A/N: Longclaw: Hey everyone. Sorry for the delay, but we wanted to make it all perfect.
Like the last few, this chapter concerns mostly interpersonal matters and politics, but we're leading up to the next big bout of action.
BRuh4: Another kinda in-the-middle chapter, the calm before the storm for sure. There's been a tiny break in the action here, but it's getting ready to kick back up in a bit here. It's gonna be awesome.
Hope you enjoy it.
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Chapter 11: The Pack Survives
Kneeling, her plate armor clinking on the stone floor of the audience hall, Brienne lowered her head in front of the three Starks. "I offer my services to you, Jon of House Stark, Sansa of House Stark, and Rickon of House Stark. I will shield your back, keep your counsel, and give my life to you if you need it of me. I, Brienne of House Tarth, swear myself to House Stark by the old gods and the new. Until the end of my days or until you release me from this pledge."
Sharing a glance with Sansa, who seemed placid, and a very excited Rickon, Jon drew Longclaw from its scabbard. He stepped down from the dias, gently resting the tip of the cold steel upon Brienne's shoulderplate. He did not have the power to knight her, but the gesture still possessed a symbolic power. "And I, Lord Jon of House Stark, on behalf of my honor and the honor of my sister and brother do vow this moment that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. Arise, Lady Brienne."
The last promise, it was something that Brienne knew was rare in the world. Even Renly, the kindest man she had yet known, could be arrogant and prideful - demanding the worst from his sworn swords. Jon Stark, any of the Starks, she could trust them to keep true to their promises. Slowly she rose. "I will journey to the ends of the earth with you Lord Stark. Or either of you, Lord and Lady Stark."
"We appreciate such, lady Brienne," Sansa said warmly. If only she had joined her at the crossroads inn long ago… but that was the past, this was the future. "Protect him for me."
"With my life." Bowing, Brienne turned and left the chamber, purpose surging within her.
Now it was just the three remaining Starks, all that was left of their house. "Perhaps she should stay here, with you," Jon stated first. "Protect you from whatever comes out."
"I think the spearwives will be enough," Sansa chuckled. She had seen the wilding female warriors train, and they impressed her far more than even Joffrey's Kingsguard - men like Meryn Trant and Ilyn Payne would get slaughtered by them. "That and our household guard will be fine. I'd much rather have Brienne protecting you on the battlefield. You already have Howland Reed. The great Lady Knight and Podrick should round it out."
"Podrick can use the experience," Jon smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned back in the chair. "So, what's next?" He wondered how his father could stand the boredom of the rote duties of a Lord.
Sansa glanced at Jon, eyes gesturing to Rickon. "We're bringing Theon for his mercy hearing." Silence settled over the audience hall, Jon wincing and joining his sister in worrying for their little brother. Rickon had seen his first atrocities when Theon took over Winterfell during the War of the Five Kings, and the elder Starks felt that him seeing Theon again could cause the boy to relapse to how sullen and fearful he had been upon arriving back in Winterfell.
It was Jon that figured out how to breach the subject. "Rickon, perhaps SmallJon or Tormund are up to help you work on your swordsmanship?" The two burly warriors hated each other - supposedly hated each other, always sparring. Made quite a sight for the Stormlanders and other Northerners.
"Yeah." Rickon nodded, eager not to be in the same Room as Theon. "See you at dinner, Jon." he wrapped his arms around his older brother. "Sansa." He kissed his sister's cheek before darting out of the side door, new sword clinking on his hip. A gift from the King for the boy on his twelfth nameday the month before.
Jon cleared his throat. "Bring in Theon Greyjoy." The bannermen flung open the doors, in walking the Ironborn that started the whole mess. He was cleaner, dressed in northern letters and having his hair and beard cropped neatly. A bath left him without the grime Ramsay loved to parade him in, the Ironborn prince no longer spelling of dog shit. But in his eyes, he still remained a fight between the Theon loyal to House Stark and Reek, the cockless plaything of the Bolton bastard. It wasn't long after the doors closed - the Stark bannermen knowing their Lord could take care of himself - that his eyes met Jon's.
The two stared at each other, room growing as cold as the wolfswood despite the fire crackling in the hearth. Jon's eyes glared icy daggers at Theon, while the former ward of Winterfell kept his eyes on the ground, not willing to meet Jon's gaze. Barely able to meet Sansa's gaze. Normally a sign of deception, but such wasn't what Jon could see.
Shame. Well-deserved shame, a complete contrast with the brash and cocky cunt Jon had known from his former life. "Well?" The voice of the Lord of Winterfell broke the silence. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Theon?"
Hearing his proper name, said with all the warmth of the wall from the man Theon had so abused and insulted during their childhood, made Theon wince. He looked up, pain in his eyes. "I…" He looked to Sansa, her expression flat but with a sort of familiarity… a flicker of compassion. Of a familial bond that his own father shared not with him. "I am not proud of what I did. I… betrayed my family. Robb, he trusted me… and I failed him."
"You did," Sansa stated. "You betrayed my other brothers as well, Theon."
Remorse was written over his face, one Jon could tell was genuine. "I did not kill Bran and Rickon." Such was obvious, though Theon seemed to be just stating it, not an attempt to weasel out of his punishment. "Those bodies weren't them."
"They were somebody's children," Jon replied, eyes narrowing. "A mother and father deprived of their beloved children out of a fucking dick-measuring contest between you and your men… who ended up betraying you anyway." The former heir to the Iron Islands turned away again - what could one say to that. While the truth, it cut deeply. Jon leaned forward, hands clasped together. "I should kill you myself for that, but it appears Ramsay Snow gave you a far worse punishment than death by my sword would do."
'Ramsay…' Theon flinched, shaking at the mere mention of the name. Though the sadistic monster was dead - though Theon had killed him personally - he still haunted him. Haunted his very soul. "Theon…" He looked up once more to see Sansa, eyes softened. "Ramsay is dead. He's gone."
Even Jon had calmed, edge in his voice slightly lessened. A tiny glimpse of apology on his expression - he may have inherited Ned Stark's tendency to coldness, but the Bolton cruelty was alien to him. Jon was not a sadist. Sighing, the Lord of Winterfell leaned back once more. "You still betrayed Robb, Theon. But you saved Sansa. The brutalization she received… Ramsay could have killed her, but you stopped him. Stopped him from leading their armies in the field. If weren't for your past actions, I would have recommended to King Stannis to support you in claiming the Salt Throne from your father."
"But you won't." It wasn't even a question.
"My debt to you for that morning does not absolve you from your crimes, Theon. For your betrayal." Sansa was no longer the girl of before, adept at giggling about knights and dresses. She had hardened, grown into a cunning woman. They had all grown from their childhood. "But the past is the past, and we must judge for the future."
Standing from his seat, Jon rounded the Lord's table and proceeded down the raised steps. He was never a large man, but he seemed to tower over Theon. "You… you are still family, Theon. What you did for Sansa…" A fist clenched, but then released. "Proves you are still a Stark. A Greyjoy, and a Stark."
"Eddard was far more a father to you that that shit Balon Greyjoy," Sansa added. Theon could not disagree, only fighting with his learned instincts not to cower in the face of the two Starks. "What do you want us to do with you, Theon? As our family, we extend you that choice. If it is equitable, we will grant it."
Jaw dropping ever so slightly, Theon composed himself. "You'd just… let me go?"
"If you wish to go." Jon relaxed his expression. "If you wish to stay, we will accommodate you. But if you wish to go, I won't stop you."
At first, Theon wanted to say nothing. Feeling like Ramsay had taken it all from him. Physically, he's just tired. Even though Ramsay was dead and gone, he could hear his voice in his head. Often he'd be talked down to, making him feel less-than. Eventually, the bombardment of hate set in and he truly became Reek. Even hearing his true name, Theon, sounded weird to his ear. It'd take time for him to shed the thick layer of skin. This persona he became, Reek.
It was hard for him to tell what he wanted. Though part of him still yearned for Pyke, his ancestral home. Despite only knowing pain there, he needed to return.
"Home…" He gulped, shivering. "Let me go back to the Iron Islands… find my sister Yara. Set things right between our people."
Jon cast a look at his sister, eyebrow-raising. Sansa shrugged, everything in her body language conveying that there was no reason for Theon to be duplicitous. To be cunning. Ramsay had beaten and mutilated him out of it, leaving the poor husk of a person reminded in the most brutal of ways where he had found true loyalty and family. At most, all the Iron Islands offered him was his sister. All else in his heart rested in Winterfell.
"The Iron Islands are weak. Their forces have been defeated wherever they attacked." Sansa dropped to her hard tone, learned over the years from such luminaries as Cersei Lannister, Littlefinger, and Roose Bolton. "The 'Iron Price' is nothing but reaving and raping, which makes you good sailors but horrible soldiers. Any attack upon us on land will be destroyed, you realize that, Theon?"
"Aye, I do." He fought the urge to retreat into being Reek. To just cower in front of his brother and sister in all but name, begging for mercy and demanding he be given orders to carry out. To be something worse than a mere dog. Ramsay is dead. You are Theon. Ramsay is dead. Sansa had never called him by Ramsay's pet name. If she could believe in him, then perhaps he could rebuild his own belief in himself as well. "I don't want the Iron Islands to fight. It's only brought us death and ruin. I… I think my sister would agree."
"They'll need to come under the fold, eventually," Jon shrugged. "When Stannis takes the throne. Theon, I'd hope you could be a factor in securing them."
"Balon won't bend the knee," Sansa said.
"No, but his sister might," Jon replied, pointing at Theon.
"We're not good fighters," Theon sighed.
"You don't have to fight," Jon smirked, opening his arms. "Just stand in the way."
Sansa leaned forward, "Jon, what are you saying?"
"The Greyjoys have a lot of ships, Sansa," Jon explained, looking at her. "They can be used to blockade King's Landing when Stannis nears."
Sansa nodded, "Oh, yes, that could work. Not allow them to get any supplies from the sea."
"The city would fall in a few days," Jon added, crossing his arms. "By then our forces will be vast enough to force a surrender after the siege."
Sansa gasped, "Could be largely bloodless."
Nodding, Jon grabbed Theon by the scruff of his collar. "If I let you go, can you secure your family for Stannis?"
"I… I don't know," Theon replied. "I don't know if they'll listen to me."
"They better," Jon scowled. "Because you're going."
"I am?"
"He is?" Sansa frowned, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Shouldn't you speak with Stannis first?"
"Perhaps," Jon shrugged. "But I know what he'll say already. He needs this." Then he narrowed his gaze in Theon's direction, "You will depart within the fortnight. If you betray us again, I will do to you what you did to those boys. Clear?"
Despite his honor, there was no question Jon meant what he said. "Clear… brother…"
Several minutes later, as the bannermen closed the doors to the audience hall. Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning against the wall. "Do you trust him?" he asked Sansa, who was calmly reading quartermaster reports on their supplies.
His sister was growing into a consummate leader of their House. The perfect person to entrust Winterfell with while he left - the perfect person for Rickon to learn from in case something happened to Jon. "Do you?" Sansa sent the question right back to him.
"Honestly…" He didn't know how a simple two-word question could fluster him so much. "If it were Theon of the past, I wouldn't. Robb…" Jon didn't wish to speak ill of Robb, but to properly avenge him then one had to learn from his mistakes. "Robb should have kept him as far away from the Iron Islands as possible."
"I agree, brother, but he is not the same Theon." Her conviction was absolute. "You changed in Castle Black. I changed on my journeys. He changed in his torture. The Theon now would never betray us." Walking over to Jon, she pulled him into a sisterly hug - so much like the ones he would share with Arya that a sense of sadness passed over him. How much he missed his youngest sister. "I know he didn't show you love, but neither did I. But you forgave me."
Jon returned the hug, grateful to finally have the love of Sansa. "I can't forget what he has done, Sansa."
"I don't forget what he did, but I can forgive him." She pulled back. "We have enemies all around us, Jon. The Lone Wolf dies, but the pack survives. Theon, whether our blood or not, is part of our pack. We have to keep our heads together, or else Cersei will separate them from our bodies."
Blinking, Jon started to grin. "You sound like father." The grin morphed into a chuckle.
Sansa's lips curled upward, soon laughing merrily with Jon. "We used to make fun of his odd quips, and now I'm saying them." The seriousness of the day… seven hells, the seriousness of their entire lives since leaving Winterfell so long ago, poured out as Jon and Sansa shared a torrent of childlike laughter not heard in the halls of Winterfell since that fateful day Bran fell from the tower.
A whoosh of air nearly extinguished the torch in her hand, Daenerys rocking back on her heels as the two Second Sons sellswords yanked open the door. Normally the Unsullied would do it, but this decision was done on a whim and the person in her bed at the time had graciously offered to escort her…
"Are you sure about this, my Queen?" asked Daario Naharis, his normally arrogant grin replaced with a quirky worry. "You locked them up for a reason."
I did, didn't I? Daenerys thought, melancholy invading her emotions - not that she'd show it off. "You have heard the rumors that flicker in from across Slaver's Bay." She hated that name, vowing to change it as soon as she could. "From Volantis to New Ghys, of Drogon. Attacking livestock. Stealing catches of fish from fishing boats. But no human deaths. No one burned or eaten, not since…" Tears threatened to form at the thought of that little girl, her bones blackened as the poor father laid them before her.
My child, dead upon this earth. I would never wish it upon anyone. To know that Drogon had killed a child, that her dragons could kill any child, it had forced her to lock up Rhaegal and Viserion deep within the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Daenerys had never regretted that decision. Not until...
The dreams were returning in force. Slackened for a while, her sleep undisturbed, but back to invade her slumbering form for an entire week now. The familiar white wolf was at the center of everything, Daenerys unable to parse the meaning. Why a wolf? Why is it white? Why the snow? She had never seen snow, not since a sprinkling of it once in Braavos, but never snows that carpeted the ground in wide drifts that came to one's waist. But there it was. Over and over again. It irritated the Dragon Queen to no end.
This dream was different than the others though.
Caught amongst the shadows. Dark forces attacking her - in some Daenerys recognized harpies, howling like wraiths as they charged, swiping at her with their knives. But others… all Daenerys could make out from the formless monsters were glowing blue eyes. Cold and of the purest malevolence she had ever seen. In the distance, the wolf had returned, only now it fought. Fought with a ferocity she had not yet seen in her dreams - Daenerys had tried to run to the wolf, but the shadows blocked her. Blocked it. Blocked both.
And in the distance, her dragons had roared. Cries loud and mournful, their chains leaving them unable to save their mother…
Daenerys knew prophecies. She had come across many mystics and sorcerers in her life - some benign, some helpful, and some… not. One thing that all had in common, they were never direct. Always riddles. Always shadows and masks covering both their own true intentions and the true meaning of what they predicted. As such, the Queen of Meereen knew the dream meant more than the explicit threat it seemed to warn her about…
But that didn't mean she wasn't going to take the chance of leaving the warning unheeded.
"Are you sure about this?" Daario reached out and placed his hand on her waist. An intimate gesture - one shared only by the closest of lovers. "Your hold on the people themselves is tenuous as it is. Tales of dragons burning more children won't help matters."
Stilling at the feel of his hand on her, Daenerys turned her head. "I know that." She calmly removed the hand from her waist, hiding her amusement as his face fell for a split second before morphing into his normal cocky facade. Daenerys trusted Daario, respected him as a loyal follower and a gifted lover, but she was not willing to bare her soul to him - to let him close to her heart. He was companionship for lonely nights in her chambers, nothing more. "I'm confident the dragons will be a symbol of pride and safety for my people. One of terror and fear only to my enemies."
At the absolute conviction in his voice, Daario nodded. "As my Queen desires." He stepped back, allowing Daenerys to continue into the depths of the cellar.
The only light clearing away the darkness other than the lanterns in the hallway above was the torch she carried. Daenerys descended down the stone steps with caution, gingerly feeling her way forward with one foot at a time. Slowly but surely. In the void before her, two large columns came to view. "Rhaegal?" She called out, seeing nothing in the chamber itself. "Viserion?" Sadness flooded her chest, thinking of the darkness her beloved children were forced to live in. A dragon is no slave. Yet she made them slaves in all but name. "Come out, my darlings…" Her voice caught from the guilt.
The last time she had journeyed down her alone, the dragons had been furious. Nearly bathing her in dragonfire and screeching at each other like crazed monsters. But dragons were perceptive, emotional creatures. Catching the pain in their mother's voice, the two great beasts slowly ambled out of the darkness. Dany gasped, tearing up in pride at her children. At how much they had grown. Rhaegal was the second largest of the three brothers, head almost the size of Daenerys below the neck - Viserion not close behind. They watched her with searching, curious eyes. A look she hadn't seen since putting them down here.
Setting the torch in a holder, she approached them. "My darlings." Slowly, gingerly, Dany rested her hand upon Rhaegal's snout. Heart clenching when the dragon flinched. "No… no my sweetling. It's alright…" She hadn't talked to them like this since even before the capture of Meereen, her children growing and growing until most saw them as monsters. Just like they see me, as my father's daughter.
But they weren't monsters, and as Rhaegal let his mother lightly stroke his scales, Daenerys hoped she wasn't either. "Let me tell you something, my children." Her hand brushed down his jaw and neck, Rhaegal letting out a purr. "I have to marry a man tomorrow. A rich, well-respected noble here in Meereen. One I do not love, but rather for a political alliance." Daenerys chuckled as she grasped the bronzed metal collar, a stronger version of the slave collars even her greatest friend had once worn.
Tears clouded her eyes, but she continued. Baring her soul to her dragons, the only ones who could truly understand - the three of them, and Drogon, alone in the world. "I never experienced that kind of love before." Her hand enclosed around the pin that held the collar in place. "My first husband… I grew to love the safety he represented. But he was a rapist, I never loved him." The pin slid out, Dany letting it clatter on the floor before moving towards Viserion. "There is another… a sellsword. He is, quite comely, I do admit." She blushed like a maiden, rather than the Queen she was. "I enjoy his… company, but I don't see a future with him. I am a Queen."
Viserion hooted as Dany freed him. "When I take back my birthright…" There was no doubt in her voice of that fact - with all the doubts swirling through her mind, the certainty of her cause never faltered. "I will need to marry. It is the simplest way to secure an alliance, and I will need powerful houses on my side to take Westeros." Finally free, the dragons shifted, looking at her. Heads bent, lightly jostling each other for the comfort of nuzzling their mother.
Smiling sadly, Dany lovingly stroked the snouts of her children. "Such marriages aren't usually for love." The dragons purred, enjoying her touch. "Do you think I could be lucky? Finally find love with some Lord in a far off land?"
Amber eyes boring in on her, Rhaegal cocked his head. He let out a chirp.
Dany laughed. "Oh, my child." A scratch of his lower jaw drew out another purr. "I wish I was as optimistic as you."
In response to her taking the life of a man not required by the Faceless Men, her sight was taken from her. Complete darkness was all there was. They dropped her off on a cobbled street corner. She just laid there. Often kind people would toss coins at her, thinking her a beggar. Her appearance appeared as such at least, smelly saggy rags covered her back.
Her spot was that of high traffic. Constantly people passed by her, the footfalls felt on her cheek as laid.
She had no visitors, except for the Waif. She'd come every day to 'train' with Arya. Really it was more a beating. Since Arya had lost her sight, any true fighting skills went with it. She devolved into swinging wildly with no sense of direction. The Waif struck her down with ease, taunting her all the while.
"You should've died," she'd say. "For what you did."
After another beating, she laid on her back, breathing hard. Her whole body ached, lip busted, forehead bleeding, too weak to move. Hunger became an issue quickly, and no food came to her. She went as far as she could until it got to be too much to bear. Gathering what money she had given to her in a small sack, and tried to find some food. Luckily, the smell floated across her nose and she followed it. Most folks got out of her way, she felt them pass by her. Moving slowly, with her hands out, trying to find anything to guide her. Oftentimes, she'd just slide up against any walls near her. Luckily, the market was close, the noise of rampant voices flooded her eardrums. She walked until the smell brought her running into a person
Someone yelled at her, "Hey! Watch where… Oh." Arya recoiled backward, hiding her face, nearly dropping her money. The person's voice softened then, Arya noticed it to be a female, "Oh… I'm sorry." The woman's hand reached out to softly touch Arya on the shoulder. "Do you need help?"
Arya shook her head and backed up further. Then turning tail and taking off in a sprint, she didn't make it five steps before crashing into someone else. She flew off her feet and fell hard against the street. The tiny purse she clutched to herself had been loosened out of her grip, the pouch collided with the cobble and burst open. What money she had gathered, scattered all over. The voice of the person she hit bellowed, but she didn't hear a word over the ringing of her eyes. Probably accounting to the collision of her skull against the ground. Those that had gathered around scrambled to steal her coins.
When she sat up, a hand laid on her shoulder, the person crowded her, shielding her from the noise. The good Samaritan's hair brushed against her cheek, and they smelled sweet. Arya assumed if her ears worked she'd hear the soothing tones of their voice. The woman she'd run into earlier comforted her now. The sort of comfort she hadn't received since her childhood, and even then she had forced it away. Now she happily welcomed it. Her time in Braavos wasn't all that she expected, it'd been much worse. It'd been some time since she ran around the Winterfell courtyard. She hadn't missed that until a couple days ago.
Then they left her, standing up. Arya missed them immediately. Thankfully, her ears began to reassume their duties. The sweet-smelling woman was sorting out the row she had started.
"She's blind," Her comforter said, pointing at Arya. "Don't you see?"
There was some more deliberation, then it all quieted down. The woman returned to Arya's side, whispering, "Come on, come with me."
This time Arya didn't argue.
Triumphantly, Jon climbed the ramparts, standing on the wall. Overlooking the massive army before his eyes, ready to move out. The soldiers stretched over the horizon farther than he could see, having departed just hours ago. While he and the King lingered in Winterfell for a bit longer to take care of a few more things, they would soon ride up to the front. Where Ser Davos and royal family waited.
Jon pulled his new cloak tighter around his form, feeling the wind pick up. Sansa had sewn him a new one a few days ago, one that looked very similar to their father's. He felt proud to wear it over his shoulders, though the new symbol of it weighed heavily on his back. A Direwolf. A fitting sigil for Jon Stark. The name meant much to him - being able to finally bear it as he always wanted. The cloak felt like the name cementing into his tombstone now, as if he finally earned it, deserved it.
In truth he was the future of his house. It helped ease his burden knowing he had Rickon back with them, but he was just a boy. Jon had the reins of House Stark, all on his shoulders. I will not fail you father. Will not fail you Robb.
But just as he got control, he had to leave. Because he swore himself to Stannis, and the King needed him. So he'd do what was required of him. Besides, it felt like the right thing to do. His family will never be safe while a false Baratheon sits on the throne. One controlled by the Lannisters. The last real Baratheon deserved it.
The man in question came up behind to stand next to Jon, having grown a weathered salt and pepper beard to go with his skeptical expression. "What are you doing up here? Brooding again?"
"Not so much this time, Your Grace," Jon smirked, looking out over the army again. "I don't have much to brood over right now."
"I see," Stannis replied. "What about your family, you're leaving them."
"They'll be fine," Jon said, waving his hand dismissively. "They're home. No one in the North will stand up to them, and I'm leaving plenty of men here to protect them. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, so Sansa will take care of things while Rickon learns to be a Lord just in case."
"What about those monsters beyond the wall, Stark?"
Jon's expression darkened, having actually forgotten about the icy threat looming over them. He frowned, "I hope the Wall can hold them back until we're all united."
"It has for thousands of years," Stannis answered. "No reason to believe it won't now."
"I hope you're right."
Stannis went silent for a few moments then, staring at Jon. "What is this I hear about Theon Greyjoy going back to Iron Islands?"
Jon didn't flinch. "Yes, Your Grace, I thought it'd be prudent to send the last living son of Balon Greyjoy home. In hopes he could convince his family to turn to the true King." Unlike last time, hopefully he won't betray them.
"Balon Greyjoy," Stannis scowling, spitting the words out. "Another false King."
"My King, forgive me if I am out of line, but I know that the Greyjoy fleet would be an added benefit to our army."
"How so?" Stannis tested him, knowing the true answer before he asked.
"A blockade, Your Grace," Jon replied, swallowing, trying to hold Stannis' hard gaze. "Have the Greyjoys congest the port, forbid any incoming supplies while we lay siege from land."
Stannis' expression didn't change for longer than Jon wanted, feeling a reprimand coming. Until the Stag smirked, "Good."
Jon let out a breath he'd been holding in, "You agree?"
"Of course I do," Stannis nearly laughed, making Jon smile - Stannis' smiles were rarer than his own, Davos once told him. "It's a good plan. But… don't go around me again, Stark." He raised a singular finger in the air, "You hear? Run something like that by me next time."
"Yes, Your Grace, I'm sorry."
"Don't be, just be better."
"I will."
"You trust this Theon to get it done?"
"I know he'll try," Jon pursed his lips in consideration. "He saved my sister, and I was raised beside him. He's a different person now, but I hope he can."
"False Kings, Usurpers," Stannis seethed, keeping his eyes on the horizon. "Balon Greyjoy, Tommen Lannister… Daenerys Targaryen."
Jon rocked back, somewhat stunned, "Daenerys Targaryen?" A silver dragon, alone and in peril. He remembered Maester Aemon keeping tabs on her, hearing bits and pieces about the old man's last living family. How she possessed three dragons, an army, and a kingdom in across the Narrow Sea. Jon didn't know what to think about there being living dragons, seemed outlandish to him. Then again, he'd seen ice monsters leading an army of dead men north of the wall. Dragons were nothing out of the ordinary in comparison.
"Yes," Stannis said. "The foreign whore… she'll come to Westeros' eventually."
"Really?"
"Aye, and we'll need to be ready."
"Does she… really have dragons?" Jon shivered at the thought of a fire breathing dragon bearing down on him.
"Perhaps… I don't know," Stannis replied, shaking his head. "I've only heard that she does. When she lands, and if she does… My Throne will be all that she sees, she will be hard to stop."
"Three dragons… A Targaryen alone in the world…" Jon muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" Stannis snapped his head in Jon's direction.
"Nothing, Your Grace," Jon inclined his chin with a small smile. "Just something I heard once."
The King's eyes lingered on the Stark for a few moments, Jon held his gaze. Finally, Stannis said, "If it's true, if she's truly the Dragon Queen, three full grown dragons…" His voice left him, words failing.
Jon finished the sentence, "Who could stop her?"
"There's always a way, and I am the Prince that is Promised. I'll find a way." Stannis grunted, looking back out, "We should be off." With that, he descended down the steps behind them. Jon turned around, taking in Winterfell before him. His home, a place he'd fought so hard to retake, but now had to leave. He watched over all the people in the courtyard, working - some carried wood planks to places that needed repair, others hammered breastplates. He saw Stannis walk over to their waiting horses, speaking with some of his bannermen there, Lord Reed and Brienne lightly chatting beside their horses waiting for Jon. Ghost and Shaggydog sharing one last romp together, as if sensing they would be apart once more.
Sansa and Rickon came out of the keep and entered the open air. They strolled into the middle of the courtyard, then stopped when they saw Jon staring at them. The Lord of Winterfell moved down the ramparts until his boots sunk into the mud. His feet carried him until he stood before his brother and sister. When he got there, he smiled and raised his arms to all around them, "You'll take care of the place while I'm gone?"
Sansa grinned as Rickon stepped forward quickly, careening into Jon's chest and wrapping his arms around his brother. Jon laughed, returning the hug, burying his nose into Rickon's curly locks. Then he felt another form wrap around the two of them, he knew it to be Sansa. The three Starks stood there for a while, just holding each other. Closer than ever before. Until Sansa and Rickon broke the embrace, eyes watering.
Jon raised his eyebrows, dropping to a knee so he'd be eye level with Rickon, "Don't cry. I'll be back. I'm coming back, I'll return to my home." He removed his gloves then brushed his smaller sibling's tears away, "Don't worry."
Rickon embraced his brother again, his sniffles buried in Jon's chest. Then the tiny Stark looked up at Jon, "I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to go either, little one," Jon frowned, mouth pressed into a tight line. "But I must."
"Why?"
"Because I made a promise, and I must keep it. As Father would."
Sansa stepped forward, wrapping her fingers through Rickon's air, "Come on, Rickon, Jon has to go."
Reluctantly, Rickon let go, backing up, unable to stop the flow of tears from his eyes. Jon turned to Sansa, his sister stepped close as Jon lightly cupped her face, placing a kiss on her forehead. Using his thumbs to wipe her tears, "I'm coming back."
"I know," she said, taking a deep breath. "We'll miss you."
Jon let go of her, and began backing up, "The Lone Wolf dies..."
Sansa put her arm around Rickon, the two of them watching Jon climb his horse next to Stannis. Their brother shared one last glance at them, before he smiled, and left with Stannis out the opened gate that'd they just charged through just some days ago. Ghost hot on his master's heels, bolting out into the open space beyond Winterfell's gates.
Whispering, Sansa finished the sentence for her brother:
"But the Pack survives."
A/N: BRuh4: I really do like this one. The Stark stuff is always fun for us to write about.
Lemme just apologize from the both of us here, the updates have been few and far between for a couple different reasons. I'm not going to get into right now, but we're gonna try to be better moving forward. I myself have had some issues writing as I've alluded to before, hats off to my co-writer here people. He's done a lot.
It'll get better once the action picks back up.
Longclaw: Concludes the "Jon in the North" arc of the story. Pretty much at the end of season 5 (Hardhome happened earlier thanks to Stannis' cooperation).
About Dany's dreams, they are designed to serve a purpose. To... temper her "fire and blood" for a future event that will become evident. Hope you enjoyed her convo with the dragons.
I know that after season 8, opinions of the Starks (especially Sansa) have collapsed, but it doesn't get rid of the fact that we were robbed. Jon never got to have the love and the family that he so craved, only falling back into the unwanted bastard that he had been in the beginning. Such was the flaw in Sansa's character. She wasn't supposed to become Cersei 2.0, and here, we prevented that. The pack is close and strong, as it should have been.
Be sure to check out my new fic A Terrible Resolve! Plus our already existing fics Empire of Ice and Fire, To Catch a Dream (on Ao3), and My End is Your Beginning.
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