A/N: Longclaw: Sorry guys. Was sick over the Christmas holidays and this got delayed. But fret not, we have some exciting stuff in the works.

BRuh4: Hey, here's a chapter. Once a month might be the new norm, unfortunately. My life has somewhat returned to normal. I expect to be swamped with course work and this and that sooner rather than later. Nevertheless, we are both excited about what's to come.

Enjoy.

Chapter 43: I Dare

"If your King can choose duty over-sentimentality, you can too."

Longclaw sheathed, his hand on its hilt, Jon combed through the rubble of one particularly gutted neighborhood of the great capital city. His eyes were peeled, if less for actual human threats than that of more natural dangers. Small fires were an ever-present concern, as was that of collapsing buildings or falling timbers that threatened to smash into him. He did his best to scramble through the most precarious paths.

Not that there weren't human threats - there were, plenty. Out of the central squares and massive avenues patrolled by Stannis' men, the strong preyed on the weak. He couldn't count the numbers of scavengers, thieves, and even rapists that prowled the blackened rubble in search of victims, food, or coins. Oft his hand tightened on his sword, but Jon relented. Wandering on in search of his target.

He couldn't stop it all even if he tried - he was just one man. Jon merely counted his limited blessings that the formidable air he gave off discouraged the human predators.

The words of the King stuck in his head, playing out in a loop over and over again. Such was his command, one that brought him out in the ruined city without guards or escort. To kill my sister. Memories of her… there were fleeting glimpses that he was sure was her, but Jon could never be certain anymore. Only what was real in front of him, and the order of his supposed King to kill someone that shared blood with him… Jon felt his veins boil at it.

But hadn't he killed the woman he loved? A wildling woman, all for duty? Could he do the deed against Daenerys if Stannis commanded him, or any form of duty? Jon couldn't say, for the person that did kill the nameless wildling girl no longer existed outside of fragments.

"You can control your actions, Jon…" boomed the words of Maester Aemon, loud in his mind. "You can do anything you want."

Aye, he could control his actions.

And aye, in spite of it all, Jon knew what he had to do… or not do in order to be himself.

"Stannis sent you to kill me, didn't he?"

Jon stopped suddenly, eyes wary as he scanned the rubble of two homes and a large bloc of shops. Nothing but rats and scavenging birds. "He did," he said, knowing she was there… somewhere at least.

The voice he didn't know but still recognized scoffed. "Do you think you have to do it?"

"Not particularly," he shrugged. "I may not know many things, but I know I ain't a kinslayer."

There was a silence. "You've changed, and yet you haven't at the same time."

Jon followed with his own silence, if for a moment. "I have a feeling you're exactly like yourself." Suddenly, the rubble shifted and a slight figure emerged… rather close to him, barely outside of spitting distance. "You could've killed me quite easily… with that knitting needle there." He gestured to the sword she had strapped to her side, thin like a needle.

"Aye," Arya replied. "Tis why you gave it to me, and I got good at it." They stared at each other for a moment before she broke her composure, running right at his body and throwing her arms about him. "Thank the gods you're alive…" she murmured, fighting back sobs. She hated expressing emotion, but with her beloved brother she couldn't help it. "I thought the Dragon Queen killed you."

The pain returned - for Dany and for the lies within the truth nestled. "I did die… though it wasn't from her hand or order." Arya furrowed her brows, which caused Jon to sigh. Clutching his head to ward off the ache. "Long story, but just to say I haven't been in the best of shape."

Arya looked him over. "You look the same, if more weathered."

"I've lost my memory."

Blinking, once the young Stark realized he was serious she frowned in sorrow. "You don't remember me, do you?" She dreaded the answer.

His response was… slightly heartening. "There are… pieces, and I do remember a young girl I gave a sword to." Jon gestured to Needle. "That's it?"

A tiny smile curled on her face. "Aye… it's gotten me through a lot of scrapes."

"You look like a fighter - someone strong. A survivor." From her reaction, Jon determined such was one of the best compliments he could give. But a rustling from the rubble made him tense, drawing Longclaw from his scabbard. "Show yourself!"

"Jon," cautioned Arya. "It's just… ah hells with it. Bull, get out here." Out of a gutted shop came a large man, muscles burly and carrying a smith's hammer. "It's just my brother, Gendry."

This young man - Gendry his name apparently was - looked at Arya protectively. Her… lover? Jon felt an instinctive protectiveness well inside him. Hmmm… Apparently he and Arya were very close as siblings. "You sure? He's Stannis' right-hand man. Top general." From how he leveled his hammer, Gendry seemed ready to attack Jon in defense of the young girl.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "You intend to come at me with that hammer, boy?" he scoffed.

"You'd be surprised what I can do with this thing."

"I'd cut you to pieces. Don't think anything different."

"Shut it, you idiots," Arya hissed, rolling her eyes. "Stupid men and their cock-measuring. Jon, he's my friend. Bull, he's not going to kill me." Both stared at each other for the most interminable of time before Gendry half-lowered his hammer. "How much time do we have, then? Till Stannis discovers us?"

Sheathing Longclaw, Jon made his way to a large boulder and sat upon it. He was tired. Tired of it all - there was only one place he had ever known peace since awakening, and from what he knew from the time before… it wasn't different.

"Do you remember that cave...? We should've stayed in that cave..."

"We'll go back there."

"You know nothing… Jon Snow..."

The words flashing in his mind meant nothing in terms of larger context, aside from the mournful quality to them - but happiness, it seemed he had once obtained a moment of true freedom and joy. As of now, only when he had been with Daenerys did he know a reprieve. I should have stayed. There was nothing here for me.

You needed to know.

"I can likely drag it out for a day, but he'll expect me back. If not, I'll have a bounty put on my head."

"Then come with me." Arya walked to him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. "We can go back to Winterfell, to Sansa, Bran, and Rickon - leave all this shit behind and live where we always should have stayed." Cersei was dead, her father avenged. It was over, they could be free from the burden of her list.

Not once did Arya truly comprehend the meaning of that, but it wasn't important as Jon shook his head. "My destiny doesn't rest there."

"I don't understand…"

"I'm not the same man I was when we grew up. Seven Hells…" He chuckled without any humor. "I'm not even the man that you knew after Stannis legitimized me. The blackness… the death, only to return shattered into someone unrecognizable by even himself." Jon closed his eyes, sucking in a breath - the smoke-filled air pricked at his lungs and made him wish he hadn't. This wasn't the fresh sea breeze of Dragonstone. "I know I care about you, Arya. I know I love and care about our family, but there are others. People that my destiny rests with."

Arya thought for a moment. "The Dragon Queen?"

Jon smiled wanly before standing. "Doesn't matter. You and…" he eyed Gendry warily, "Your friend need to leave. I'll distract Stannis so that you'll have time to escape."

"I'm not abandoning you to him!"

"If I don't draw his anger away from you, Stannis will just send some assassin not likely to hesitate before slicing off your head."

Arya scoffed. "I've handled worse than that."

"Don't risk it. Not for me." He sighed. "Just go back to the North. If any of the gods are kind, we'll see each other again." Jon smiled, but didn't believe it - no kindness was forthcoming. Only death and agony. Just so happened all he had was death and agony, so it didn't faze him. "I love you, sister. Stay safe and…"

"Stick em' with the pointy end…'

"Stick em' with the pointy end." From how she hugged him close, he knew the memory was a treasured one.

He'd need all the fortitude of his mind to survive what was to come.

Jon released her, "I have to go. They'll be expecting me back."

"I don't understand. Why are you going back?"

"I told you, my place is not in Winterfell."

"Then where? With Stannis? Why return to him after all he's done?"

"You misunderstand. I am not returning to stand at his side. I am returning to mend my mistakes."

Gendry let out a grunt. "Oh, I see."

Arya huffed, silencing her wayward friend with a glare before looking back at Jon. "You want to kill him."

"Aye, I made him."

"You didn't make him. This was always who he was. You just enabled and aided him."

"Just the same, sister. This all started when he legitimized me. It started with me. I don't remember who I was then." Jon sighed, but laid his hand on his sword hilt. "All I have now is my strength and my anger. I aim to try to fix this. Stannis doesn't deserve to be King, no matter his claim. He doesn't care for the people. I saw the wrath he left in his wake. The state of the city, the fire he rained down. I have to end it before it begins."

"That's not your duty, Jon. Your duty is to return home and protect it. You're the eldest son now."

"That was the duty of the man before I died." Shoulders heavy, he did his best not to appear as tired as he was. "You are my sister - I may not have much left of before, but I know I love you and care for you." Both of them allowed each other soft smiles. "But the brother you knew is gone. I am not that man. I am not the man you remember. I won't recognize any of the people there. Yet, they will recognize me. But I'm not who they think they see. I'm a different person now."

"Jon…" Arya whispered and reached out to him but he retreated.

"You see your brother," Jon said. "I'm just wearing his skin." He paused, " He shrugged. But even to others, I am but a bastard… regardless of my official status." He looked up to the sky. "I may have a duty, but it isn't the same as our trueborn brothers."

Arya wanted to reassure him but he had floored her. Gendry spoke up instead, "You may not understand, Arya. But I do. I am a bastard too, you see." Jon's eyes flashed to him quickly. "I'm supposed to be a Baratheon. Robert Baratheon's son. At least that's what a red priestess told me."

Jon nodded, "Lady Melisandre?"

"Yes," Gendry replied then looked at Arya. "The one who took me away from the brotherhood, remember?"

"Aye," Arya huffed. "That cunt is on my list."

"My point is, I understand what you're talking about, Jon. You feel like you've lived two lives. You feel like two pieces of the same man. Lots of people who know you expect the person they knew before you died. But you're not the same man. Things have changed for you. I remember when I first learned my father's name. I thought people would just treat me differently, even though they didn't know the truth about me. Naturally, that didn't happen. People spat on me just the same," Gendry said, leaning on his hammer. "But that didn't mean I didn't start to walk a bit differently. Because I knew something new about myself. Now, I do feel like I've been two people. I'm still a bastard but at least my father wasn't some lowlife. He was a King."

"Sure, but you didn't die. You don't know what it's like for all the lights to go out and go somewhere else. Somewhere not here. Dead, gone. Then to be thrust back to life. It was like being born but a man, not a babe. It took me a while to figure what was going on. People looked to me and expected things from me. But I didn't know what to say or what to do," Jon explained.

"You don't have to carry this alone," Arya told him.

"My mind was - is shattered into pieces. My memories aren't what they should be. I don't feel like I should. I don't feel like I deserve the respect people give me. I… I have this anger in me. With nowhere to put it, it just rages in me." Jon's teeth gritted with him knowing and he started to pace. "I don't think the person I was before I died felt this way. Sometimes, I just want to kill. Anything to stop the raging. Anything for a bit of peace."

"Killing makes you feel better?" Gendry asked him.

"Depends. The man who killed me, yes. I eviscerated him. That did give me some relief."

Arya had to admit, aside from the image of her brother, his face. He appeared different to her. Jon didn't have this much strife beneath the surface. Jon never spoke about killing giving him relief, perhaps aside from Walder Frey. As he explained how he felt inside, she began to come to grips with what he was saying.

She didn't ask him who had killed him. Being dead and not applicable for her list, he was nothing to her.

"You don't feel as if you're accountable to our House because you died? What happened to your honor as a Stark?"

Jon stopped, he glanced at her like a dog bearing his teeth, "I don't belong there. Not anymore. I deserve the mantle. Not anymore. That's not what I want."

"What do you want?" Arya said, unfazed. Though inside she was perturbed.

"I want an end to suffering. I want my mind to stop playing tricks on me," Jon sounded as he was running out of breath. "I want… I want to feel like I deserve to be loved." He couldn't help but think of the silver-haired Targaryen that filled his head.

"You are loved. By myself and the rest of our family."

He nodded. "Aye, I can see that plain as day… but the suffering is still there."

"You think killing Stannis Baratheon will do that? Get rid of the suffering?"

He shrugged. "I think it's a start. Not as much as killing Cersei would have but you handled that." Jon was impressed by that, but now wasn't the time to reminisce. "I think it will repay the mistake of helping his reign begin, or at least his current victory."

"That'll only sow chaos," Gendry pointed out. "There has to be someone on the throne."

Daenerys… He shook his head, it wasn't his struggle, either as the way he was now or the person he had been. "I don't care. The throne means nothing - fighting for it isn't my destiny." He crouched to Arya's level, looking her in the eye and clasping her shoulder. "The two of you need to get as far away from here as possible. If I fail he'll never stop searching for you," Jon said. Before either of them had a chance to speak he started to back up further. "I must go. I'll buy you some time, but you have to leave. Now."

Arya stepped forward to say something but Jon had already bounded around a corner. He was gone. Her outstretched arm fell to her side. Her feet scuffed helplessly in the dirt. Gendry walked over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. Before she knew she was leaning into him. "What do you want to do, Arry?" He said. "I'll do whatever you want. Stay or go?"

"I don't know if I can leave him like this," Arya sighed deeply. "He's so damaged. I didn't always see my brother when I looked at him. He's right about that."

"So help him."

"What?" She shrugged out from under his arm. "Go after him? Into the Red Keep? We'll both die."

"Well, maybe he'll die if you don't." Arya crossed her arms and turned from him. She stood silent for a few moments. Gendry came back over to stand in front of her. He'd set his hammer aside. Using his hands to hold onto her arms, "Listen, I leave it up to you. I go where you go."

She loosened up, arms falling back down. It only took her a few seconds to decide. Defiantly, she uttered, "I can't just let him die."

The mood in Winterfell was subdued. It had been such for quite some time and showed no signs of changing, even as the situation to the south grew more chaotic by the day. Such was prevalent at the communal mealtime in the great hall, servants handing out the carefully rationed portions to the many highborns and commanders that still called the place home.

Not a word above a loud murmur was shared, even among the wildlings. Everyone had long returned north of the Neck as per the arrangement with Daenerys Targaryen, but none had truly recovered.

Sansa knew why. Rickon knew why. And they knew why, even if they didn't feel the same way the others felt. Winter was here, and with it wasn't Jon Stark. They knew different, but such wasn't worth divulging.

Instead, they sat there, all-seeing eyes scanning the gloomy crowd. Tormund and Sigorn of the Free Folk were in hushed conversation with Lady Karstark and one of the Flint bastards, not a sign of the long-known enmity between them. Battle makes strange bedfellows. They could try and create some sort of schism, but what was the point?

Elsewhere, Cley Cewyn made one of the Manderly granddaughters giggle, the girl draping her hand over his in a flirtatious way. Potentially a love affair they could exploit, but to what end? Lord Cerwyn had soldiers, but very little political clout. He was a nobody.

No, for them, only one person truly mattered in the scheme of things in Winterfell, and she rested beside him at the Lord's table in Jon's stead… or as far as anyone knew in Rickon's. Seated around her was the aforementioned little Lord, as was the stern Lady Brienne, but neither of them drew their attention. No, the young lad that occasionally leaned forward to speak some banter to Lady Sansa and earn a gentle laugh was who drew his attention.

Bran watched Podrick stare at Sansa. They knew what feelings bubbled beneath the boy's skin. His feelings are obvious. It was clear to anyone who saw him as his flesh reddened. They felt him to be strong, but not strong enough to resist them. As he stood there, they sensed his weak inner fortitude.

An opportunity. Their eyes glanced between Podrick and Sansa. They knew he could be controlled. They knew immediately he desired Sansa. Yet, he may ever act on his feelings. Sansa had noticed Podrick, and his obvious affection for her. Though neither would she ever decide to speak or act towards Podrick in the way he wanted. Even though she might enjoy it. They knew she had been damaged by her relationship with Ramsay - they had seen it with their own eyes, indifferent to the torture but intrigued as to the application. No man had touched her since, she wouldn't allow it. Yet she was curious. Podrick was too petrified to be overly flirtatious with Sansa as well.

Therefore, Bran would have to intervene. Not because it would bring either of them joy. That wasn't a reason. In truth, they despised both of them. They hated the unspoken air around them. They hated that they even dared to feel deeply about one another. This hatred really spread from Sansa, how she acted as she sat higher than them. How they kept calling them, 'Bran'. They only wished to sow disarray and pain for her.

They would shroud suffering with love.

"Brother?" They blinked, looking slowly to the side as Sansa leaned into them with a smile. In her hands rested a bowl of stew. "You should eat. It's not as good as Old Nan made, but still hearty and tasty."

Forcing a matching smile on their face - though likely a limp one - they nodded and accepted the proffered spoonfuls of stew. It was tasty to the human palate, and it warmed the body. Quite refreshing and bracing, but they had only attention for Sansa.

Such was the worst of it. Her incessant need to watch over them - to poke, to prod, to inquire. So far it had been merely a nuisance, but they could see it getting serious quite rapidly.

Hate and anger were worthless in the great scheme of things. An affliction for little men. No, perhaps the proper application for their developing plan was for this. A distraction, to keep her away from them, focused only on what the horrors of life denied her but that this young knight would give to her again.

The rest was simply a bonus, a pastime to amuse themselves. "Thank you, sister," they finally said after the bowl was halfway done. "I cannot eat anymore, so you need not fuss over me. I think Ser Payne has something to say." Gently, they pushed on her, straining their mind and soul to imprint a further trust and desire to speak with Podrick. All it would take was a push, and their feelings would click the rest into place.

Sansa nodded, leaning down to kiss Bran's cheek - feeling it warmer than usual. She was worried about him… all of them were, even Arya from wherever she was, Sansa was convinced. Their brother was different. Jaded from all he'd been through, from what he'd seen North of the Wall. If it was like anything Jon had seen, she couldn't blame him.

Making her way to her seat, she moved to slide the chair back when someone else darted forward. She flinched, but calmed at seeing the kind face of Podrick Payne smiling softly at her. "Oh… you startled me, Ser Podrick."

He looked sheepish. "Forgiveness, my Lady… but a lady shouldn't pull back her own chair."

Seeing that was what he was doing - the chair scraping against the stone floor - Sansa blushed. "Of course, how silly of me not to notice." Hands resting on her lap, she slid in and took a seat. "Thank you, good Ser." Looking to her right, Sansa noticed that Rickon had disappeared… off somewhere. "Lady Brienne?" Her tall sworn sword stepped forward. "Have you seen my littlest brother?"

"I believe he insisted on taking Lady Lyanna Mormont to see his direwolf, my Lady."

Snorting, Sansa couldn't help but laugh at her brother's antics. "I believe Robb tried that on some of the maids before all hells broke loose, and the direwolves were smaller then." It had worked too. Good luck, brother. Lady Lyanna was… a good match, all things considered. Smiling, she looked back at Podrick. "Well… since my brother has left us, would you like to sit beside me, Ser?"

Podrick looked like a young boy discovering an entire tabletop of pastries all to himself. "Um… that… um… would be an honor, my Lady." Face flushed, he took Rickon's seat, grabbing a goblet of ale to sip at. He held it up. "To… um… the North." From how he grimaced, he must've thought it quite cheesy.

To Sansa, his obvious shyness was endearing - nothing like the cruel bombast of Joffrey or the calculating sadism of Ramsay. She held up her own glass. "Aye, to the North." Jon may be gone, but we remain. Winter was here, and no Stark ran from it.

The initial awkwardness eventually passed, the two of them talking quite liberally. Sansa spoke of her childhood, of the fun moments she had and the times Arya would play pranks on her - much more fondly remembered in hindsight. Podrick shifted to his struggles with learning swordplay, on how every knight ended up rejecting him as a squire until Tyrion took him on. Tyrion. The only husband to treat her with kindness, even if the marriage was a sham. Too young to understand it then, now Sansa was grateful to him, for teaching her how a wife should be treated… only with affection and desire joined in.

Looking at Podrick… her mouth grew dry. Perhaps it was the ale, but perhaps it was also the stirrings of desire.

She wished to find out. "I better turn in if I am to wake at dawn." She stood. "Brienne, you may take the night off. I think Ser Payne can escort me to my chambers tonight."

Brow raised quizzically, Brienne shifted her gaze to her former squire. "Can you handle this, Pod?"

Stammering, nearly choking on a gulp of ale, he ended up nodding. "Aye, I can manage."

"Good. Well, good night, my Lady."

"Good night, Brienne." The walk to her chambers was surreal. Every now and again Sansa found her eyes flickering to the man walking beside her - his eyes were glued to her, but shot back away when she noticed. Sansa stifled a giggle… a giggle? Where did that come from?

Her shock melted away as if by magic. She found she liked it.

Reaching out to the door when they arrived in the Lord's chambers, Podrick opened it and looking inside… checking for assassins. "It's clear, my Lady."

"Thank you, Pod…" One floorboard was loose, and she stumbled on it… only to be caught by her erstwhile protector. "Gods… thank you for that." Only then did they both realize he was holding her quite… intimately. Coincidence, but one that made the both of them breathless.

"Lady Sansa," Podrick breathed, unsure if this was a dream or not. He had lived alongside the Light of the West, Cersei Lannister. He had watched as the Rose of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell, ascended to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms… both heralded as great beauties, but none as beautiful as the woman before him. "Does my mind deceive me? Am I too deep in the cups."

His hands on her waist, Sansa felt not revulsion, but a pleasurable tingle. "No. I don't believe so." Slowly, she inched their lips together - before she knew it they were connected. It was sweet, gentle… warm against her. For once truly enjoying the intimate connection, she deepened the kiss. Gods, it was wonderful… only for her to tense as his hands began to drift lower.

He pulled back immediately. "Seven hells… forgive me, my Lady."

Gulping, Sansa cupped her heart for a moment before raising her hand to stop him. "No… Podrick. It's not you. I liked… what you were doing." Damn Ramsay, damn Joffrey. Even now, the memories of them were denying her happiness even after finally finding a man she would wish to give herself to. "But, perhaps it's too soon for me to try anything more… I hope you understand." Even good men tended towards impatience.

Trembling, he nodded. "I'll give you whatever distance you require. I am at your service."

Quirking her neck, Sansa peered at him. "At your service, you say?" It would take some time for her to be truly ready, but at this point all she could feel was a deep desire to take the first leap… with a man she truly did grow to care for. "Well I do have a command for you."

"Name it, my Lady."

"Kiss me again." Chuckling nervously, he was more than happy to oblige.

"Lord Crakehall, you do not realize how pleased I am for you and your house to see reason."

Newly-minted Lord Lyle Crakehall bowed his head as the stone floor bit into his knees. "Thank you, your Grace." His elder brother was spared such humiliation, only considering dangling from a noose like a common thief alongside the other Westerlords. Such as it was for those that refused the original call to pledge fealty to the Stag King.

Said King smiled from the Iron Throne - slender to the point of being gaunt, he did manage to portray the severity of royalty. Better than the sadistic brat that Joffrey was or the deluded cunt that was Cersei, but Stannis defeating them only on a relativistic scale didn't condone what Stannis thought it did. His old Hand Ser Davis Seaworth understood that, as did Petyr Baelish, his new Hand - for differing reasons, both stayed silent as court proceeded unabated even as the acrid smoke still wafted from the pyre that was King's Landing.

"Concerning your brother, the late Lord Tybolt, out of respect for your family's martial prowess I shall forgo the taking of a hostage. Your nine nameday-old niece may stay at your keep… do not make me regret this decision. Lord Lyle." The last were delivered with narrow eyes.

"I shall not forget this act of mercy and generosity from House Baratheon." With another bow, Lord Lyle made his exit… at a fast clip.

Stannis stroked his beard. "How many of his bannermen are fit for duty?" The Dragon Whore won't die on her own. He needed all the men he could, a united army of the Seven Kingdoms to fight Daenerys Targaryen's foreign hordes.

"There is good news on that matter, your Grace." Petyr Baelish felt his influence growing by the second as he watched Stannis. "Most Westermen surrendered the moment we burst through the city gates. Casualties were light and combined with those captured in the Riverlands, we can add as many as ten thousand into our ranks."

"Wonderful, simply wonderful." With a jerk of the wrist, he summoned the meek form of a young lady to the side of the Iron Throne. "Did you pay attention, Shireen?"

Eyes flickering back to Davos, Shireen watched him nod. She may have held something quite alien to her - fear of her father - but luckily she still had the Onion Knight as her unofficial guardian. In that, they were both lucky. "Yes, father."

He nodded. "A lesson for you when you sit on the throne. Mercy is only respected when combined with the hand of justice. Sentimentality didn't deliver these vital soldiers to our cause - only the firm and the resolute application of the King's justice to the traitors did turn the Westermen into loyal banners."

"One can only hope that they are truly loyal, father," Shireen said before she could stop herself.

Stannis blinked. "I beg your pardon? And it's 'your Grace.'" She was a Crown Princess, not a girl anymore… treating her as such created such a sentimental, weak girl - and cost him his Queen. I won't make the same mistake. When she tried to look away, he held up a hand. "No, please speak."

She bowed her head… "Forgive me, your Grace, but I have observed that compliance through fear only lasts as long as fear can be maintained."

"It is not fear that motivates them, but respect."

"I worry that you are wrong, fa… your Grace."

Narrowing his eyes, Stannis bit back a retort - not in the middle of Court could he chastise her. "Get out of my sight," he hissed.

Davos offered the Princess a smile on her way out. "Be not worried, your Grace. All will be well."

Shireen saw right through him. "You are far more optimistic than I, Ser Davos."

Leaning back in his chair, Stannis waved Littlefinger over. "Can you do me a favor, Baelish?"

"I live to serve, your Grace," replied the oily courtier.

"Ser Davos and her mother have sheltered my daughter for too long. She needs a proper governess and tutors to make her a proper heir. I can't afford to waste anymore time."

He nodded. "I understand, and such will be my main focus to secure the future of your House, my King." Littlefinger didn't dart back though. "Forgive me for not broaching this before, but I needed to use my sources to verify authenticity."

Stannis looked up at him. "Well?"

"Euron Greyjoy has made contact with us… seeking an accord."

"The pirate that opposed us at every turn?"

"In truth, his entire efforts have been against the Dragon Queen, not us. We never had a large naval presence since the... setback at Blackwater Bay." Littlefinger chose his words carefully. "He informed me that Cersei asked that he be present in the battle - he refused."

"Cowardice and opportunism, not as a favor for us."

"I realize that, your Grace, but we may need to choose our alliances carefully. The Greyjoy boy still lives and fights for Daenerys Targaryen, and such is a threat to Lord Euron. He'll be loyal for now, I am sure… and he speaks of assets to provide us a stronger path for victory."

Stroking his beard, Stannis pursed his lips. "Have him arrive in King's Landing, but I shall not meet with him unless he offers something of value to me." Littlefinger nodded, a prudent compromise.

At that moment, the doors were thrown open as a long familiar face finally made his presence known.

Stags on their breastplates, the four guards outside the throne room straightened as Jon Stark walked up the steps leading from the Red Keep's courtyard. "Lord Stark." They bowed in respect.

Jon eyed them. Conscripted smallfolk, ones he had no problem with - he plotted how to kill them anyway, just in case. A quick slash of the sword to slice the throats of the two closest to him, then kick the third one to the ground. Stab one through the middle and dispatch the one on the ground, quite easy. But he wouldn't have to. "I seek an audience with his Grace."

"Got somethin' there?" He gestured to a bag Jon was carrying. Blood dripped onto the floor from inside it.

Grunting an assent, Jon tightened his hold on the neck of the sack. "Finished consummating an order on his Grace's behalf. Brought a trophy for his liking."

"Of course. Right away." The guards opened the massive iron door, allowing Jon entry. Showtime. No turning back now.

Run free, sister.

Forgive me, Daenerys… hopefully I'll survive to see you again. Even he deep down knew it to be impossible because of this, but the hope was what drove him forward.

There wasn't much hope to cling to for him.

Drawing the attention of the courtiers, the herald cleared his throat. "Presenting for his Grace, Lord Jon Stark of Winterfell. Warden of the North." Hair let down in a curly bob around his shoulders - many days unshaven - in his leather cuirass and grey cloak he looked the epitome of a wild northern warrior.

"Ah, Lord Stark, you've returned," Stannis said, clapping his hands as he rose from the Iron Throne. Seeing the red soaked silk bag clutched in Jon's hands, he added, "Seems you've also carried out the King's justice. I'm overjoyed to have my Wrath of the North back."

Jon slung the sack over his shoulder, the crimson seeping through. "I have something for you."

"The head of your sister, I suspect." Stannis grinned, moving down the steps toward Jon.

Jon watched him until he stepped down level with him. "What you required." In a quick motion he tossed the bag before Stannis' feet. It rolled over one of his boots, dripping blood on it. The King groaned, shaking his foot off.

"I see," Stannis said. He considered having one of his guards open the sack for him. Instead, he decided to do it himself. Reaching down, he pulled the bag up. He eyed Jon's expressionless face as he undid the top of the sack. Once open, Stannis peered inside. The next moment he growled, dropping the bag. It hit the ground and a pig's head rolled out of it.

"That's not your sister's head, Lord Stark," Littlefinger said from behind them, having moved up closer without Jon noticing.

"Why did you bring me a pig's head, Stark?" Stannis said, glee evaporated. His bony finger pointed at the head, "You dare defy me?"

"I dare to do whatever I wish."

"I am your King!"

"You are a shell of a man." Fucked up as it was, he held a tiny bit of enjoyment out of this. A bit of levity in the middle of the icy blizzard his life had become. "One that stooped low enough to murder his brother through blood magic - or so I've heard." It was also enjoyable, watching the shocked reactions of the court. Some things were simply not said in polite company, especially when a brownnoser would be at risk of losing patronage and favor from the King because of said rumors discussed.

"I gave you an order." Stannis clenched the handle of his cane so hard it nearly gouged the wood. "It is your duty to follow it. Your father would have understood!"

Scoffing, Jon angled his gaze at the ferocious spikes jutting out from the throne of iron, just imagining how many lost their souls pursuing it. With what he lost, all he couldn't remember, such things seemed so… pointless to Jon. All I desire is peace. To rest under the shade of the trees… the ones I love by my side. "Strange thing about honor… about oaths. What is the virtue in them if it perpetuates atrocity? Which I suppose is the cause of all of this death." He spread his arms, as if indicating the entirety of King's Landing.

Stannis narrowed his eyes. "You've changed, Stark."

"Aye, I have. As have you." He cleared his throat. "From what I can remember, I was killed by a sellsword in the Dragon Queen's employ against her orders."

Several wore confused expressions. "You don't look dead to me," Littlefinger said.

"I have not the time or the patience to explain this again, worm. But in that regard, I suspect the reason for my death was that I couldn't and wouldn't switch my allegiance from you, your Grace, to Daenerys Targaryen - because of the oath I made, to you. You did deserve it once, that I can be certain of."

"'Deserved it once?' You are insolent."

"I doubt you would have ever done this… or had a hand in it, Stannis. I may have lost much of what I once was, but so have you - and you don't have the excuse of death and resurrection as I do." By how Davos averted his gaze to the floor, it was clear to Jon he hit it on the nose.

"It's as I always told you, your Grace. Traitors ultimately reveal themselves." Littlefinger descended the stairs further, drawing close to the pair of them. "Did you even find your sister?"

Jon nodded, "I did."

"So, you could've killed her and didn't," Stannis scowled.

"We talked. I never intended on killing her regardless."

Littlefinger smirked, holding up his hands, "Wait, you went to find her. Located her. All the while not going to obey your King's wishes. Then, came back here? You knowingly disobeyed. You've come back, why? You must know punishment is evident for this offense."

"Ooh, of course," Stannis said. On cue, nearby guards started to surround them.

"I considered you might react this way. That's why I've come to challenge you."

"Challenge me?"

"To a duel?"

Stannis scoffed, "I think not."

"Because you'll lose. What a coward."

"You're a good swordsman, Jon, but your recklessness will truly be your undoing. It seems your time with the dragon whore has seen her madness seep inside you."

Jon disliked the insult to Daenerys. Out came Longclaw from its scabbard, Valyrian steel sharp and shining in the muted light. "Fight me like a man you fucking coward." Around him, the Kingsguards and guardsmen drew their own blades.

Yawning, Stannis waved Jon off, he turned away. "I have no time for such annoyances. Out of respect for your earlier service to me, I shall grant you some time in the Black Cells to rip out her poison before I decide to kill you or not." He'd moved to sit on his throne, then motioned to his guards. "Seize him, alive."

"Come with us, Lord Stark," a Baratheon household guard stated, approaching him with left arm outstretched and blade held back by the right. "Do not…"

The guard was denied the chance to speak further, Longclaw slicing through the air and lopping off his head. A savage glint was in Jon's eyes, the same deep well of rage that overtook him while fighting Daario. The others that surrounded him wasted no time, bellowing war cries and charging.

His moves were precise and furious - filled with a frenzied strength that could shatter armor and cleave bone. A spearman found his weapon chopped in half before his arm followed, kicked to the ground as he screamed. One of the Kingsguards, a knight of the Reach, swung his sword but it was parried. Jon slashed across his chest, armor giving way to the Valyrian steel and blood frothing from the large gash.

Twirling the blade, Jon heard movement behind him and stabbed backwards, running a guardsman through the middle. Out came Longclaw, spun again to fend off thrusts from two Kingsguards…

It was then that Edric Storm slammed into Jon's back - the bastard knight had inherited his father's bulk, and it was enough to stagger even the mighty White Wolf. Longclaw clattered to the ground, and the Kingsguards seized him by both arms. They managed to restrain Jon, even though he continued to writhe and lash out with his legs, smashing the nose of a guardsman.

"Restrain him!" ordered Littlefinger, emerging from the dark corner behind the Iron Throne where he would never admit he hid… or struggled not to void his bladder and bowels from fear. "Chain his arms and legs… and gag him." It was soon done, and Ser Edric led the half dozen guards still needed to restrain the resisting Jon towards the Black Cells. Sighing, Littlefinger smoothed out his robes. "Gods, the time spent north of the Wall has turned him into a savage."

Remaining on the Iron Throne for the duration of the fight, only when Jon was out of sight did Stannis shake himself out of his stupor. "Not a savage, Baelish. That was the man that won me my victories." Watching him fight… gods, Stannis truly missed him by his side.

Could there still be a chance? Jon had become insubordinate, that was clear. His motives were entirely mysterious, other than wanting to kill Stannis. Yet, he seemed more dangerous with the blade than before. If his wits and mind for strategy hadn't evaporated...

Perhaps if The Stag could find a way to get his Stark back on his side. A warrior more lethal than ten men.

He'd never know defeat again.

A/N: BRuh4: Jon doesn't want to go home because he feels no connection to the people there or the place. That's it. That's literally it. I suspect numerous of you were a bit twitchy about that. As you saw, he has little connection to Arya. Who's supposed to be his favorite sister. He's walking his own path. Which isn't back to Stannis side in the way of, "hey, lemme serve this homie with my life. cuz he legitimized me and gave me a purpose." That was Jon prior to being stabbed to death. Jon post-death doesn't give a shit about that. Post-death Jon cares about what he's seen since he came back. Which is a few things. One, Dany is pretty hot. Two, Stannis is a dick. Three, my mind is whorehouse filled with wildfire, lemme try and make sense of this madness. He can only do what he thinks is right. Which is a quality that returned from the dead along with him. He's gonna figure what he wants to do really soon. I just wanted to say all that.

Also Podrick and Sansa is a thing. It's cool. But uh... well, nevermind. The crumbs are there.

Well, see you when I see you.

Longclaw: Jon is slowly piecing together who he is without the constricting influence of the "bastard armor" or Ned Stark's excessive views on honor. His death and resurrection have liberated him so to speak, and it allows him to see things as they really are. While he was never tactful, his honor and bastard armor kept him reserved and from making the really rash decisions that we see him do with Stannis here - even if he's right, he needs to learn tact and cunning.

The rift between Stannis and Shireen grows, but what else is there for him?

Be sure to comment. We love to hear all of them and any questions will be promptly answered.