authorsnote: here we gooooo
I apologise for the delay, work has been hellla busy, what can I say?
I do hope you enjoy this new chapter - things are kicking offffffff! do review and let me know watcha think!
songrecs: stay - the kid laroi (acoustic piano version, check it on youtube)
She felt like a bird in flight.
Her cloak was her wings, dark, spread, sprinting her forwards. Her long amber coloured hair, 'kissed by fire' as the Wildlings claimed, flowing behind her, her boots barely leaving a mark in the snow as she ran so fast.
"There's a girl at the gate claiming to be Arya Stark"
As soon as the words had left the messengers mouth, she had ran, so impolite, not usually her etiquette, but all of that had been forgotten, as she ran, to her sister, another member of the pack, come home.
Jon, Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon, Bran all returned to her, one by one, and now there was the last missing puzzle piece, the last wolf, the last member of the pack.
'The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives'
And survive they would, she'd make sure of that, and so would Jon, they both would.
She had to force herself not to think of Jon for a moment, as she went hurtling through the courtyard, had to focus on Arya, her sister, returned home. When she thought of Jon her mind immediately kicked into gear, to plan, to scheme; but right now, she couldn't think of that, she needed to focus on Arya, the final lost family member, returned home.
Later she would focus on Jon, later she would figure out what to do, how to break it to everyone, how they could use it to their advantage. Later she would sit in his solar, brow furrowed, mind working, thinking of how this could give them edge, how this could help their fight, both for survival and for the longer fight (if they survived).
Later she would inevitably dwell on her worries, thinking of what this meant for Jon, for his prospects and would panic over how if anything it made him more desirable as a leader, as a King, as a husband. She'd worry over what this meant with the Dragon Queen down South, and the Targaryen loyalists even further away, hiding in The Crowlands or open in support like Dorne.
Later she'd worry and try to ignore what this meant for Jon in the long-term if they survived the War, what this meant for Westeros, for the crown.
Later, later, later. Later she'd worry, scheme, plan, and panic. Later she'd maybe even cry, as she only did in front of Jon or in the confines of her room, she'd cry over what this meant for Jon, for his crown, for his new Queen, for her. Later.
For now, she continued her flight, her wings soaring to the gate, hair glowing like embers dancing behind her, tread so gentle as she flew, fluttered her wings, to welcome the lost pack member home.
'The lone wolf dies but the pack survives'
He ran as though the wind was at his back.
His tread was heavy, far removed from his usual soft step, honed from never drawing attention in the silent North. No, he made big imprints this time, as he sprinted, any social grace forgotten as he was propelled by speed, and his end goal, not looking like a King at all, and not caring a jolt as he ran.
A King, no, he could not think on the revelation that had shattered his world, that had turned everything on its head and then some. He couldn't think on what this meant for him, for his family, for Sansa. No, he needed to think about family in another sense now, the sense of being reunited, all of them, home.
The rest could wait … for a time, but even he knew, not for much.
"There's a girl at the gate claiming to be Arya Stark"
As he turned the corner into the courtyard, he could see Sansa hurrying forward too, and he hastened to follow her. The rest of the Starks weren't present, no doubt Sansa had got the message, as had he, and they'd both hurried to meet their lost sibling, thinking of little else.
Though Jon supposed she wasn't his sibling anymore, not by blood, neither was Sansa, but he felt differently about that for some reason.
A reason he didn't think on, couldn't think on right now, as he reached the gates.
"Your Grace" The guard greeted him, and then turned to Sansa who'd come to a stop next to him, breathing heavily, likely having rushed just as he had, "My Lady"
"Where is she?" Sansa asked immediately, face flushed, smoothing down her skirts but clearly flustered in a way Sansa usually wasn't. Jon forced himself to stand up straight, to not yell and demand the man answer, instead he waited.
"She's…"
"I'm here" A voice, a voice he recognised interrupted the guards, a voice he had never thought he'd hear again, had never dared to hope he'd hear again, her voice.
It was then, with a simple step she came into view, his little sister, who'd changed so much and yet he could recognise in an instance, stepped around the guard, and came into view, a hint of the cheeky smile she'd always worn here almost on her features, though there was an edge to it that hadn't been there before.
She'd come home a little different.
She looked older now of course, and yet he could still see her face, her smile, the posture of a warrior rather than a Lady. Her hair was pulled back, almost in the style of Eddard Stark's. Her clothes were practical, a sword at her belt, a dagger tucked aside, concealed, only someone with a trained eye as his would spot it. She was Arya Stark, his little sister … cousin now, even time had barely brushed her.
Though, there were differences, little ones, but they were there.
She'd come home a little different indeed.
As had they all, back in the halls of Winterfell though they may be, not one of them was what they'd been before, all changed in some way or another, and Arya was the same, perhaps not so much in looks but in mind and spirit he could see it. For now, that didn't matter though as Jon rushed forward, and Arya threw herself into his arms.
Just like before he'd left, as she'd swung feet hanging off the ground, the newly forged needle at her hip, as she had it now, and hugged her so tightly he was surprised she didn't complain or squeal, but instead she just squeezed him back.
Once he released her, he didn't have time to take a look at her before Sansa was on her, bundling her into her arms, and the two sisters embraced closely, Jon smiled at that, to see them reunited, both so different now, but still Sansa and Arya.
Still the sisters who'd bickered and fought, still Sansa taller, elegant, graceful, Arya, scrappy, cute, full of mischief. Still the sisters who'd kill one another and then kill for each other. Still them, in most ways.
He knew though they had changed, both of them in many ways, but in essence they were still who they had always been, still Sansa and Arya, he couldn't say the same for himself.
He was different in too many ways to count now, from being dredged back from death, always feeling as though he'd left part of himself behind, to learning his name, Snow, Stark, had been lies all along too. To be made and remade too many times, to barely even remember who he had been when he'd been in Winterfell last.
Arya still held the same sword, Sansa still had the same smile, though few saw it, Robb still laughed the same, Lord and Lady Stark still held one another the same, Rickon still grinned, even Bran had kept the glint of determination in his eye as he had when climbing a wall, or now looking into the distance. All had kept something of themselves.
Had he?
He didn't know who he was, what he was anymore. King? Heir? Liar? All three would be correct, but none stood out.
Though one thing did, his new name, the one that should have been gifted to him at birth, and what that meant, what that would mean.
"There's more" He turned as Sansa looked down at Arya and then back to him, eyes shining, to see them all reunited again … they couldn't have dared hope. Part of him wondered if he had come back, if this was all just a dream, or a version of the seven heavens, or wherever the Old Gods prescribed you go.
But then he looked at Sansa, skin pale, hair a shock of red, barely containing a smile, tears shining on her blue gaze, the Lady of Winterfell, home, where she belonged, with her family, with those she loved, safe again.
This had to be real.
Even as he heard a wail across the courtyard, and Lady Catelyn streaked past, Lord Stark … his Uncle now, at her heels, Robb shoving past, Rickon too, Bran silently pushed behind, and Arya bundled into their arms, Sansa too.
Even the direwolves altogether. He hadn't even noticed the return of all of them, save Nymeria who'd never come home. Even Ghost joined them, more stuck to Sansa's skirts than Lady.
The Stark family, Pack reunited and clinging to one another as though never wishing to be ripped apart again, as though willing they would remain this way, together, always. Not like before, not like the pain that had seen the wolves cleaved apart and left in the snow alone. No, never again.
And yet, he didn't stand in the circle, as they wept, as the servants of Winterfell smiled with joy, he stood apart, even with the direwolf stitched onto his chest, the Stark banner flying from the Castle that he had helped put there, this wasn't his place, not now, not if they wanted to win.
'I'm not a Stark'
'You are to me'
It was Sansa who held out a hand though, searching for him with her eyes, holding out her fingertips to pull him closer, into the fold, into their arms, where no doubt his Fa…Uncle would embrace him, Rickon would cling to him, Robb would give him a pat on the back and Arya would grin up at him. He had no doubt if they pulled him in, they'd make space for him, if he took Sansa's hand, they'd make room in the circle, and welcome him to it.
And yet, he just shook his head, even as her expression grew confused and a touch so sad, he wanted to turn back, he still shook his head and walked away.
'I'm not a Stark'
That was the only bit that mattered.
That was what would help them win.
He made his way to the Crypt.
Where else was he to go? He heard the callings of a feast, a celebration, and though part of him was happy, a part of him, the happy part did want to cheer and laugh alongside them all, a larger part couldn't, wouldn't. That part had him here, walking among the dead, coming to a stop in front of her tomb, rather than up with the living.
This was where he belonged really, not in the Winterfell Crypts, though as he'd lay bleeding at the Wall part of him had hoped he'd be put here. No, he belonged here, at a deeper level, with those cold and quiet.
And yet, he'd been ripped back.
'If I fall, don't bring me back'
He'd said that to the Red Woman on the eve of the final battle, to take back this home, not his, and he'd meant it.
He sat to the floor, not caring about the dirt, nor the cold, which he barely felt anymore … a gift from the other side perhaps, wherever he'd gone, to the darkness when he'd fallen. Regardless, he sat, in front of her statue.
Lyanna.
His Mother.
He sat in silence, quiet, head bowed. He'd never felt like such an outsider as the Stark's had run together. Not even when he'd been here as a bastard, when he'd been shunned, brooding and silent. He'd never felt so on the outside looking in, even now with a crown on his head.
King of these people, King in the North! And yet he wasn't one of them, was he?
He had Stark blood, but Targaryen too … the madness of dragons. He didn't know what that meant, all he knew was that he didn't' want to give this up, selfish as this made him. His crown, his life here, all of them, Sansa.
And yet for the first time it had felt wrong.
He knew what he needed to do, he knew why he felt he couldn't be with them, why he was ripping away before he could be torn from them. He knew why'd he'd moved away from Sansa's invitation even though he had wanted nothing more than to slip his fingers between hers. He knew why he'd come here, to her, feather still in hand, face carved into stone.
He knew what he needed to do, and he hoped he had the strength to do it. He'd have to.
The Gods message had been clear…
"We can't win the battle, can we?"
'You can' 'You can win'
"How?"
'You already know the answer'
"No, I don't" "Give me something, anything, anything at all" "Please"
'Use what has become new to you' 'Use the information that changes circumstances'
"What fights ice"
"Fire"
He didn't belong here, not now, maybe not ever again, not after what he'd need to do.
He heard a shuffle on the stairs then, footsteps on the stone, and he knew the time was now. He stood to his feet quickly and walked to the entrance of the Crypts, facing the guard stationed there, talking to him first before Sansa could speak as she came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.
He wanted to turn to her, pull her close, but that wasn't what needed to happen. Something else did.
"Gather the war council and the Stark family" He spoke, tone clipped, as he did when giving orders, when commanding, "In the main hall, the feast can wait, now"
The guard nodded, "Your Grace" He turned, "My Lady" He nodded to Sansa before hurrying up the stairs, ready to dispatch his orders.
"Jon?" Sansa stopped in front of him, eyes filled with worry, and he hated being the one who'd put them there, necessary as it was. "What's going on?"
He knew what he needed to do, and he knew Sansa wouldn't like it.
He met her gaze, her blue to his grey, and as he spoke, he did so plainly, he'd never deceive Sansa, but in this instance he couldn't take her counsel either; he'd made his decision, and he knew it was the only decision, consequences beyond saving them be damned.
"I'm going South"
That was where the Dragon Queen was, fighting with Cersei before she'd no doubt turn to them after they'd ignored her call South, a Queen didn't stop until all was conquered after all. Now he'd answer it, her call, he'd have to.
"What fights ice?"
"Fire"
sooo thoughts?
*shades down, cue dramatic music* lets go girls
here we gooooo! ahh, it's kicking off. don't worry the south won't be in the same place nor sequence of events as in canon ... in more ways than one.
that's all I'll say for now!
I do hope you enjoyed, do lemme know if you did
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speak soon