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This chapter harks back to A Place of Greater Safety, but it's not necessary to remember that story to get what's going on.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The North Remembers.

All that remained of House Bolton were the ragged and limp flayed man banners hanging from the ramparts. The staff were all gone and the men who had been left to garrison the fortress had deserted long ago. Probably as soon as they heard Ramsay was dead. After all, no one owed anything to a dead lord. But, the Dreadfort was big and it was vacant and it would serve as a decent resting point for Robb and his weary foot soldiers. They had travelled for many leagues over dangerous and bitter terrain. So much so, even the sight of the Dreadfort's sharp angled merlons and forbidding curtain walls came as a welcome sight.

There was no one inside to drop the drawbridge, but whoever was last to leave this place had helpfully left a postern gate open. It was a matter of one man letting himself in and forcing entry into the gate house to raise the portcullis and lower the bridge for everyone else. In the end, Robb did it himself with help from Jon. As they set off across the yard on foot, Robb could see his brother craning to look up at the top floor of the southern turret tower, shielding his eyes from the distant sun.

"How does it feel to be back?" asked Robb.

"Even Hardhome wasn't as bad as this place," replied Jon, dourly. "But as needs must, with so many men at stake."

The gatehouse door was sitting ajar, negating the need to force entry. Someone had even stolen the glass from the windows to sell on. No doubt, the lead in the roof and the valuables inside had gone the same way. Trying to find the culprits would be an exercise in futility. Meanwhile, Jon was looking over the workings inside the main room.

"I remember Barbrey Dustin taking me out of the castle through a tunnel that led from the central keep, underground and out beyond the walls," he recalled. "If this doesn't work, then we can lead the men in that way."

But it did not come to that. As rusted as the chains were, the defences were opened and the exhausted men were quickly ushered into the expansive grounds. Needless to say, the horses were long gone, so room in the stables was no issue and Dany could let the dragons loose over the local countryside, now that even most of the small folk had dispersed during the long night.

As Robb suspected, the castle had been looted; although the thieves had at least left the high table up on the dais of the common hall. It was there he sat with Dany and Jon either side of him while a master-at-arms did his best to cook something.

"Whatever memories this place holds for us, it cannot be left to fall into ruin," Jon pointed out. "It's too important and the lands too valuable. That's all good grazing land out there and you have the river for trading routes."

Robb knew all this, but he was still too weary and heartsick from the death of his mother to think about it. But Jon was right. It was too valuable to leave and it was too valuable to be gifted to his own future eldest son as a testing ground for future Princes of the North. Not like the relatively useless Dragonstone in the south was used for training southern Princes. It needed a permanent family who would live and work in it all year round in perpetuity. When he tried to think of candidates, his mind went blank.

After a feast of rabbit stew and wild boar, they drifted up into the turret towers looking for somewhere to sleep. Jon led the way, as if he knew where he was going.

"Roose lodged me up here, last time," he explained, picking up on their quizzical looks. "You never know, perhaps even the looters have left us a bed or two?"

It really didn't matter what rooms they commandeered. There was no one left to complain of their intrusion. But as he let himself into a generously apportioned sleeping chamber, with Dany at his side, he couldn't help but feel it had all come full circle now. All this, everything they had been through over the years, had begun the day Jon ran from Winterfell and ended up at the Dreadfort. The journey had ended the same place it began.

The long night was over, but it was still winter. Snow blew directly into Theon's face as he helped drag the snow sled south. Somehow, at the beginning of their journey at least, certain parts of the Haunted Forest were still burning. But other than those rare isolated pockets of fire, the far north was as bitterly cold as ever it was.

Every evening they stopped in anything that passed for a shelter, where Bran would instantly fall into a trance and he, Theon, would be left with just Meera and Hodor to talk to. And Hodor had never been one of life's great conversationalists. The farther south they got, the easier the route became. But it was never exactly easy going, not while pulling Bran along the road on his sled. Then the show melted into wet marshy ground, when Hodor had step in and physically carry the boy home. At least Theon's arms stopped aching after a week's rest.

"Why are you doing this for us?" Meera asked him, one evening.

She had the camp fire going and had speared a few fish from a lake nearby. Theon had gutted them and wrapped them in leaves, ready for cooking on the open fire.

"His family are worried sick about him," he answered. "And that's the truth, Lady Reed."

"So, you're not doing this to curry favour-"

"I lost that a long time ago," he cut in, sharply. "And I learned to live without it a long time ago."

Meera just shrugged and continued preparing the fish. She was clearly in no mood to listen to his bitter self-recrimination. Every so often, she paused to check on Bran, who was lost to the world when he had his visions. It was something Theon couldn't grasp; something that stood in sharp contrast to the boy he had known while growing up in Winterfell.

"I still don't understand. What is it he's seeing?" he asked, looking to Meera.

She shrugged again. "It could be anything, so long as it happened in the vicinity of a weirwood tree. Their faces aren't just decorative; the Old Gods actually record everything that happens there. That way, the north always remembers."

Theon shuddered at the memories of some of the things he'd done in front of Winterfell's tree when he thought the Starks were all abed. He'd whored there more than once. At the time it had been an act of bravado, a 'fuck you' to the family holding him hostage. Now he looked back on a petulant child.

"That should make for interesting viewing," he stated, flatly. Then he remembered that his illicit sexual shenanigans probably didn't mean much in the global scheme of things.

Meera had a question of her own; one he had delayed asking himself.

"What are you going to do now that the wall's collapsed and there is no Night's Watch? You can't go home; they'll kill you. Do you think King Jon and King Robb will give you gold for Bran?"

"I'm not doing this for gold!" he replied, waspishly. The flare of irritation died swiftly. "The free folk lost what little they had in that war. I think I'll go back north and help them rebuild."

It was the first useful sounding thing that came into his head. But as he discussed it, Meera's whole demeanour changed in a trice. Her expression softened as she met his gaze.

"Do you mean that? You're going to help those people."

"Why not?" he asked back. "Might be I'll even find myself a nice wildling wife."

"Typical," Meera rolled her eyes. "And what about Jaime Lannister? Surely he's going to stake a claim to Lannisport now he's been released from the Watch?"

"Jaime Lannister's dead," Theon informed her, his tone softening.

"Oh, I'm sorry. He was your friend, wasn't he?"

"Not really; we were just two men with nowhere left to fall but the wall." He never quite warmed to the man, but it still wasn't pretty seeing him cooked alive inside his golden armour and dying a death so horribly reminiscent of Rickard Stark's. Ser Jorah Mormont had gone up in smoke too, but Sam Tarly survived and had gone south with Jon. Ed Tollet was another survivor, much to his own chagrin. Theon was beginning to doubt whether anyone would ever cheer that man up.

Soon the fish had cooked and Meera rolled them out of the flames with a stick, prodding at the hot and blackened leaves. Theon thanked her for his, before attempting to bring Bran around from his trance.

"Leave him," Meera said, after the second failed attempt. "He might be sending a message."

Jon was still dreaming of the crypts at Winterfell. Always the same dream, where he's searching the castle for his family. All the time, the crypts are pulling him inside, ushering him into the darkness. Fear consumed him, before spitting him back out into the conscious real world. He woke up panting, but with no Margaery to put her arms around him now. He was in a cold pavilion tent, inching toward his childhood home, having left the Dreadfort some weeks before.

When dawn came, as it always did now, their journey continued for another week before they passed the hills and the old familiar sight of Winterfell opened up to them. Seeing it again, after so long, always lifted his heart. Now it lifted him higher as a messenger came racing up the Kings Road to meet them, a letter from the Queen clutched in his hands. Jon snatched at it and read it twice before letting the meaning sink in.

"The Queen has left King's Landing and is sailing for White Harbour," he called out, to no one in particular. "She will be at Winterfell in just a few weeks."

Tyrion and the ruling council had been left in charge, while she and Aemon went on their travels. They would arrive in time for Robb and Dany's wedding, or so he hoped.

The armies dispersed to their own lands as they journey progressed, soon leaving just him, Robb, Daenerys and Sam Tarly. The dragons followed overhead, only swooping down to nab themselves a goat for which Dany always paid from her own coffers. Her surviving Unsullied had already marched on ahead, ready to take ship back to Dragonstone.

Approaching Winterfell and seeing no Lady Stark fussing everyone into a neat welcoming line felt strange, even to Jon. But Sansa was doing a capable job, growing strong into the role that awaited her as the future Lady Tyrell. As they drew close, Jon fell back and reined his horse in next to Sam Tarly's. The Lord of the Castle and his lady were always first inside and Jon still knew his place. Besides, he needed to forewarn Sam of a few minor details.

"I hate to break the bad news, Sam, but Winterfell no longer has a library," he said, glancing over to the patch of blackened earth where it once stood.

Sam looked scandalised. "If you'd told me sooner I could have taken those books from Dreadfort."

Jon frowned. "I thought you did?"

It seemed the illiterate small folk who raided the place hadn't bothered with the library.

"Only a dozen of the most valuable books," Sam sounded like he was on the brink of tears. "I'd have grabbed them, had I known."

Jon laughed. "Where you're going there'll be more books than you can poke a stick at."

"That is a comforting thought," Sam ceded. "Me, a Maester? I'd have gone years ago, had my father let me."

Jon turned to look at his old friend, his round face now flushed and his eyes shining. Whether he was upset over the death of Winterfell's library or just reeling from mention of his father, Jon couldn't tell. But he had more news he hoped would cheer Sam.

"Go to Old Town, Sam, and study hard at the Citadel and forge those links," he said, averting his gaze to Robb hugging his sisters. "And by the time you're done, I'll want you back at Court."

"Oh?" Sam looked at him, questioningly. "Won't you already have Maesters and the Grand Maester? It'll be some time before I reach that level."

"No, Sam," Jon replied, firmly. "I don't just need a Maester who is in possession of a brilliant mind. I need one who is kind, gentle and patient beyond belief; someone others can grow to love easily and who knows how to nurture young minds. After your training, I think you'll fit that description."

Sam was blushing to the roots of his hair. "It's very kind of you, Jon. But, where is this leading?"

"It's leading you to Prince Aemon's schoolroom, where you'll be teaching him," Jon replied. "If Margaery and I are blessed with more children, I'll want you to teach them as well. Teach them everything they need to know and everything else they want to know."

Sam's eyes widened, his chins quivering as he struggled to formulate a suitable reply. Several times, he stammered into silence before almost falling off his horse and onto one knee.

"Y-your g-grace, such an-"

"Sam, please," Jon cut in, offering a hand to help him up. "There's no one better, and you know it even if you won't admit it."

Still speechless, Sam nodded vigorously, trying not to burst into tears. Luckily, a distraction came as four more figures rounded the bend at the curtain wall. Hodor, with Bran on his shoulders, Meera Reed at his side and Theon Greyjoy trailing in behind. Summer loped at their side and broke into a fast run at the sight of Ghost and Grey Wind sniffing about the undergrowth nearby. Inside the castle, Nymeria and Lady began to howl as they picked up the scent of their pack.

Robb drew a deep breath before he took the steps up to the dais. It had been years since his father had died, but he still hadn't properly taken his place at the high table as Lord Winterfell, Warden of the North and, these days, a Prince of the North. Outwardly, there was nothing to it. Just climb the steps and sit in a big, weirwood chair. End of. But the moment was laden with meaning, precedent and history. He felt every ounce of it as he took his place with his future wife already sitting in his mother's old place. Not even Jon was level with him here, and sat at his left hand side, with Arya, Bran and Rickon, newly returned from the Riverlands by Brynden Tully. Sansa now shared a table with her future husband and the small number of remaining Tyrells.

He couldn't help but look over them all, wondering at all the changes that had occurred in such a small space of time. Two kings, a future Queen and another Queen on her way. A grand Lady in waiting and family members they thought lost suddenly returned to him. They, and the Northern lords, had all come together for the first proper feast since their return from the war for the dawn, to celebrate his upcoming marriage to Daenerys Targaryen. All in all, it felt as though everything was falling into place.

After the feasting was done, and before they could all get falling down drunk, he had at least three more important announcements to make.

"My lords and ladies," he said, getting to his feet. Silence fell over those assembled as he got their attention. "It is my honour to announce that the hand of my brother, Rickon Stark, has been pledged to Lady Shireen of House Baratheon. Together, they will rule over Storm's End, solidifying the connections between our two houses."

A round of applause broke into his speech, causing him to pause. Rickon was still so young he scarcely knew what it meant, but he still seemed to enjoy being centre of attention. Even if Bran was about to steal his thunder.

"Secondly, it is my great honour to announce the betrothal of my other brother, Prince Brandon Stark to Lady Meera of House Reed. To them I grant Moat Cailin, including all lands and incomes, and to be held by whomever they see fit after their deaths."

There was no question of them having children in Bran's condition, but Meera brought the Neck with her. Together, they would hold a newly reinforced Moat Cailin more than admirably.

"Lastly, the north remembers and we especially remember those who went above and beyond for us," he declared, catching Wyman Manderly's eye. "As such, I gift all lands and incomes from the Dreadfort to Lord Wyman Manderly."

Daenerys and her armies would probably still be languishing in Slaver's Bay had it not been for the Manderly fleet and then they were ferrying armies from King's Landing to the far north, to fight the war for the dawn. All the while, he knew, Wyman dreamed of Bolton's vacant lands.

It was the least Robb could do.

Jon had thought it was all over. He had won the war for the dawn, united his family again and seen Robb recognised as ruler over the north. Only, the Great Other was still down there, in the crypts. Weak and insubstantial, according to Sansa. But, according to Bran, even that was too much. As such, he found himself pulling his brother along the courtyards on his sled and then carrying him down the turnpike stair into the darkness below.

There was so much of Bran's journey that Jon did not know and that Meera was reluctant to tell him. Whatever it was, it correlated with what the red woman had told him and he knew there was more than he might ever truly understand. So for now, he went along with it, even so far as bringing the obsidian sword with him. Once they were deep in the crypts, Jon lit the blade with a small blood sacrifice of his own. There was power in King's blood, according to Melisandre.

"It's going to trick you," Bran warned him as Jon lowered him beside a stone statue. "It tricked Sansa by making her think it was weak."

"But we killed all the Others during the war for the dawn," Jon said, watching his blade take light.

"You pushed them back into the Lands of Always Winter," Bran corrected him. "They won't ever be truly defeated. That's not how the world works."

"I don't think they'll be back any time soon, Bran," Jon assured him. "But I'll do whatever you want."

"Just do as I said," he reminded him. "Put that sword through the Great Other's heart, and my friend will come to help you."

"Are you certain you'll be safe here?" he asked, reluctant to leave his crippled brother behind.

Bran rolled his bright blue eyes. "Just go!"

For want of not sounding like an old mother hen, Jon did as he bid. He used his sword to light the way and the flame didn't so much as flicker, even as he navigated the fallen rocks and collapsed in roofs from above. Just like in his dreams, his apprehension grew, turning to a cold fear that made the sweat prickle on his skin, chilling him even more.

He reached the lowest chamber with his heartbeat hammering in his chest. But it was in darkness. Darkness relieved by the obsidian blade which Jon held out in front of him as he made his way cautiously down the stone steps, into the bowled out hollow. He noted the cloisters lining the chamber, and the way his footsteps echoed, the sound reverberating in circles around him.

There was no white mist. It was past "insubstantial" as Sansa had said, and vanished altogether. Frowning, Jon swung the lit sword around in case he was being tricked, just as Bran cautioned. But there really was nothing there. The Great Other, it seemed, had finally vaporised. His fear gave way to something like disappointment, as though he'd been deprived of a fight he secretly craved, But then, as he turned his back to leave, a woman's voice called to him from behind the roots of the weirwood tree.

"Don't leave me here."

He froze, before turning slowly to look over his shoulder. The woman wore a long gown of blue and silver silk. Her chestnut hair was loose about her shoulders and she looked at him with mute appeal in her eyes. He always thought there would be nothing but ghosts down here.

"Jon."

She said his name, choking back tears. Approaching her cautiously, he tried to get her in focus using only the light of the blade. He knew she was an illusion. But she was an illusion he so desperately wanted to believe in.

"Mother?"

Lyanna looked back at him, silent but understanding. She held out her hands, in which she held a small green bud that opened as he looked at it. Blue petals quickly opened and blossomed into a winter rose, filling the air with its sweetness. Before he could ask how she did that, it opened all the way up, then began to curl at the edges and wither before turning black; dead petals falling between her fingers. The smell became a cloying decay that hit the back of his throat and made him gag.

The Great Other is a trick, he reminded himself. It's all a trick. Now 'Lyanna' looked at him with piercing blue eyes. Blue eyes that should have been grey. When he held out the burning blade she shied from it, inching back into the shadows.

"You can't," it said. "I'm your mother. You promised me, Jon. You promised me."

"I promised you nothing and I owe you less," he snapped, allowing himself to backed up against the cloisters.

He looked into the chambers beyond, where he could see something else. A tower in the Dornish sun, a young man holding a dying woman in his arms. "Promise me, Ned," she said, her voice a fading whisper that carried through the chamber. "Promise me..." Somewhere, an infant cried a piercing wail and he knew it was him.

"I can show you things," the ghost said. "I can show you the truth."

But she was just an illusion. A trick played by a dying and vengeful god. His brain told him all this and more, but his heart could not strike against the image of his own mother. He felt his throat constrict with emotions had never let himself feel. In the chamber, the vision shifted to Ned Stark pulling a tower down with destriers tethered to the outer walls with ropes; cairns marked fresh graves and a huge horse whined under the strain. Howland Reed cradled a baby in his arms; soothing it and crying silent tears. Jon tried to look away, but the visions had him transfixed.

"I can show you the truth," the illusion repeated again.

"But I have the truth," he said, realisation creeping in slowly. "I have all the truth I need."

It was the eyes that unnerved him. He has seen those blue eyes on the Others and this was all she was. An Other, just like all the other Others he had seen backed into the fires. He screwed shut his own eyes and lunged forwards, swinging the blade as the Other let out a ear-splitting shriek that filed the whole chamber. The obsidian sword hissed as the flame extinguished and the blade trembled so much he almost dropped it, as it sunk into the Other's heart. The blade shattered, but the Other seemed to implode with a loud bang, emitting only smoke and steam as it vanished into the ether.

She arrived just as she promised she would. She had broken off from the rest of her travelling party and rode her palfrey into a discreet country lane, waiting for him in the privacy of the countryside. And that was where he found her, wrapped in silks and furs with her hair loose about her shoulders. Jon galloped his horse as far as the turnstile, where he was forced to dismount and tether his destrier.

She didn't notice him at first, as leaned against the grassy verge reading a book. Only when she turned a vellum page and happened to glance up; their eyes met and they both stopped just too look at each other, to make sure they weren't dreaming. That this was really happening. Her face crumpled as she laughed, beamed and cried all at once. They took one, then two, tentative steps towards each other, as if scared of shattering an illusion, before giving up the pretence and racing into each other's arms.

When they met, he swept her up in his arms and clean off her feet. Spinning her around and around in a rush of euphoria. Then they clung to each other, never wanting to let each other go and their lips met in a kiss that spoke more than words ever could.

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Next time: a fifteen year time jump for the epilogue. I'm hoping to have that uploaded either tomorrow or the day after. Thanks again.