptly doubles over and throws up. Jon wishes he could do the same, but one of them has to keep the horde from overwhelming them, something that's getting harder and harder to do.

Ghost reappears, the bag that contains Jon's dragon egg dangling from his mouth. Jon hasn't seen Grey Wind in a while and isn't sure if the wolf still lives.

"The keep," Robb coughs out in between spitting and stabbing out with Ice to keep the wights away. "They don't think. If we lead them into the keep we can lock them in and burn it down."

"We may not get out again."

"Then we die doing our duty."

Jon thinks of Tasha.

"So be it."

Jon takes his dragon egg from Ghost, then tells the wolf to go home. It may take weeks, months even, but Jon is confident that Ghost will find his way back to Casterly Rock. He watches the wolf go, and for a second thinks he spies a knight in the distance, armor glinting oddly in the moonlight and sitting upon a large steed with too many legs to be a horse. But he blinks and it's gone, and he dismisses it as his imagination.

Together, he and his brother who's not his brother stamp and yell and lead as many wights as they can into the halls of Last Hearth, knocking torches and candles over as they go. Robb holds one of the narrow halls with Ice while Jon dashes to the kitchen, grabbing up anything he can that will help the flames spread. Oil, ale, wine - he grabs up bottles and dashes back into the hall, flinging them into the rooms he passes, then goes back for more. Robb retreats as Jon finishes each hall, leading the wights further into their trap.

Then there is nowhere left to go. They are in the tiny dungeon beneath the keep, the door barred against both wights and flames though it is unlikely to hold for long against either.

Exhausted, Robb lets Ice clatter to the stone floor, something that would be sacrilegious in other circumstances. "Brother," he says, turning to pull Jon into one last embrace.

Jon flinches.

"Robb I have to tell you… I…" He can't find the words. Now, when it is so important, when death is held back only by a wooden door, he can't find the words. He scrabbles at his belt instead, where hangs the bag that contains his dragon egg. Drawing the egg out, he shows it to Robb.

Robb stares at him uncomprehendingly.

"Rhaegar and Lyanna… I'm not Ned Stark's bastard." His tongue feels thick. It's getting warm in the dungeon. Sweat beads on Robb's forehead, though Jon is fine, even in his heavy furs. "I'm a Targaryen. It's possible that the fire… I might live through it."

Robb's eyes blaze so bright a blue that for a moment Jon fears Robb took a fatal wound without telling him and has become a wight. But then he moves, and he's too fast to be undead. Jon braces himself, prepared to accept a blow, but Robb does not strike him. Instead he grips Jon's face, one hand on each side, and presses their foreheads together.

"Promise me something," Robb says, his breath on Jon's lips and his voice filled with black fury.

"Yes," Jon says, prepared to do anything, anything at all to make this better. Whatever Robb wants.

Robb meets Jon's eyes. "Promise me that when you get out of here, you'll burn them. Burn them all."

Jon says, "I promise."