embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

27. THE WHITE WOLF V

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: THE WHITE WOLF V

Jon Snow and his direwolf return to The Wall, accompanied by Theon Greyjoy and The Free Folk. Never thinking he would be back at the place of his murder, he struggles to throw his past aside as the Night King's long shadow begins to to fall over Castle Black. The Wall is held through blood and ash, and The Watch fights for their survival.

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The Wall looms ahead, and with it, Benjen Stark, and all of Jon Snow's darkest memories.

He can feel Tormund's eyes on him as they draw nearer. He has been his best companion through the ride, with Theon Greyjoy quiet as the dead and twice as avoidant, and the rest of The Free Folk who came with them toiling themselves. Once, they never would have dreamed of being here, of fighting alongside and at the behest of The Night's Watch, but things are different now. Old grievances are there, yes, he can feel them in his body, but they are nothing in the shadow of their coming doom. Or, so he's convincing himself.

But he knows that Tormund worries for him. He was there when Jon was brought back from the dead, and his words still ring in the back of his mind. They think you're some kind of god. The man who returned from the dead. Tormund is one of the only men in this company who understands fully just how difficult this return is for Jon, who knows how his heart stings and his rage coalesces deep within him. Ghost is silent as ever, but seems no less pleased to return to what was once their home.

Thinking of Ghost reminds him of all the other pressures now on him. Some of The Free Folk are skinchangers, and of that small group, many have offered to aid Jon in understanding and developing his skinchanging abilities, all believing he could be quite the warg if he put his mind to it. Their own creatures would slink around them, sniffing at Jon curiously, and sometimes Ghost, even, as Jon did his best to politely turn them down, lacking the energy for that full endeavour as of late.

But the thought seems content to nag at the back of his mind, lingering as Ghost's presence does at the back of his mind, now. Since they first started talking to him when their company left Winterfell almost three weeks ago now, his awareness of Ghost has almost bloomed, in a sense. He is always so aware of his wolf, of his hunger and his pains and the whole being of the wolf who sits beside him. His wolf is him, he is the wolf, and he has no idea where one of them starts and the other ends.

He swallows around the lump in his throat before calling out that they are about a half hour from Castle Black now. He catches a glimpse of Theon Greyjoy, who looks anywhere but Jon's direction, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but here. They have spoken a handful of times on their way to The Wall, but only once has it not dissolved into a screaming match between them, raging tempers on full display until someone comes to pull them apart. What he did for Sansa grows less and less comforting with each day.

Jon had wanted to throttle Robb when he said Theon was coming with, but now he can do nothing but bite his tongue and keep going and keep avoiding Theon Greyjoy to the very best of his ability. Theon seems content to do much the same, at least, and Jon wishes he could be comforted by the familiarity, but it's all so distant from their old spats from when they were younger. No longer are they two boys in competition for the same love, the same right. Now they're two men with a river of blood between them, and a thousand grievances as well.

"You alright?" Tormund's voice cuts across his troubled thoughts, and Jon slants his eyes towards his friend, before glancing at The Wall, looming silently ahead. He swallows tightly and nods, glancing at Tormund again as he does. Much of his more wild energy has been tampered down in the past few months, and now he is far more grave and stern, though he seems to be happy to be this far North again. Jon knows his friend hasn't lost his spirit; he has just simply done as he must and become the leader his people need.

"I'll be fine," He replies when Tormund gives him a look. The look only doubles at the comment, and Jon sighs heavily, pulling ahead a bit, to give them if but a little more privacy. Tormund follows with ease, his eyes on Jon, carefully watching and waiting for him to doubtless confess all. Meanwhile, Jon is finding that all he really wants to do is get this over with and then go back home, back to Winterfell, where he belongs. Though, if he says so, he knows he will be so unhelpfully reminded that he was the one who first offered to flee to The Wall, running from The Dragon Queen and the truth alike.

Thankfully, Tormund doesn't press the issue as his silence reigns, and the rest of the ride passes in near silence. He hears the single horn blast out through the world and smiles ever so slightly at the familiar sound and the even more familiar sight that looms ahead. He's never forgotten this sight, whether it be what lies ahead of him, or in his rearview. The Wall, and with it, his death place.

His heart hammers between his ribs, memories making his smile fade, making the world seem darker and crueller and just that much more dangerous. Castle Black looms ahead. He will go through those gates into the yard he was murdered and left for dead within. He will go through those gates and will have nowhere left in the world to run. His grave, his ruination are just ahead, almost in reach.

For The Watch. As a blast of cold wind cuts through them, Jon feels the two wounds on his chest smart and begin to ache, and he barely manages to hide his wince and hiss as the pain slices through him like a knife. Ghost presses closer to him and his horse, his red eyes watching the gate carefully as they draw near to it. Overhead, Mormont's raven circles, allowing Jon to see him for the first time since dawn that morning.

The gate creaks open slowly, voices all around, swallowed by the wind, going largely unheard by Jon. They cannot compete with his heartbeat in his chest or the howling wind or the thoughts that rattle around his mind. The Raven settles on his shoulder and calls for corn, but Jon barely listens to the thing, spurring his horse forward and fighting to remember how to breathe.

And then, at last, he is in the yard.

He sees so many faces all around him, faces he recognises. He can see the three of them approaching as he gets off his horse, and Edd reaches him right as his horse is taken away and the Raven leaves its perch, tugging him in for a tight hug. He laughs slightly as he pulls away, clapping Jon on the shoulder and allowing Grenn and Pyp to come forward with their own hugs and a greeting towards Jon, who somehow finds the strength to smile. Gods, but he's missed them, more than he even really realised. His friends.

He feels his eyes land on him as he pulls away from Pyp and his hug, and he turns slowly to see his uncle standing there, on the very same walkway he watched from as Sansa came into Castle Black, bringing war and dreams alike with her. There's the slightest hint of a smile on his face, his eyes burning with love and joy as he stands there watching Jon. He does not know how long either of them stands there, watching one another, but at some point, Benjen descends the steps, crosses the yards, and pulls Jon into a bone-crushing hug.

He breathes deeply and evenly as they pull apart, smiling at his uncle, who returns it with a fond smile of his own. He greets Tormund, who laughs and claps him on the back, saying something about The Free Folk and The Watch that makes Benjen laugh roughly, and it doubles when The Raven echoes some of the words–as its wont to do. Jon smiles a little to himself, watching his friends greet Ghost with pets that clearly has him very happy as he almost dances around them, tail wagging madly. Jon glances back at his uncle…just in time to see his humour fade and his eyes harden at something he sees.

Theon.

"You two," Benjen says, breaking the silence as he speaks to Jon and Theon alike, a dark light in his eyes that makes Jon's stomach twist, and it only gets worse as he jerks his head towards the main keep, "Come with me. We need to talk." He sends an intentional look in the direction of Theon, who looks resigned to his fate, at least. Theon Greyjoy is still yet to answer to Benjen Stark for all his many crimes and all of them know it. Jon recalls Benjen's wild fury when he came upon the mutiny, and how much blood he'd spilt in answer to it.

Jon follows after a moment, the raven back on his shoulder, the weight tethering him back to reality. I am alive. I am real, he reminds himself, for he thinks it's the only thing keeping him from going wholly mad. Theon follows after Jon, silent as a ghost. Ghost, meanwhile, follows behind them both, sniffing at people who pass and looking the happiest to be here out of all of them.

Jon, meanwhile, feels like the air is slowly being pressed out of his lungs as they wind through the familiar halls, towards the solar and the quarters that were once his, the ones he awoke in. He can still remember the heat that exploded across his chest, the cold that slammed into him right after, and the gasping breaths he took as he struggled to understand.

The door shuts behind them with a finality. For a moment, Benjen just stands there, back to them both, shoulder squared and his hands balled into fists. When he turns, he turns slowly, and Jon looks at Theon to see the moment he takes a half step back, throat bobbing as he swallows. He does not move beyond that, just stares at Benjen, waiting for whatever choice he makes. Jon glances at his uncle and sees the boundless fury in his eyes, sees the hurt and the pain and all of it, the same emotions that storm in him as well.

When Benjen grabs Theon by the front of his shirt and wrenches him forward, Jon winces, though he is not surprised by the act. His uncle's voice is like a sword on stone as he says, looking harshly into Theon's wide and wild eyes with all the fury of a wolf, "You betrayed House Stark, Theon Greyjoy." Theon nods, giving no verbal reply, but the nod is concession enough. Benjen glares at him for a few more heartbeats, before finally loosening his grip and taking a step back. Addressing them both, now, he says, voice lacking much patience, "Sit down."

Benjen sits across from them, and like this, Jon can see how tired–how exhausted, really–his uncle is. The bird settles back on his age-old perch on the windowsill and calls for corn. Benjen glances at it for just a moment before he looks at the both of them, wary and so clearly tired by all of it, and then sighs again, running a hand over his face before he leans back in his chair and pushes a letter in Jon's direction. "This is for you."

He does not offer a further explanation, leaving Jon with no option but to read the letter addressed to…his uncle in Robb's careful and ever-familiar hand. He frowns. This is for you. Something strains in him as he unfurls the letter and begins to read, but it's washed away by pure terror a heartbeat later.

Lord Commander Stark,

Littlefinger is dead for treason against The North. You are being informed of this as he may have uncovered something about your sister, a rumour from The Rebellion. We are working on figuring out what is going on, but be alert for anyone who may be reporting to other ears. We cannot confirm anything, nor the whole breadth of the rumour he may have heard. But be alert. Winter is Coming.

Robb Stark

King of Winter

The meaning is clear enough to Jon, without him even needing to shift past all the layers of politicalness and apathy that is in the letter, doubtless to turn people away from learning the truth, should their eyes fall on the letter. There is no mention of Jon, of course, but Benjen is smart enough to read between the lines and know that Jon must also know of this. He stares at the paper for a moment, committing it to memory before handing it back to Benjen, with an intentional look towards Theon, who does not know any of it. Benjen nods in reply and pockets the letter silently. Later.

They sit there for a few very long moments, Benjen's eyes lingering on Theon all the while, dark and cold and hurt, too. To his credit, Theon does not baulk from his gaze, and though he does not look proud or tall, hunched over and dark-eyed as he is now, being able to sit up and not flinch is strong in its own way, no doubt. Jon just wishes it didn't make his stomach twist so much, wishes he didn't feel so strangely overturned, sitting here in this office, at the desk that was once his, the desk they laid his corpse across.

He thinks there's still some trace of the blood that pooled out of him on it. He doesn't go looking.

Finally, Benjen breaks the silence, his voice rough and raw as he looks at Theon with an indescribable expression that Jon understands. Betrayal, grief, and pain all burn. Bran and Rickon may live. But the theft of Winterfell, the death of Ser Rodrick…"I know what you did for Sansa, Theon," Benjen says, expression tightening as Theon looks away. Jon stares between the two of them. "And that is why I allow you on this Wall. But you betrayed my brother, you betrayed my House, and more. I know you paid for it, yet do not think I have forgotten."

"Forgotten!" The Raven calls, going largely ignored by all of them. But it looks at Jon and crows out the word again, and all Jon can think of is the words passed between all The Lords of The North, their solemn oath and vicious warning. The North Remembers.

"I know you haven't," Theon says tightly, and Jon sees some of that familiar edge come back into the man. Benjen lifts his chin a bit, regarding Theon with a cool expression. The man glances at Jon, who gives no reply or no shift in expression. Still, he continues on. "And I don't ask you to. I'm here because Robb told me to be, because he has no want of any of us going off alone again. I am here to help, here to fight for The North, and nothing more. I am not here for anything but the matters of duty."

Many would ask him what Duty means to an Ironborn, to a man of House Greyjoy who has forsaken it once before. But Benjen does not do that. He just nods grimly, eyes ever on Theon, dark as the night sky. "And I will hold you to that, Theon Greyjoy. Jon can tell you what happens to those who betray their rightful lords here, and what I do to them. And the men will also tell you of the foolhardy member of The Order of The Builders who lost his life only a few days ago, for he not only whispered to Cersei Lannister, but he also sought to see me betrayed."

Jon feels the breath leave his lungs. He looks at his uncle with wide eyes, and he just nods, continuing on. "Robb knew as well as I that she'd doubtless have eyes and ears here. I do not know if Ivan was the only one, but even if he wasn't, she has lost one of her pets. The whole of The Watch is here at Castle Black, and many of the men who were once loyal to Alliser Thorne still live. I advise caution from both of you."

They both nod, and Jon is glad that he found the strength to tell Theon of the mutiny in the one conversation they managed to get through without screaming at one another. It had just been the pair of them on watch, them and Ghost, and Jon had told Theon what exactly they were going into, and what he meant when he said he said And I have a lot of things I'd like to settle there before I die. Theon had looked at him with a new understanding and thanked Jon for telling him, heedless of how it made Jon feel like his whole world was turning upside down.

"What would you have us do, then?" Jon asks. "I am not of The Watch anymore, but still, I know we don't have any Rangers out, due to the ones we have already lost. So, that means we're blind and lacking the numbers to truly make a stand when the onslaught comes. We have about a month left, no?" Benjen nods. "What can we do in the next month?"

"Prepare," Benjen says. "Greyjoy, I want you with the archers. Train them, whip them into shape. Jon, I'll have you and Emmet manage the swords. You're our best men on The Wall. When The Night King comes, we have to be prepared to leave, and leave quickly. All the men have been ordered to make sure that they can gather their things and tack their horses in only a few minutes. All are to have their saddle and its bags always ready to go, and carry steel at all times."

"Do we have Dragonglass?"

Benjen's lips thin at Jon's question. "Another letter from Robb came yesterday. He said he was sending some Dragonglass to us, but feared losing it if The Wall fell, so he is erring on the side of caution in that matter. Not that I blame him. We do not have the strength left to hold The Wall when the whole of Winter's might comes over us. The Wall is doomed to fall, and all we can do is make ourselves ready for the horror that comes after."

Jon can hear the bitterness in his voice, a familiar sound, one that reflects the tempo of his heart, the patterns of his mind. He learned a long time ago why The Men of The Watch grow jaded with The Seven Kingdoms quickly. There are only so many times you can see the crumbling stone and the meagre numbers before your heart hardens and you begin to feel angry at the kingdom that has abandoned you to this cold exile. The Seven Kingdoms, excluding The North, were all content to let The Night's Watch fade into legend, dismissing them till the last. Who knows what the consequence of that will end up being?

Those thoughts haunt him. They refuse to leave him alone as they plan and scheme about it all for another hour at least. When Benjen at last dismisses them, some part of Jon wishes to stay, but the other part yearns for his friends. Theon is already gone, the door left open behind him. Jon looks at his uncle, looks between him and the door, and that is when Benjen says, in a soft voice that is full of understanding, "Go find your friends, Jon. We'll speak about it later."

Jon doesn't have to ask what it is. It is the crucial truth, the heart of the matter, the reason why Benjen keeps looking at Jon with an indecipherable expression of love and loss both. Jon is Lyanna's son, Benjen's nephew still, but by another sibling, one that is far more devastating. Lyanna hangs between them, the questions on the edge of Jon's tongue like a prayer. Tell me of her, he wants to say, but he cannot form the words, and cannot find a way to not break his uncle's heart in doing so. So, he nods and leaves him again.

It's lunchtime now, and the memories press against Jon as he enters the main hall. Eyes bear into him from all sides as he and Ghost enter, The Raven soaring above to go nest in the rafters and annoy the crows. Jon does not go to the high table, but rather to the table he and his friends always made theirs, before the titles and the knives. And though they are all ranked members now, they are there, eating and laughing, with a seat left empty. A seat that was doubtless left empty for him. There still is a place for him here. A place with his friends. The care makes something ache within him.

They're all smiles as he sits down across from Grenn and Pyp, next to Edd. Ghost curls up near the head of the table, and though Jon can feel the eyes on him, the eyes of the men he knows, men who betrayed him, men he left behind, men whose loyalties still hang in the air, he hardly minds. It's been a very long time since they were here, and Sam's absence aches, but does not consume. They're here again, at their table, laughing and drinking and trading stories.

If he closes his eyes, nothing has changed. He's seven and ten, he's Ned Stark's bastard, a steward and nothing more. There is no war, no blood on his naked steel. His father is alive. The world is bright and there's still a future ahead. A sweet dream and nothing more, the wishes of a boy who died right outside those doors. That reminder makes his good mood slip a bit, makes the beautiful wishes fall away. His friends, doubtless noticing the shift, don't comment on it. But Edd presses his shoulder to Jon's and that's more than he could have asked for, once.

He looks around the room, noticing the men who do not look at him, whose faces shy away from him. Most of the faces of the mutiny have blurred into nothing more than formless shapes, distant memories he has no want of getting back. But he is no fool, and he knows why men of The Watch would look away from him as they do, and knows what confession that they make in doing so. He glances at his friends, and sees hard looks in their eyes, sees anger in all of them. He smiles grimly and takes a long sip of his ale.

Grenn stabs at his food roughly as he says, in a dark voice, "Those fucking mutineers, Thorne's little lackeys, ain't got their courage now. Your uncle has made it clearer now, with Ivan dead by The Lord Commander's sword and turned to ash that evening. He said he held no love for them but would suffer them all the same. What they didn't get was the fact that every man has their limits, and The Lord Commander's looking for an excuse to hang the lot of them up. Now they're scrambling 'cause they were fools enough to think he wasn't willing to make a repeat of Thorne."

"They were fools enough to think mutiny would be suffered upon The Wall," Jon says, a little loudly. He hides his smile at all the eyes that dart to him behind his drink, feeling the fear coming from where all that remains of Thorne's loyal men hold their lonesome court. Ghost, he thinks, can almost smell their fear. But Jon does not mind. Let them fear him. "Let them see otherwise. I'd have offered them to ask Karl what fate mutineers suffer, but he's as dead as…Ivan was it?" His friends nod, smiling slightly.

"Well, here's to Ivan, and crucial reminders that some seem prone to forgetting," Jon says, and his grin is matched by his friends. It's perhaps a little cruel, to make light of a death such as that, but there is no sympathy in Jon for any man who was there in that yard, ready and willing to betray their Lord Commander. A part of him, the wild and untamed part, wants to march over to their table now and introduce them to his sword and his wolf, here and now, in some fruitless pursuit of chasing the ghosts that constantly linger behind him.

Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin… Jon shakes his head as the adage comes to mind, turning his attention to the rest of the room. He is hurt and pained, not mad. That is the only comfort he can promise himself.

He glimpses Theon, sitting alone, eyes trained on the table. As if sensing his gaze, the man looks towards Jon, his blue eyes meeting Jon's grey. They stare at one another, and there is something strange about it all. Jon, the one surrounded by friends and camaraderie where he used to be so very alone, shunned as a bastard and left alone due to his temper and callousness. And Theon, who now sits alone. No Robb at his side, no woman on his arm, nothing for company but his own ghosts.

Look how far we've come, Jon thinks, and the thought is almost surprisingly bitter.

His friends drag him away eventually. Edd, much to his chagrin, has to go check up on some things atop The Wall, and so Grenn insists on coming with his own insights on the structure of The Wall, and so Pyp should come too, just to keep them in line and…well, Jon has the oddest sense, as they rope him into whatever this is, this is a charade more common than they're all letting on.

With Jon and Sam gone, one to The Citadel and the other murdered and them unable to do anything about it, they'd probably just crave that much more time together, wouldn't they? They're like this for the exact same reason he and all his siblings are so hard to part.

Most of the time, that is. Jon ran away from all of them, in the end. Ran to a different company, a different life at the end of the world. He's been torn between Winterfell and The Wall since he got here, since the news of his father came to them. And this time, he chose The Wall. He chose The Wall when war broke out. Pyp was the first person to really look him in the eyes and say he was sorry for it. Grenn helped drag him back home. And Edd was with Jon at Hardhome, his second through it all.

The truth comes out as they come atop The Wall. There is no duty, just the four of them, sitting in an alcove, a fire burning, a flagon of wine being traded between them. Even though the wind is blowing, Jon hardly feels cold as he leans against the wall and closes his eyes and lets the world wash over him. It is far from easy, being back here, remembering and feeling it all over again, but this is something of itself. Atop The Wall, he feels as free as he can be, as removed from it all as humanly possible.

They ask after a lot of it. He tells them about everything he can. He tells them about The Battle of The Bastards and how Ramsay died. They smile at that and toast to his death and the return of Winterfell to its rightful owners. He tells them about so much of it, but dances around other things, too. He does not tell them who he really is, because while he knows it won't change anything for them, it does change everything for him. And if they can tell he's avoiding something, they don't comment on it, much to his appreciation.

His House and his family have most of his heart, yes. But there will always be a sliver that belongs here, to this Wall, and to these men whom he's made his friends, despite it all. The Watchers on The Wall, the five of them had been, all those years ago. Sam and Edd and Grenn and Pyp and Jon and Ghost, even. They took their meals together, they fought together, and would have died together, had it come to that. Three of them brought him home. Three of them defended his corpse. They have all followed him, fought for and with him, made him Lord Commander behind his back.

He'd have it no other way, he realises. He wouldn't trade these strange people he's made his friends for a thousand thrones and a hundred lives, just like he was willing to die for the future of his House, just like he would rather die in exile than put the lives of his siblings on the line. He ran for them because it was the only way he could conceive to keep them safe, should it all come down to it. And the fact that Littlefinger knew…knew something only proves how right his absence might have been. And now, he comes back to these men, the first friends from outside of Winterfell he ever had.

"Eh, he's still got a black heart, just like the rest of us," Grenn ribs as Edd starts complaining that Jon has probably been living the life of a king down at Winterfell while they all froze their balls off down here and that he was simply bound to forget them. Jon raises a brow at his friend, who grins and leans in conspiratorially. "I mean, look who dropped everything and ran to The Wall. Come back to take the black, have you, Lord Snow?"

"In your dreams, Grenn," he says, elbowing his friend.

Pyp snorts a laugh. "More like our worst nightmares. I don't miss you and Stannis arguing every five seconds." He tilts his head at Jon, brows furrowing. "Did you ever figure out what happened to him? They say he died outside Winterfell. Did he?"

"Yes. My sisters' sworn sword killed him," Jon says, taking a long sip of his drink. He smiles as they all gape at him. He's still smiling as he says, "The tall blonde woman who was following Sansa around. Remember her?" How could I forget her? He thinks Edd mutters. Jon laughs a bit, waving his hand through the air and saying. "Or, that's what I hear. My siblings aren't one for explanations. But we found what were probably his bones and burned them with the rest."

"Good," Edd mutters. "That's one fucker I could live without coming back."

"Here, here," Pyp agrees before kicking at Jon's leg and making a face. "And you say your siblings don't explain themselves like you're any better. We got a man of mystery right here, lads! Not one letter, leaving the three of us waiting here, alone, waiting for some sign that Lord Snow has triumphed and will return to save us from the dead and his uncle who somehow broods more than he does!"

They all laugh, and Jon just shakes his head and says, "Didn't know you were some Southern wife, Pyp. Did you wait on The Wall every day, and yearn for me like they yearn for their husbands, fighting off in The Riverlands fighting the big bad wolves?" They all laugh again, Pyp the loudest. Jon tilts his head at him, then. "And Benjen doesn't brood that much. And at least he's not like my father, who used to have us sit in his solar when we got in trouble and wait for him to finish his work before lecturing us. He'll tell you to your face when you fuck up, and do so immediately."

He thinks of Theon as his friends smile. He knows they don't miss how his grin loses some of its energy, but they don't say anything about it and let it be. Edd just rolls his eyes and says, "Maybe he didn't brood when he designed to go run to Winterfell, but now he just sits at The High Table and glares daggers into Thorne's ilk and goes fighting White Walkers." Edd makes a face at that. "Though I suppose all of us do it. At least Mallister and Pyke keep arguing, so not all hope is lost. They'll argue until they're dead, and if The Night King brings them back, I'd bet they'd keep arguing anyway."

"Thank you for your glowing vote of confidence in my survival, First Ranger," A voice calls from the main walkway of The Wall and they all turn to see Denys Mallister standing there, a single brow raised as he takes the four of them in. It is certainly unbecoming of them–a former Lord Commander, along with The First Steward, Ranger, and Builder–to be sitting on the floor and drinking, but here they are. And technically, Jon isn't a man of The Watch anymore…although he doesn't think Mallister will care much for the specifics of it all.

The man scoffs a bit, looking at them with a more critical eye. "Should the four of you be drinking right now? It's not even dark."

Jon just shrugs at him, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. His friends follow, and he smiles as he says, the joke clear in his tone. "Who knows, Mallister? Perhaps my grand plan all along has been to get so drunk I accidentally careen off the side of The Wall, and thus, rid myself of any and all responsibility." Mallister raises his brows and Grenn makes a despairing noise behind him.

"Your uncle and brother both would have our heads if that happened," He says, sending an overly pleading look at Jon, clearly imploring Jon to not make them face that torment. He knows they joke about Benjen, but he doesn't doubt, really, that his uncle is quite the storm, now. He is a wolf, and Jon is not alone in his temper, not in either of his Houses. His stomach twists a little at the reminder.

All the same, all he does is meet Grenn's look with a grin. "Oh, no, you should be much more worried about my sisters."

"I'd rather face a thousand Walkers than explain you dying all over again to your sisters," Edd says, dour to the last. Pyp snickers, but offers no jape of his own, and the three of them go quiet as Mallister steps closer to Jon, his blue-grey eyes raking over him slowly. Despite their jokes, this is really not the time for it. Mallister, Jon heavily suspects, has a lot of questions left for former Lord Commander Jon Snow. Questions about all sorts of things.

But tonight, he does not ask him. He just offers his hand and nods firmly when Jon shakes it. "Good to have you back, Lord Snow. Now, I'm not here to try and drag you back, nor will I try to make a case for it. You served and you died, and I get that. I'm just glad you're back now. I'm glad you haven't completely forgotten us." His smile is wane, bitter even. His eyes glance back at the three men behind Jon, like he knows exactly who helped inform Jon's decision to return, in the end.

"The North Remembers," Is Jon's reply, and Denys nods grimly, stepping back a bit as a cold wind blows over The Wall. None of them shiver though, all of them being far from strangers to the cold now, given the lives they have lived. "And it's good to see you, Denys. I apologise for the lack of any explanation as to my…leaving of The Watch. Though, thanks to that leaving, Winterfell is back in the hands of House Stark, and The North is ready to fight."

Perhaps with a Targaryen Queen beside us, he thinks, though he does not voice that, not yet. Who knows what any of them have heard, and The Watch is full of men who remember The Rebellion, who ended up here because of it. Loyal men of House Targaryen eat their meals next to men who fought to overthrow that same house, once upon a time. But crimes are forgiven when The Black is taken, and Winter is Coming. It's all so small, so very petty, in the shadow The Night King has cast.

(Or so he tells himself, though he is unable to stop the consuming hatred that fills him as he thinks of the men who left him for dead, the men who live and whisper in the corners and fear him. He'd see them dead for the treachery. But in doing so, he'd break The Watch in two.)

"A fair trade, then," Denys muses. "And Pyke and I both wrung the truth out of your uncle when we came upon Castle Black for the choosing. Not that it was much more than a formality. Everyone knew Ben would be The Lord Commander–even a blind man could have seen that coming. And I'm glad for it, as am I glad that your house has Winterfell again. House Stark has long since been a friend to The Watch, and having an uncle to The King in the North as our Lord Commander, is quite the boon."

Not the boon a Brother would have been, Jon thinks, and he can see the thought swirling in the once commander of The Shadow Tower's eyes, though neither of them voices it. Jon made his choice, and now they all must live with what it has wrought. He would not take it back. Nor would he take back his return to The Wall, in this hour. He has debts to settle still, after all, and a war to fight, and hopefully, with some luck, win as well.

—

About a week later, as he's crossing swords with Emmet in the yard under the fading light of the day, the horn suddenly blasts through the keep three times, horrible and terrifying. Jon feels his heart stall in his chest, beating erratically, and he can see the fear dawn in Emmet's eyes, as well.

But they are perhaps the two best swords on The Wall, and he's the one with Valyrian steel to round it all off, as well. There is no time and place for their fear, not now. So, they waste no time in following the orders Benjen is shouting as he rushes from his office and saddles his horse, right as Jon swings up onto his own horse.

The Gate creaks open as many of the rangers of The Night Watch and some of The Free Folk rush to it, and it gets high enough just in time for Benjen to rush through it, sword in one hand and a burning torch in his other. Jon is only a heartbeat behind him on his horse, Edd to one side and Emmet to his other, some of the best swords on The Wall. Ghost is here too, of course, silent as ever and faster than them all. It is he who meets the shuffling wights first, mauling them with ease.

As they press through the throng, Jon tries to find The Walker. Benjen had told him, as he informed him of what was going on as they schemed and plotted their victory, that in every attack, there had been a Walker. Sometimes, he'd told Jon. We kill The Walker. Other times, we leave him with no army, so he has to go lick his wounds, and we come back to The Wall. The latter is not the outcome Jon wants to leave here with. His blood rushes for a fight, his anger crawls under his skin like a parasite.

So, with all the thoughts of everything he wants and more on his mind, he fights. It is a rather large group, all things considered, but the fire eats through them, filling the early evening air with the sound of screams and thick black smoke that reeks of burning flesh. It makes Jon's stomach twist, but he refuses to let it keep him, to distract him, so he continues to fight like a man possessed. There is only him and his enemy, and the brilliant blade he wields against them. Fire and Blood, a voice whispers.

Victory comes easier than he thought it would. They all smile grimly as the last of the dead fall to fire, and there is a bold edge to Benjen's voice as he orders the men to see that all the bodies are burned. Edd and the rest of them get to it immediately, and Jon catches a brief glimpse of Tormund, who, disregarding all the ash on his face, doesn't look too worse for wear. Signorn is with him as well, with a cut on his lip that is dribbling slowly down his chin into his scruff, but he too looks fine beyond that.

And Jon is glad for that. Alys Karstark had found him before he left and informed him, as politely as one can be while minorly threatening someone, that if her husband did not come back, she'd string him up for the crows. And then she'd laughed, and he'd laughed as well, glad that she was clearly joking. But still. It would probably be for the best to make sure that the Lady of Karhold is not widowed so early into her marriage, and considering everything else she's endured as of late.

Her brother had not survived coming home. He'd seen the grief in her eyes as the news came ahead of Robb, and seen how she forced herself to move on. They all have had to make sacrifices, to set aside their pain. But sometimes, it is hard to ignore that pain. Widowing would not serve Lady Karstark well. Jon glances back at The Wall and feels his heart begin to hammer in his chest. Something pulls on the back of his mind, like Ghost, like…

Jon exhales heavily, causing Benjen to look at him with a strange look. His Stark Grey eyes, the eyes they share, are wary and guarded, like he has the distinct sense that something is still wrong. Right as Jon notices his uncle's malcontent, he feels all the hair on the back of his neck stand up as a sudden chill runs through the world. Under them, their horses shift uneasily, and they tense in tandem, all ecstasy from the post-battle haze rapidly fading. In the back of his mind, Jon can sense Ghost, alert and aware, ready for anything. He thinks he hears a distant howl, but is swallowed by the wind.

"Edd!" Benjen shouts, drawing Jon's friend's attention. The dour ranger grows even graver as he sees them, and doubtless begins to sense the overwhelming feeling of something being wrong as well. Benjen jerks his chin towards The Wall, looming silently in the distance, blocking out the sight of the sky and all that lies beyond it. In its shadow, Jon no longer finds comfort. He died in that shadow. "Get to The Wall! Jon and I will be right behind you!"

Edd does not waste his breath arguing, though Jon senses his friend wants to. He gives his orders in short, clipped tones, eyes darkening as the wind begins to slowly pick up. The rangers have all noticed it, and judging by how every single one of The Free Folk in their current company have their weapons drawn again, so have they. With nothing more than a nod and a warning look being sent Jon's way, Edd is off, his horse kicking up the snow behind him. He was with me at Hardhome, Jon remembers with a distant sense of hurt. I have fought beside him since the Great Ranging.

He seems doomed to be haunted by this damned order of brigands and vagabonds that the realm does not want. That, and the shades of his mother, the things she left behind. They do not leave him alone. They consume his mind, crawl at the edges, scratch at the door, begging for entry. He pushes them aside for what is here now.

But now it is just him, his uncle, and his wolf. Three Wolves of Winterfell, sons and creatures of The North. Jon knows that Benjen knows the truth. But neither of them have broached it yet, neither of them have found the strength to do so. Lyanna was his beloved sister, once upon a time, and he is the son that stands as the last remnant of her, unbeknownst to him for so many years due to the smoke and mirrors made by his older brother. Jon wonders how that must feel to him. If he feels betrayed at all by Ned's secret.

Thoughts of his mother are quickly swept away though, as The Walker reveals itself at long last. He hears Benjen swear as they see the other wights with him, all of them less deteriorated than any of the ones before. Do not look too close at them, Jon tells himself, feeling his stomach churn, hand going clammy as he grips Longclaw in a white-knuckled grip. Beside him, Benjen stands tall, his long, dark hair caught in the wind, much like Jon's. Benjen and he both bear a marked resemblance to Ned, to Rickard Stark. They must look, in some sense, almost like twins. Two Starks. Two wolves.

Again, he hears a distant howl, and Benjen's brows furrow.

"I have The Walker," he tells his uncle, brandishing Longclaw, feeling Ghost in the back of his mind, like a shadow of a thought. The Skinchangers on the march Northwards, had all told him that he was more powerful than he was allowing himself to be. The howls are still there, though he thinks he's the only one hearing them. Perhaps…He meets his uncle's eyes, and sees the worry and the trepidation in his eyes, the reluctance to let go. "You and Ghost deal with the wights. I have The Walker. Trust me." He tries for a comforting smile.

Benjen seems far from swayed to comfort, but he nods all the same. Jon nods in reply and spurs his horse onwards without another thought, heart hammering in his chest, Longclaw poised and deadly. They say his mother was an excellent horseman, with a connection unlike anything else to the horses she rode. And he wonders, wonders with a carnal and ruining desperation if this gift is hers. If it is one connection he has been allowed to have, a trace of her that remains in him in truth. Your mother was Lyanna Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood.

The Horse is quickly injured under him, but he expected that. He hits the ground hard, but forces himself up, crossing blades with The Walker just in time to not die. Its blank expression leers over him, blue eyes harsh and horrible. Jon swallows tightly, snarling and shoving himself forward, past their defences. His boot slams into The Walker's chest, and it stumbles back, but not enough, and the weapon is in hand, careening down towards Jon, and he cannot possibly get Longclaw up fast enough–

The world shifts. Jon sees his own body from outside it, sees it slam into the ground. But, to his surprise, The Walker is not looking at his body, rather to him…to Ghost. He can smell it all, smell the coldness of death and the aftermath of fire and burning bodies and split blood. His feet move under him, a force beyond him guiding him forward as he slams into The Walker, biting down. The Walker shoves him away with a great strength, and he's flying–

And now he's back in his own body, The Walker's back to him. He gets to his feet, barely registering the rush of pain that comes through him as he raises his blade and rushes to The Walker with a ragged sound that is torn from within him. He sees the blue eyes–blue as ice, blue as the sky, blue as the crown of roses that was set in his mother's lap at a Tourney so many long years ago–turning to him and freezing the world around him. Their blades collide, the noise ringing in the back of his mind as The Walker pushes against his blade, not allowing him so much as a moment of reprieve.

The howls grow to a fever pitch. Am I going mad? He wonders.

He can hear Benjen shouting to him, can hear the wind screaming as it storms around them and their clashing blades, can hear his heartbeat as it hammers in his ears. He sees Ghost, pressed low to the ground, and can feel the pain in his wolf-like his own, only making the ache in his bones that much worse. But all of it is secondary compared to his blade and the blood rushing in him, adrenaline and life burning through him, married with the wild desperation of a man who is willing to do whatever it takes to triumph. He has to live. He cannot abandon them again.

But The Walker is stronger than he is and is far from surprised by the properties of his blade, unfortunately. Jon knows this is not like The Walker he fought at Hardhome, the one he proved the worth of his steel with. He is a long way from Hardhome. They know the danger of his blade. And this Walker…

"Stark," It suddenly hisses out, and Jon feels himself freeze in his boots, shock crashing over him in the space of only a heartbeat. A mistake, clearly, as it presses its advantage, reaching out with a cold hand, encircling Jon's throat with it. He screeches as he feels the burning cold, praying to every god he can think of as he struggles and fights against the unrelenting grasp of Winter. He prays that they cannot turn him into a Walker. Again, it hisses that damming name. "Stark."

And he prays, even as his vision goes dark, as his mind blends with another and–

He is in Ghost again. He feels Ghost's rush of outright anger at the sight. Jon is limp in The Walker's grasp, pale and shaking. Benjen's worried screams are filling the air, but a look at him proves him to be overwhelmed. Ghost presses back on his hind legs, vengeful and wild fury consuming him. The wind is howling like a wolf, giving them just the perfect storm to be able to smell a scent that Jon doesn't really recognise, but Ghost certainly does.

Wolves. They break through the underbrush in a sudden rush, and someone shouts in awe and near terror as they crash into the mass of corpses. They rush past Ghost, bark and yowl, tangling with the wights, pressing them to the ground and tearing out their fragile and rotting skin. Ghost presses closer to the ground, smelling the smell of burnt flesh and wolves, but something new again, eyes still fixed on his boy, on Jon Snow, held up by a blue-eyed creature of The Cold. It is not wolves, not ash, not the smell of death that passes his nose.

It is blood and leather and all that makes a human, yes, but the barest hint of salt too.

And then the arrow is soaring through the air, hitting The Walker right in the eye. Jon's body collapses, and he feels Ghost wrestle control back from him the second he sees Jon fall, leaving him floating in the dark realm of unconsciousness for some undefined amount of time.

When he blinks awake, Benjen is leaning over him, eyes wide with desperation. He tries to speak but just ends up coughing violently. Benjen tugs him up to a sitting position then, letting him lean on his shoulder and rubbing his shoulder gently as he coughs, his throat burning. He pulls back as his coughs subside, running a finger over his bruised throat. He feels hands reach up to cradle the back of his neck, and he turns his eyes towards Benjen, whose eyes are bright with worry.

"I'm okay," he says, trying to get up. Benjen helps him as he struggles, ribs aching and vision more spotty than he's really comfortable with. But Benjen's hand is a steady weight on his back, keeping him grounded in reality and the like. He runs a hand over his face and gently pets Ghost as he presses against his side, nosing at him in worry. He buries his hand in his wolf's fur and says, for all their sakes, really, not just his wolf's, "I'm alright, boy. Thank you."

The thanks towards Ghost remind him of the second true hero of the day. He turns to where Theon stands awkwardly nearby, bow held in his hand, arrows strung across his back. It's an achingly familiar sight, Theon standing like that, even if the finery is gone and he is a far cry from the arrogant man he once was. Their eyes meet, and Jon nods at Theon, who nods in reply after a moment, looking unsure as to what to really do. But Jon's thanks is easily taken.

Then he looks at the wolves. Direwolves, he thinks, feeling the breath be knocked from his lungs. Benjen's hand is holding his arm in a white-knuckled grip, and Ghost looms before them, like a protective wall. His teeth are bared, but he is not growling as he looks at the other wolves, in shades of grey and black, who blink at Benjen and Jon in silence. Sons of Winterfell. The Blood of The Wolf. Sons of Winterfell. Jon swallows tightly.

Then, they rear their head backs in tandem and howl. Jon winces, feeling his knees weaken a bit at the haunting sound, but Benjen catches him before he can lose his grip on the world. The wolves press close to Ghost, and the largest of them seems to pause before Jon's wolf for a moment. He can feel Ghost's trepidation, the strange wonder at it all. It makes him grin tiredly, watching on with nothing more than interest.

The wolf licks Ghost's face once and then bounds around them. Ghost presses to the ground, tail whipping over the snow, disturbing it just a bit. Then the wolves slowly disperse, watching Benjen and Jon, and Theon, too, who watches from a bit away with wide eyes, looking awed by the sight. Jon swallows around the lump in his throat as the wolves break out into a run, heading in the general direction of The Wall.

"They'll find their way," Benjen says, and Jon nods, leaning on him still. Benjen glances up at the evening sky and says, "We should get back."

He aches the entire ride back to The Wall, and finds an excuse to be alone almost as soon as he can, pulling up his collar as best he can to hide the bruises. When he gets to the quarters Benjen gave him, the very same quarters he used to live in when he was Lord Commander Mormont's Steward, a lifetime and a half ago, he peers in the mirror at them, wincing when he sees the bruise. It looks minorly frostbitten, and he'll certainly need to see a Maester soon, but he's too bone tired to do much of anything but tug off his boots and fall asleep, Ghost pressed to his side, his silent guardian, his best friend.

He wakes up to someone opening his door.

He blinks blearily at The Maester as they come in. Harmune, he thinks, from Eastwatch. The Maester just hums when he sees Jon is awake, and then starts busily ordering him up and flittering around him, making noises as he examines the bruising on his throat. He does not seem truly concerned, at least, and he just ends up rubbing a cool salve over the wounds and telling Jon to be careful not to jostle them. He nods, only half listening to the man.

For Benjen looms silently in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the proceedings. Jon knows, without even having to ask, that he was the one who sent The Maester to interrupt Jon's sleep, in pursuit of seeing him healed and safe, in the hope that he can help, that he can make him okay. It makes something in him churn, something he cannot name. The Maester keeps droning on, but he ends up leaving eventually, leaving only a bottle of the salve behind. Only then does Benjen come into the room fully, the door closing behind him with a startling finality.

It is late in the night, that much Jon can tell. They got back just past dusk, and looking out the window, Jon guesses there are still a few more hours left till dawn. And yet, Benjen is awake, and lighting candles silently. He is here, in the hour of perhaps The Wolf, the silence hanging between them, so much gone unsaid and unknown. Tell me of her. Tell me what I want to know. The words do not come.

Only once that task is done does Benjen turn to look at Jon fully. Alone as they are now, Jon can see some of his uncle's defences slipping, his eyes shining with grief and pain that Jon knows is born of the truth. That and the fact that the last time they saw one another, Jon had just come back from the dead. Neither of them have really gotten the chance to speak of that day, to confess to what happened and to how deeply it aches in both of them now. Jon's wounds begin to sting and he winces.

He does not meet Benjen's eyes as he sits on the edge of his bed with a sigh. His uncle begins to absentmindedly pet Ghost, who seems only half awake, really, content and warm. Jon wrings his hands in his lap and presses against the memories that threaten to swallow him whole, right here where he sits. For The Watch, he hears a hundred voices whisper. Thorne had started to say that before Benjen came in. Olly looked him in the eyes, said those three words, and murdered him.

He is made of memories of knives in his heart, his blood pooling out of him. Howling wolves, and the shouts of men, and the clashing of steel, all mixing into some horrible song that haunts Jon's life, even now. The feeling of dying in Benjen's arms, and then the heat that exploded in his chest when he was forced back to life, forced to face a new reality and a new chance he never once asked for–all of it sets him apart, makes him lonely and afraid.

Benjen's hand lands on his shoulder. Jon flinches, and Benjen's sigh fills the air, the quiver in it betraying him. It all hangs between the two of them, now. Lyanna and The Knives in The Dark and the months gone by and the wars they have fought away from one another. Jon feels tears press to the corners of his eye, his resolve and his mettle rapidly crumbling around him as Benjen's hand does not move, as the weight of it all comes crashing back over them at long last, devastating and unstoppable.

"Jon," Benjen says softly, and that is the last of Jon's resolve. He sobs soundlessly, throwing himself into his uncle's arms, just like he threw himself into Robb's when the secret finally bled out of him like a gushing wound. He feels his shame rise, burning him out, but still, he does not loosen his grip, does not stop desperately clinging to him. His uncle holds him close as well, strong and stalwart and real in a way Jon could once only imagine.

He wanted to be angry at Benjen for his absence. But he has no fuel for that fire. It died in him as he looked at Benjen, feeling his life slip from him, and coughed and felt so afraid and thought, Please. Gods, I don't want to die.

They pull back after who knows how long, and Benjen holds his face between his hands for a moment, smiling sadly. And Jon knows exactly who he is looking for, what ghost he searches for in his face. The mother he will never know, the mother Benjen loved and lost and thought he'd never get back. And yet, here Jon is. Here he sits, in Benjen's reach, alive and carrying her blood all the same. His uncle's thumb runs under his eyes, over the scars, and he smiles so sadly.

Jon leans forward, resting his head against Benjen's shoulder, and staring at his lap as he does. Benjen holds him by the shoulders for a moment before just hugging him tightly with a shuddery exhale. Jon knows he is a poor replacement for the sister Benjen lost, or even either of his brothers. But he hopes there is something to him as well.

His uncle came back to The Wall and was forced to fight for his nephew, forced to hold him as his blood drained from him and his life slipped from him. And, had Melisandre of Asshai not been here, he'd have had to burn his nephew as well, condemning his heart and what was left of his scattered family. What would that have done to him, to the man he was becoming in the wake of his losses? And if he did learn the truth after, could he have faced the fact that he destroyed what was left of his beloved Lyanna?

When they pull back this time, Benjen speaks. "When Bran told me, I thought it was some twisted dream," He begins, and Jon feels his heart strain between his ribs. He never got a chance to talk to the man who raised him about his mother in truth, and Benjen is the only brother left to any of them now, the only one besides Howland who can give him what he so desperately craves. Stories of her. "Why, after all, would the gods make me watch my sister's only son die, make me hold him as he did so, make it so my best choice was to let him go? What kind of life is that?"

He gets off the bed then, coming to kneel before Jon, holding his hands in his, their intertwined fingers resting on Jon's lap. He stares at his uncle, who looks at him with a face that holds a thousand swirling emotions, whose eyes are bright with pain and love both. "Your mother was…more than you know, Jon. Wild and free, and loving to the last. She died with you ever on her mind, begging Ned to spare you, to keep you from harm. A promise he imparted onto me before we left for The Wall."

Jon swallows tightly at that. He can see the anguish in Benjen's eyes, the memory clearly a raw one to him. He thinks Bran or Howland or someone might have mentioned something like that, but nothing of Ned Stark ever passing on that promise to anyone else. But it makes sense, Jon supposes. Benjen did not truly know until Bran told him, Jon knows in his heart, but that does not mean he would be no less predisposed towards Jon's safety. And he'd cautioned him, atop The Wall, reminding him that his place was earned, not bought with a name. Was that his attempt at protection, all those years ago?

"I could not keep that promise," Benjen says, voice breaking on the final syllable, a wane and nearly heartbroken smile on his face as he reaches up to cradle Jon's face between his hands. They are warm and real, for he is warm and real and so very alive. This is no dream, as much as it feels like one. Benjen is here, and he knows the one thing he always wanted to know. "And the guilt will haunt me till I die. Can you forgive me for not being fast enough?"

"Can you forgive me for leaving?" Is the only reply Jon knows how to say in reply. Benjen's smile softens, a soft laugh escaping him. His thumb traces one of the scars on Jon's face, his eyes so bright with his multitude of emotions. But Jon does not worry about them. It is just them and Ghost, with no one to bear witness to their tears and the confessions they make here, the guilt that eats at them both. He knows well enough that they all have their ghosts, knows that the people he loves are as haunted by the what-ifs as he is. Jon is Benjen's ghost, as much as his mother is.

Benjen's eyes rove over him then. They linger on the scars and the bruising on his throat, on all the ways that Jon has been so harried by the overturning of the life he once knew, the plunge into the icy depths of war and grief and pain. He was older than Benjen was when his world ended the first time. The thought makes his stomach twist, makes him feel too large for his body, and yet far too small for the world, as well.

The words begin to spill out of them slowly, at first, but once they're going, they're gone. They speak of so much, of everything and nothing at all. Jon does not know how to beg Benjen for the stories he wants so desperately, so he only gives a few, eyes shining with tears and making Jon feel unmoored all the same. He, in turn, tells Benjen of everything he couldn't say last time, when Sansa's arrival broke their argument. Of the whole horror of Hardhome and of Ygritte and The Halfhand's last order. Benjen hangs the head at the tale, but the look in his eyes is not one of pity or anger.

It is remorse Jon sees, and remorse that colours Benjen Stark's voice as he says, hollowly, "I am sorry that I was not there when I was needed." Jon just waves the apology away, and Benjen smiles wanly, looking like he's seeing something far beyond Jon and his view of the world they share. Something that doubtless has to do with Lyanna, for that is just how things work, sometimes, for better or for worse.

More often it's for the worst, Jon thinks, but he does not say that. They are here, and they are alive, and that is a gift itself.

And they speak of later things, too. Jon tells him about Arya and Bran and Robb and coming home at last, about how he'd sobbed in Robb's arms and how he and Sansa had conspired to remake his crown in time for his arrival. He tells him of Arya and her list and her revenge, which makes him smile a very wolfish and vicious smile. They will not disparage her for taking the vengeance that they all crave. He tells him of Winterfell and of his homecoming to it, and of The Dragon Queen, and how he'd run the second he'd had the chance to.

And Benjen spins his own tale of what's happened to him since. He tells Jon more of the direwolves and wights and the whispers of the gods. He tells him of a Walker and a fight as hard as the one Jon had earlier. He tells him of letters sent and the foolishness of The Citadel, which makes them both sneer in distaste. He tells him of the arrival of The Brotherhood and Bran's arrival with an injured Summer beforehand.

They speak till sun up, shoulders pressed together, voices soft and hoarse from all the emotions that are slowly destroying them both. When their words finally die as the sun peeks over the horizon, Jon presses to him a little closer and tries to commit this night to memory, for he knows he is unlikely to have one like it ever again.

—

The horn blasts once, and the room erupts into motion.

Having been back on The Wall for just over three weeks now, Jon knows a few crucial things and has remembered a few others as well. The old habits came back to him quickly, old routines slipping back into him with ease. He remembers Castle Black and all its calls and hard-wrought ways, and going through the motions again is as easy as breathing used to be. But all of that is undercut by the wild and unceasing notion that their time here is running out.

It's been over a month since Benjen first wrote his letter, spurred on by the disappearance of four rangers. Since Jon has got here, he's hesitantly started to send out patrols again, but never for long, and never past dark. All the men who go on those expeditions are armed with what Dragonglass has arrived here and have explicit orders to run at the first hint of danger. Benjen had taken care to make sure his rangers weren't young men who'd look for the glory and disobey their orders in pursuit of it.

And now one of those groups is coming home. Jon follows behind Grenn, who'd been his only companion as they ate lunch, with Edd being off for the day to deal with something at Oakenshield, some disturbance with some people of The Gift who do not wish to leave, and Pyp being pulled in seven directions as he helps oversee the garrisoning and positioning of The Watch as Winter looms. So, now it's just the two of them right now.

Jon glimpses Theon, looming silently in a shadow of the yard. They have not spoken since The White Walker attack, but Jon has seen him constantly. He trains in the yard, teaching men to shoot, voice steady and calm, raspier than it used to be. Jon knows that they're avoiding one another, neither of them really wanting to delve into what happened with The Walker, or how Theon saved his life, and all that means. He thinks it's unmoored and scrambled both of them, making them both question things they've held onto.

Jon came here to say goodbye to ghosts. And now, he can't shake the biggest one.

Jon pushes thoughts of Theon Greyjoy away as he and Grenn head into the tunnel under The Wall. Shouts echo around it, and he sees why the second they enter it. The five rangers are, thankfully, all there, but all look to be bleeding, limping, or otherwise injured, barely able to keep themselves upright. For a moment, Jon is a few years younger, and it's Edd and Grenn there, bearing tidings of Craster and the mutineers. His heart skips a beat but he forces it to settle as he focuses on the task at hand. He throws one of the men's arms over his shoulder and gets going.

He helps deposit them on some of the benches in the yard, turning when he hears Benjen coming near. "What is it?" His uncle asks as he comes before the rangers, a dark look in his eyes. Jon glances over the crowd, seeing the wide eyes all around, before he turns to the rangers, taking them all in. Most of them look halfway to unconsciousness, barely coherent. All except one of them, a man Jon vaguely recognises with a sudden lurch in his stomach.

A man who looks at him and Benjen both with an expression of outright fear. A fear Jon has only seen on the faces of those at the mutiny, on the faces of his betrayers, in what clear memories he has left. For the watch. Images spin around him, knives plunge into his fragile skin, the snow falls around, Benjen's arms encircle him, and he bleeds and he dies.

Jon feels his body go cold, feels his mind screech to a halt, feels the world freeze to a sudden around him. He glances at Benjen and sees a blank expression he knows is hiding his anger at this man. Jon has not faced any of them, has not spoken to them, a line having been drawn between him and them. A line that now lies in ruins, a line whose absence now allows it all to come rushing back over Jon.

He realises, slowly, that the feeling growing in him is one of outright fury.

"What happened?" Benjen says, voice short and clipped. The yard is suddenly so much more quiet. Everyone knows who this man is, knows what this means for the division that Jon has seen so clearly. The Mutineers, or what's left of their cowardly group, have been shunned by The Watch, going unforgiven and unwelcome. What Benjen does now–what Jon Snow, the man they betrayed, does now–will set a precedent. The thought makes Jon's head spin.

The man finds his voice, at least. "We…we saw The Night King. We were an hour from The Wall, maybe, and saw his army on the horizon. Him and his Walkers…and thousands of the dead. They're coming for us. We have maybe two days–they're moving slowly. Waiting. Biding their time and doing what they can to make us go mad, probably."

The yard goes deathly silent as his words wash over them. The man glances at Jon, and he can see the regret and the fear in him, see how unmoored he is by Jon's presence. And there are tens of eyes on them, everyone waiting to see what Benjen and Jon say, waiting to see how they break the spell of terror the ranger's words have cast over them. Winter is coming, Jon thinks, and his heart is like ice.

"How many Walkers are there?" Jon hisses a heartbeat later, in no mood for fear or regret, not against what has just been said.

But the man is still blinking at him with that dawning terror. And oh, how Jon's mind rages, so he breathes deeply as a part of him screams to kill this man and be done with it, to make something right for once. But he bites it back, bites it down, and forces himself to believe it doesn't matter, forces himself to stop caring for once in his life. It is far from easy. But still, the man will not speak, and Jon feels the rush of anger before he knows what's happening.

He grabs the man by the front of his shirt, feeling his wounds ache, feeling his heart pound in an unceasing tune. The man looks up at him with wide eyes, and Jon barely feels himself think as he says, voice thick with his anger, "If you want me to believe you're actually something more than a traitor to The Night's Watch–if you want to convince yourself of that–I'd suggest you answer my questions. I have no love for you…you fucking traitor. I should answer for it. But I am not, and if you want me to keep on doing so, tell me: how many are there?"

Men are shifting. Jon can see Grenn, in the corner of his eye, see his clenched fists and his readiness. Jon knows his friend will be the first to follow him, come what may. Grenn, the one Thorne called Aurochs, the farm boy turned First Builder and one of Jon's fiercest allies left to him. Grenn has no love for the mutineers, either, and has not forgotten what they did to his friend.

Pyp looks to be at his side now, scarier looking than Jon ever thought the boy he met all those years ago could be. The once mummer, small and joking, now stern and proud, the First Steward. He may not have Grenn's ferocity or Edd's conviction, but he is no less an ally to Jon. For a moment, Jon wishes Sam and Edd were here as well. Only then, he thinks, would he feel okay in this moment, feel safe, feel free from the phantoms that crawl at him.

"We spotted at least twelve walkers!" The man finally babbles after a long moment of tense silence. There are tears in his eyes as he meets Jon's glare. Jon drops him, then, and not a moment later, he feels Benjen's hand land on his shoulder, pushing him back towards someone. Jon tries to go again, but a hand grabs him by the elbow and keeps him there. He whirls, ready to impart his anger, but he freezes as he sees Theon Greyjoy, standing there, holding him back, his eyes bearing sharply into Jon, their silent warning clear. Jon swallows and turns away from him, but Theon does not drop his hand.

And now his anger is all-consuming. It presses against his ribs, blurs the edges of his vision, and his mind hones him into the hand on his arm, and the face of that one man, that one true beacon of the treachery that ended his life. Benjen is speaking to him in his low voice, and Jon doesn't have to see his face to know that his uncle hangs between it all just as much as he does. The thought unravels him. Theon's hand digs into his arm, painfully tight despite the missing fingers.

He moves to leave, his back towards his betrayer, but still, Theon's hand stays where it is. And Jon nearly screams at him, nearly tells him to lay off, to fuck off, but when he meets his eyes, he finds no resource for his anger. Theon isn't even looking at him, but rather behind him, towards the man and Benjen. Slowly, his eyes track back to Jon, a knowing look in his eyes, and Jon wishes Theon Greyjoy did not know him so damn well. He wishes he wasn't able to look at Jon like he knew the whole of him, and make Jon believe it.

Finally, a voice breaks through the haze, sounding like it's been repeating the words a few times. "Lord Snow?" He hears the voice ask from behind him, the voice of this man who would have stood by and let Jon be killed and done nothing about it. Or perhaps he had a silver knife for Jon as well, perhaps he too was going to look Jon in his eyes and say For The Watch like that made their mutiny and his murder any better, made it right. He wants to scream, he wants to sob, he wants to kill the man for what he did.

He turns slowly. Theon lets him go then, but he's a shadow of a thought in the back of his mind, a shadow that never leaves, the ghost that haunts him, waiting and ready for what comes next. The man is looking at him with this…this expression. He looks pitiful and perhaps regretful, and Jon feels his heart freeze in his chest, feels his anger swell to a maddening pitch. What right does he have to regret? He made his choice, and now he wants to take it back because he's a coward and he's afraid.

"What?" Jon somehow finds the strength to ask.

"Forgive me, my lord," The man gasps out, stumbling forward and falling to his knees before Jon. There are tears in his eyes, Jon notes with detached apathy, and fear in them too, the realest and rawest cut of it he's ever seen. His mouth twists into a gruesome shape as he pleads, the noise slipping by Jon like water over rocks, like a handful of dust in the wind. They are just words, words that mean nothing, that hold no weight in Jon's mind, not against his burning anger.

"Forgive me?" He repeats flatly and slowly, wanting to draw his sword, wanting to kill this man where he whimpers pitifully before him, begging for…for mercy. For forgiveness. Jon's heart aches, his body bleeds, his mind remembers. He remembers knives and the cold and Benjen's pleas and the darkness that consumed him. He remembers the fire of life, remembers his blood pooling out of him, remembers what it was like to die, only feet away from the wolves, just out of reach.

"Jon," Someone says his name in warning. He does not hear them. His mind is a storm, his world is burning up in his hands, and none of it matters, none of it is real beyond his fury at the arrogance and the rage that consumes him as he sees this man and the fact that he dares to ask what he does, that he dares to look remorseful. He only regrets what he did because it ended poorly for him. Does he think Jon Snow to be soft, think him to be a man of forgiveness? The North Remembers.

"It is forgiveness, then?" He says, voice dripping on the word. Forgiveness. What a quaint idea. If there was forgiveness left in this world, left in him, things would be so much easier. "You think I will accept you and all your knives in the dark with kindness at your behest for forgiveness? You think I will forgive you for betraying me, your Lord Commander, rightfully and lawfully elected? You think that your words can warm my heart and that I will break bread with you again?" The man blinks at him, hands splayed flat on his lap. Jon scoffs. "No. No."

"Do you recall that I helped kill the men who mutinied against Lord Commander Mormont?" He asks, waiting till the man nods shakily. "We burned their bodies after we killed them all. That is the fate of deserters and traitors. So–it is mercy that you still live and breathe, you damned traitor. It is mercy that my brother has not ridden already for justice, that my uncle has not cleaved your head from your neck, that my wolf knows not your taste. That is all you will get of my forgiveness."

He looks around the yard, feeling wild and half-mad and consumed by it all. "If any of you mutineers dare to beg me for a forgiveness you do not deserve, I might just draw my sword and be done with it." He meets the man's eyes and notes, with a detached apathy that almost scares him, "You betrayed me. You left me to die in the yard. And know this: I want to kill you. I want to see you die, alone and afraid. I want you to understand an inch of the pain you put onto me–"

"Jon!" Benjen's voice cuts through his mind, and he whirls on his uncle, only to be stopped by his arms, landing on his arms. He tries to turn on his heel and leave, but Benjen holds strong, his grip unrelenting. Jon knows that there is no escaping him. He blinks up at him, feeling his rage subside as he looks at the familiar face, feeling tears rise in the back of his throat, choking out the air from within him.

His uncle looks at him with an unreadable expression. Then, he softens slightly and looks behind Jon, towards–"Theon. Help Jon to my quarters." He releases his grip on Jon's arms, but Jon's mind doesn't get a chance to catch up before a hand is clamping around his arm, and he's being dragged away from the yard by a hard-eyed Theon Greyjoy as it erupts into chaos behind them.

"Let me go," he hisses, struggling to breathe, struggling to wade through the waters of his memories, struggling to put it all aside and live again. I never should have come here, he thinks, feeling empty and undone, drifting through the halls like the ghost they would have made him, bound only to this world by Theon's vice grip on his arm. I should have never left Winterfell again. I should have died and stayed dead. I should have killed him the second he begged for mercy, then and there. I should have killed them all.

Theon does not let go. When Jon sobs soundlessly, he helps him go forward, all but dragging him as they make their way to Benjen's office. And then he sobs again as he comes into what was once his own office, the one that now belongs to Benjen's. He's back in this room, and looking at the walls makes him so angry all over, makes him feel like he's been cast out to sea. Theon helps him sit down, and his mind bleeds away as rage and tears consume him. The world is nothing.

A knock at the door draws him back to reality. He drifts his eyes slowly to it, the back against his wall, the ground hard under him. At first, he has no idea how he got here, how he ended up sitting here, no idea how Benjen knew how to find him. But then he realises Theon is gone, and he remembers the yard and the mutineer with a hollow ache in his chest that makes him feel emptied by the world.

His uncle comes slowly through the door as he continues to say nothing, looking at Jon with an expression that makes him look away, tilting his head back against the wall, revealing the column of his throat as he struggles to breathe. As easy as breathing, they say. But what happens when you forget how to breathe? What do you do when you know what it is like to be truly breathless?

His uncle sits beside him quietly, taking Jon's hand in his. And he can still feel all the questions pressing at his teeth, all the things he so desperately wants to know, the ones he still cannot find the words for. He wants to know of Lyanna and her sweetness, and her life. He wants to know his mother. He wants to know how this all could have been avoided, wants some answer to the questions that have plagued him since he first saw that Traitor sign.

They are questions born of the desperate wish of a boy who wanted to go home, be safe in his father's arms. The questions that came from dying and wishing his dad was there to save him, wishing his dad would sweep in and make it right. He got Benjen, and yet, he wishes his uncle did not have to be the one to save him and burden that. Some selfish part of him, the shadow of the boy who died when that letter came, wanted nothing more than for his dad to come in and save him from the monsters with their silver knives and words that broke him in two. For The Watch.

"What would he have done?" He asks his uncle. "What would...would my father–Ned–done? What would have any of them done? Him, my mother, any of them…" he trails off lamely. He would not wish this pain on any of them, his mother most of all. He wonders how Lady Catelyn reacted when the news of Bran and Rickon came. They say she wailed at The Red Wedding, and Robb had whispered to him of how she begged for him, before the end. Before they killed her.

"She would have done what I did," Benjen says with a sigh. Jon can feel his tension in how tight his shoulders are, how brutal the grip on his hand is. "She'd have killed them all for it, and wept over you. The man who dared to steal her child from her would have known a fury unlike anything else. And Ned would have been much the same, I'd say. He'd have done it cleanly, done it with all his grimness, but he would have done it, no hesitation. They would have both fought for you. All of them would have. Your siblings…perhaps even Catelyn. No one deserves mutiny."

And Jon can feel the tears in his eyes at that. He knows that. It's why it all hurts so much, why he'd been so angry. His death was a butchery, the choice of cowardly men. The man who begged him like it would sway his heart still proves that all they have ever been were cowards. "I hate them," He says, feeling a rush of anger run through him. His thoughts spin. He thinks of his mother and the man who raised him, both ripped from his hands, betrayed and broken by The South. He thinks of The South and all the dark wings with their dangerous, cruel words.

"All of them," he hisses, blind from tears as he spits out the names. "Joffrey, Rhaegar, the whole of this world, who took them both from me. They took Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon and You." And Theon, he thinks, and the realisation of that wound is perhaps another knife in his too-fragile heart. "A part of me can barely stomach all of it. Why does The South deserve my sword? I know it is foolish. But still…"

"Good," Benjen says, smiling slightly when Jon blinks at them. "Jon, it is good that you can hate them because it means The Mutiny didn't destroy you. You still love and you still hate, you feel. A corpse could not say the same. A ghost would have not had said what you said out there, would not have nearly drawn his sword and killed the man for the crime of his arrogance and his misplaced desperation. You are alive, Jon, you are alive and that means you have won against the men who would have seen you felled because of their fear and their refusal to see the whole truth."

"I will never ask you to go further than you will. And I will not pretend that The South and the blood they have spilt haunts me, makes me question all that I have done, all that I fight for now. Cersei Lannister calls for my head. Why should I defend her?" Benjen's mouth twists. "I suppose my excuse is my oaths. Debts and the past are set aside when a man takes The Black. I guard The Realms of Men, and I cannot choose within them. I cannot refuse to fight for Cersei's life in this cause, for it will doom thousands more. She does not deserve it. And yet, I still fight."

He looks at Jon. "You must find why you fight, Jon. Ned fought for love, fought for your mother and your uncle and your grandfather–for our House. Never just for Robert, I'd say, though that is what so many saw it as. You are not bound by your oaths anymore. Your duty does not lie to The Realms of Men. But where does it lie, Jon? To your House, your family, your King? To The North? Or is it simply to Winterfell?"

Jon finds, suddenly and horribly, that he has no answers. A thousand images pass his mind–Sansa's bruised back, Arya's hug, Rickon's wide and wild eyes. Bran's voice and the undoing of it all. Snow in Robb's hair, his arms around him, his breath in the air. Winterfell on the horizon, banners caught high in the breeze. The press of bodies around him. Blood dripping from his fist. The wolves curled together. A sibling at his back, hands intertwined, furs drawn close.

His mother's statue, lit by firelight. The glimmering beads on the maiden's cloak that spelt his undoing. His father's eyes, the way he looked at him like he knew it would be the last time. Robb, standing before him, a crown on his head, given to him by Jon. The floor under his bent knees, his sword unsheathed, and the echoing call of The King in The North ever in his mind. All the keeps, the lords of The North. Alys Karstark before a heart tree, her groom beside her. Softly falling snow. Passing through the second gate and finally coming home.

"I want…" A great many things, he'd told Stannis Baratheon. And he does. He wanted Winterfell, in some awful, aching way, but never wanted to betray his House, make Lady Catelyn's fears come true, all the same. He wanted to know his mother, and now he does, and now he must pay. He wanted to be a Stark, and perhaps now he is, but it's all so shifted, so rewritten with everything else he knows. He wanted so much, burned for things he could not have…and refused to take them at the cost of those whom he loves.

"I want to know I am doing the right thing," he says, feeling young and foolish, raw and vulnerable. But it's just Benjen beside him. Just Benjen, he thinks, and his heart settles just a bit. "I want to know that I am doing what is best for my people, for the people I love. But every time I think too hard, I second guess myself. I feel like half a fool, a madman who can't escape himself or his past, a mummer playing at a part not made for me. What am I?"

"A man of House Stark, a brother to the King, and my nephew," Benjen says easily. Jon looks at him, looks at him with all his desperation and his love, unable to see what his uncle so clearly sees. His uncle smiles softly and reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. "You are Jon, and that is all I will ever ask you to be. I do not need you to be a prince, a saviour, or anything like that. All I need is my nephew, the man I know who can face this threat and stand by my side–to what end, I care not. And for who he fights, I care less, as long as it is The Living. Can you do that?" His uncle smiles, but Jon knows he's pleading.

"Jon Snow? The man who failed?" He laughs without humour. "I tell myself I am what I am, I tell myself that what I am is Jon Snow. I am what I know how to be and what I know how to be is Jon Snow. But then I stand there and look my betrayers in the eye and I realise I don't know who Jon Snow is anymore. Maybe he died in that yard and whoever the fuck I am now isn't really him. I don't know who I am. I don't know what I'm doing here but running because I'm a coward who can't look my own aunt in the eye and face the truth."

"I'm afraid, Benjen, and we both know it," he says, hatred in his heart, hatred for all that he's become, all that they took from him. "I am a ghost, the shadow of the man who failed. I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be alive. But I am, and I hate myself for it. Why have I been given another chance–above my mother, above your brothers, above people who deserve to live again? How can I fight, how can I make a future, when I can't see it, when I am nothing more than a shade against the world?"

Benjen frowns slightly, then presses his two fingers to the pulse point at Jon's wrist, his dark eyes bearing into him. And Jon can feel it then, feel his heartbeat hammering under his skin. His uncle looks at him intentionally and says, "I cannot pretend to know the way of magic. But what I know is that you are alive, Jon. You have been given a chance, and you are the only one who can decide what to do with that choice."

Jon swallows tightly, mind scrambling as war is raged in it. "What if I make a mistake again?" He asks, his voice small. And that, he thinks, is the heart of the matter. He made mistakes once, and paid for them with knives in his heart, and treachery he cannot escape the impact of. His mistakes could cost the world, now, or the lives of the people he loves. He could say he wants to fight for The North, for House Stark, but that comes with the terrifying thought of failing them and dooming that which he loves the most. Jon Snow failed. Why would he want to be the man who failed?

He refused Winterfell because he refused to betray them. And now, he cannot make himself make this decision that is so clear in his mind because he's afraid to betray them, however unknowingly, with his naïvite, and the mistakes he has already proven to be able to make. And with the truth of him in the air as well, the truth of what he has always been, and The Dragon Queen, it is that much more terrifying to him.

"Perhaps you should talk to Theon," Benjen says, cutting through Jon's turmoil. When he gapes at his uncle, the man just gives him an intentional and very weighty look. Jon sits back a little, mind rushing over all the reasons he knows his uncle is saying what he is. He and Theon have long since existed outside of House Stark. They both have made mistakes. And Theon did betray them. He knows what it looks like. He dragged him out of there. He knows what that path feels like. Perhaps he could help.

But the thought of finding Theon, of spilling his guts and making those confessions, that is a beast in and of itself. It rages in the back of Jon's mind, rages even as he forces it back, and forces it away. Perhaps he should. But with the warnings of the rangers and the fact that their doom is so at hand in his mind as well, he can find no space for how he should do it. So, he just breathes deep and says no more of it.

—

Eventually, after two days of feeling half-wild as their doom crawls ever nearer, he caves and goes searching for Theon.

When Jon finds him, he is sitting in one of the enclaves of The Wall, back pressed to the ice, eyes roving over the black horizon as if in silent contemplation. A fire dances beside him, fighting against the blowing wind, surviving despite the cold. It reminds Jon not only of The Watch, but both Theon and him, for they are both simply survivors who are doing their best to stay alive, to stay real. When he sees Jon coming to him, Theon's eyes widen for only a moment, the fire dancing in them, but he makes no move to stop Jon as he comes to sit across the fire from him.

They stay there for some time, in silence. Sure, there had been nights on the road, nights around other fires, but that was almost always in the company of or near to others, for both their sakes. Their watches were lonesome, yes, but there had been people nearby. They have not been truly alone together in years, since well before Robert came to Winterfell. Robb hardly ever let them be alone in a room together, after a while, knowing far better than that. Jon, thus, has no idea when he last sat with Theon Greyjoy, nothing and no one between them.

"Did it hurt? Dying?" Theon suddenly asks, voice almost swallowed by the wind. Jon himself feels nearly consumed by it. They are as alone as they can be on The Wall, with everyone being out of earshot, and the wind helping in that regard. Nevermind Ghost, who sits at the entrance, looking as unbothered by the cold as ever. Jon glances once at his wolf, his ever-silent companion and guard and then at Theon Greyjoy.

"The betrayal hurt far more than the knives and dying," He says, thinking of Olly, and Theon nods like he understands. Which he probably does, judging from all that Jon has heard from Sansa of what Ramsay Bolton did to him. He is glad for what he did, glad he took some vengeance for Theon and Sansa both, even if he left the death to her capable hands, at the end. She deserved that, he knows. Traitors are always dealt with in The North.

He can still see Olly, in his mind's eye. He remembers that knife, and those awful, hell-born words. And he remembers Benjen's witless howl of all-encompassing fury and pain and grief. Benjen had not known the full truth of it, the truth of who Jon was, back then, and perhaps it would have been better. Who knows what he would have done to the men who killed all that was left of his sister? Who knows what cruel vengeance he would have wrought?

Again they lapse into silence, and again Theon breaks it. Some things never change. "I thought Robb was playing a joke on me when he told me to go here." He sends a shrewd, and awfully familiar, look around, the same look he always used to have when he looked at something he deemed lesser than him. But it is hollower, like an imitation of a ghost. "Or perhaps that our dear king had changed his mind and decided to actually kill me, and do it in the slowest and most awful way possible. Imagine that–Theon Greyjoy is killed at long last by Jon Snow!"

"After how many threats of it?" Jon asks, unable to fully fight his smile. Theon smiles too, just barely, and Jon feels the ragged edge between both of them, the remorse and the guilt and the grief. Jon tilts his head back and swallows, feeling the cold air rush over him. He does not look at Theon as he says, "I cannot bear to forgive you fully. My heart and the pain it can still recall will not allow it. All the same, I do not have the energy for ceaseless and pointless arguments and nattering any more. You got the chance to choose again, and this time you chose right."

He looks at Theon then. Theon nods silently, wringing his mangled hands together before him, but he does not meet Jon's eyes. When he speaks again, there is a deep edge of grief and remorse in his voice as he makes his confession. "When the Northerners were at The Gate of Winterfell, and I was trapped inside, slowly being driven mad, Luwin suggested something to me. He said I should smuggle myself out of Winterfell through the old passages, and ride hard for The Wall. I almost did. I would have–had it not been for the thought of you."

He meets his eyes then, and asks, "What would you have done to me, Jon? What choice would you have made?"

Love is the death of duty. "Had I been upon The Wall with The Lord Commander, I would have been offered no choice. The Old Bear would have smashed us together, forced me to bite past it, to push it aside. When a man takes the black, all crimes are forgiven. He would have burned that into my very bones until he did not think I intended to murder you in your sleep. I would have tried, doubtless. And he would have suspected so, and I would have gotten to know the walls of my room and perhaps even the cells very well." His mouth twists. "Small mercies, then, that I was not upon The Wall and The Old Bear was soon to die."

"You weren't on The Wall?" Theon asks, and there is something wretched in his voice, a realisation at chance, the burning agony of knowing that one choice made differently could have rewritten it all, perhaps. Jon shakes his head, and Theon exhales noisily, his breaths shaking in his chest.

"I was beyond The Wall, making the same mistakes as my parents did," Jon says, curling his fingers into a fist as he feels Theon's gaze sharpen on him. But Theon does not ask, not yet. "Running away with someone who could only spell my end, and dooming us both in the process. I broke my oath for her, betrayed my oath, and then betrayed her too, returning here. And I was labelled a traitor by some, but I rose up all the same. But they got their vengeance in the end. And then met The North's."

"You know…" Theon says, already suspecting what Jon is hinting at. It must be so strange to him, this man who still thinks that Jon Snow is the bastard son of Eddard Stark, born to him off of some nameless woman. A pairing that, as Jon puts it, spelt a mutual doom for them. It must be odd to think of Eddard Stark like that. But the truth is stranger and far darker. And Jon suddenly feels like he must confess to someone more, must learn how to say the words and not feel like his world is burning. He cannot run from the truth forever.

And Theon Greyjoy, Jon thinks, deserves some truth at last. And so–

"My mother was Lyanna Stark," he says, not looking at him as Theon pauses. He takes a breath. He slowly rakes his eyes over to the other man, staring at him with a mix of emotions he does not know the names of. "And my father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

For a beat, Theon just blinks at Jon, and he nearly lets himself think that he has done the impossible and truly shocked Theon Greyjoy into actual silence, but then the man throws his head back and bursts into laughter, nearly howling in his mirth. The sound is swallowed by the wind, distant and fading, like a memory from a thousand years ago, one that is slipping out of Jon's hand with each passing day.

He looks away for a moment, his laughter dying, but then he looks at Jon again and breaks off into another peel of breathless laughter that just has to hurt. But Jon cannot keep his smile fully off his face, which makes Theon laugh harder, and he shakes his head. Only the strange, broken man that Theon has become, of all people, would be able to find the utter ruination of his world to be funny. But Jon doesn't really know what he expected, at the end of the day.

"You are a terrible person, Theon Greyjoy," he mutters, and Theon keeps laughing. Jon resists the urge to shove the asshole, feeling, in the oddest and worse sense of the world, like he is once again seven and ten and this is just part of his routine with Theon. Barbed insults and traded blows and poor Robb, or even sometimes their father, and rarely–but most terrifyingly–Lady Stark, acting as a mediator between them. "Horrible, actually."

Theon keeps laughing.

"Oh, what a jape this is!" Theon crows, smiling widely as his eyes dance. But as he looks at Jon and sees the grimness there, some of it fades, some of his hardness and the new truth of him begins to seep back in. Theon is not the jester he once was. He is a man marked by pain and the horror of a war he helped turn the tide of, a choice he is still repenting for. The light, the humour, still lives in his eyes, in some sense, but it is bracketed by a stern chill that reminds Jon of Ned Stark, of all people.

Here they are, his two wayward sons of his own making, both traitors to his memory in their own ways, with many oaths left unsaid and broken at their feet. Jon wishes he knew for certain that the man who raised him could forgive him for all that he did, the oaths he broke and the story of his parents he so unknowingly replayed. And Theon, he suspects, has much the same wish ever burning deep within him, always gnawing at the back of his mind.

"The Queen does not know?" Theon asks though he sounds like he heavily suspects the answer. When Jon shakes his head, he bows his head in respect to the confession, lips pressing together as he studies him. Jon knows what he looks for–traces of a man who died by the stroke of a hammer, a prince from another time, and the echo of a woman whom both of them have only ever known through a whispered story from other voices not of their House and as a still statue in a silent crypt. His parents are hardly corporeal in his mind, sometimes, not as his siblings and Ned Stark have always been.

"Will you tell her?" Theon asks. When Jon gives no reply, he stretches his foot out across the way to tap Jon's boot with his own, causing his eyes to snap to him in the familiar gesture. They used to do this, he and Robb and Theon, when they sat in rooms together and wanted to silently draw their attention. His blue eyes bear sharply into Jon, harder than he thinks he has ever seen. "If you are going to tell me this, I also get to tell you when you're being an idiot about it. She must know, eventually."

"You're as bad as Sansa," Jon laments.

Theon just scoffs, waving his hand through the air, almost like a dismissal. "A compliment."

"Indeed," Jon agrees softly, tilting his head back and breathing deeply. "I will tell her, for I know that I cannot run from it, no matter how much I try to." Theon sends him a searching look. "Yes, why do you think I took the first chance I had to get out of her presence? The thought of it terrifies me, haunts my nightmares and my waking days. When I tell her, it must be a sure thing, and we must be strong enough to withstand whatever reaction she has. It could be the undoing of every single thing we have fought, tooth and nail, to get back."

"I do not wish to be the catalyst that sees Winterfell destroyed for my life. I do not wish to be the man who reaps destruction onto the people I love for a secret that honour and duty demands to come free, lest unfriendly ears hear it first and sing to her." He shudders at the thought. "And yet, I see no way out of this cage."

"You are stronger than you give yourself credit for," Theon says, and from him, it is like an arrow in his heart. But not one that only hurts. One that lends strength mingled with the pain of knowing what the price of it was. Theon never would have once said that to Jon. And now he does. And the reason why is so fucking awful it makes Jon…sad, really. "And The North will ride and rise for you. She will know that, before the end. And she is not her father."

"Neither am I." Jon looks at Theon, properly looks at him, and all his gauntness and all the ways he seems to be eternally haunted by the shadows of the past. "And neither are you."

Theon nods, and opens his mouth to say something, but whatever words he'd been about to say to Jon are silenced by the blow of the horn. Jon feels himself freeze. A second horn blows through the world. Theon and he are on their feet in an instant and are already running by the time the third blast of that infernal horn breaks the silence of the world and shatters the peace into a thousand tiny pieces.

They reach the centre point of The Wall's top in record time, the very small crowd that has gathered there alight with worried chatter. The men part on instinct for Jon, and he feels his stomach bottom out as he gazes out over the lands beyond The Wall, and the shadows he can see crawling ever to them, barely lit by the aftermath of the setting sun. The words of the age-old oath ring in the back of his mind like a ringing bell, an unceasing tolling that heralds doom. Night gathers and now my watch begins.

His first instinct is to order bows, order preparations to be drawn, in the vain hope that this is just another skirmish. But then he sees three walkers, breaking through the treeline, undeniable. The world drops a few degrees and he hears someone swear, hears the worry reach a fever pitch behind him. He can feel Theon's eyes on him, ready to follow to the end. He swallows tightly, and thinks, for just a bare heartbeat, of the oaths he left behind, of the summer sun, the kiss of a woman. But then he tampers it down, all of Maester Aemon's words ringing in the back of his mind as he speaks.

Love is the death of Duty. "Get down to Castle Black. Inform The Lord Commander of The Walkers. Our reckoning has come." He draws his sword, and the men move in an instant, shouting orders and becoming alight with energy. Only Theon does not move, standing stalwartly at Jon's side. In another lifetime, they may have ridden to war together, side by side with Robb, for vengeance and their sisters. But Jon turned back in the end. Duty is the death of love.

It is only when the men are truly gone, either in the winch cage or making the long trek down the stairs does he meet Theon's eyes, and it is then he sees that his mettle has returned. Theon still looks hollowed out, a gaunt man with many a ghost ever in his shadow, but he is strong as well, standing tall and proud, eyes like barely held storms. He nods at Jon when their eyes meet, and Jon nods back, not sure what to say in the wake of Theon's camaraderie with him, but smart enough to know that they will change little, in the end. Kill the boy, Jon Snow, and let the man be born.

But he does remember something else and somehow finds the strength to say it aloud. "Father used to say that the only time a man could be brave is when he was afraid," He recalls, and the pain that blooms in his heart is reflected clearly over Theon's scarred face. He swallows, feeling the cold wind cut through him, to his very bones. He smiles bitterly. "I suppose then, it is some luck that I feel terrified right now. All of Old Nan's stories come from the woodwork now, to destroy us all."

"She'd have rubbed it in if she was here," Theon murmurs, and Jon just laughs slightly, lacking the strength to ask him what happened to her, where she went, in the end. He doubts he spelt her end. But what he did may have very well led to it, a fact that weighs heavily over them all. Theon inhales deeply and nods at Jon, eyes bright with that same swirling storm. "When Robb called the banners, I told him it was good that he was afraid. Because it meant he wasn't stupid."

"Stupidity, bravery, fear," Jon muses, but he does not finish his thought as the wind cuts through them again, and the world snaps into focus with the whining of the winch cage, the rest of the men already down. The speed is impressive, but Jon doesn't dwell on it. Within only a few moments, he is getting in the cage, Theon and Ghost following. As they make the trek down, though, he does say one more thing, a promise in its own way, "We fight for his memory…fight to make him proud."

Theon meets his eyes, and Jon can see the pain in his eyes, the age-old remorse that comes with knowing just how much you have failed the one man you have always desired to make proud. In the wake of the death of Eddard Stark, they both spiralled, both made the wrong choices and paid for them dearly. But now, here at the beginning of the end, they have both been given the rare opportunity to honour him again, to do right by him and the lands of The North, their scattered home.

"Yeah," Theon says, voice like a whisper of something more, hallowed out and burning with regret, drowning in the waves made by the world and the force of his guilt. He swallows tightly, and Jon can see how his throat bobs, see how his resolve wavers, for just a heartbeat. "For him."

Benjen has them in hand the second they come through the cage, and Jon quickly sees the reason for his sudden appearance and seeming desperation to know where they are when he looks over the yard. (The yard he died in. The yard he trained in. The yard where he forged so much in clashes of steel.) He can hear the screaming from the gate, which is just doomed to fail at some awful point, and everyone knows it. The outriders would have already left for Winterfell, to warn them of their coming and whatever survives today, but it is little comfort to Jon.

The yard is in outright chaos. Horses are shrieking amidst the din and clamour of men, though men are doing their best to saddle them, preparing for the inevitable. The smell of smoke and burning flesh is already thick in the air. The reports must have come through from the men who saw what Jon saw, saw the three Walkers, the damnation in them all, and they must have spread like wildfire through the rank. Jon knows what thought is on all their minds, for it is on his. This is our final hour.

They will defend till they cannot, till the darkest hour comes for them, stand as long as possible, till their legs are broken under them, but they all know that today will make turncloaks and oathbreakers out of them, for the sake of the realm. They will betray and abandon The Wall, and make southwards to Winterfell, as the last heralds before the storm. But the process is messy, and the men are afraid.

"I must aid the men at the gate," Benjen says, cutting off Jon's protests with a single, withering look. His sword is already drawn, hair drawn back away from his face, eyes as wild as a wolf's. "My horse is tacked. Tack yours, and then guide the men. Grenn and Pyp will aid you both, but as far as I am concerned right now, Castle Black is yours, Jon. When you see Edd and I, then it's time to run. Or, when The Horn is blown. Do you understand?"

Jon blinks at him, starling when Benjen grabs him, all but hissing as he says, "Do you understand?"

Finally, Jon nods, and before he can second guess himself, draws Longclaw and hands it to his uncle. Benjen startles, but takes the gift, pressing his own sword into Jon's hand. He seems to hesitate for just a moment, before taking a step forward, cradling the back of Jon's head in one hand in a rare show of public affection Jon has long since known he must keep to himself, for both their sakes. He presses their brows together and murmurs a low oath he cannot fully catch, before leaving Jon and Theon.

Theon looks to Jon for guidance, bow already in hand, gaze steady. When their eyes meet, Theon nods once, imbuing strength through silence and the look in his eyes that Jon knows means he has him, till both their ends. He nods back at Theon, squaring his shoulders and standing tall, even as the wind begins to howl. Men look to him already, but all eyes snap to him as his voice somehow manages to rise above the din, and he shouts, "Men of The Watch!"

They look at him. Edd had said that he and his friends still were with him and said that no matter what, he'd ride behind Jon. These men did not put their knives in Jon's heart. Those who did are dead. The mutineers are alive, but they were not his murderers. And the crowd that gathered has been scared away, made to bend, else they face death. They look to him like he is a light in the darkness–he, the man who came back from the dead, the man who has led them through victory and death alike.

He remembers what he realised as The Blackfish schemed and tried to offer other routes. All I need to be is a wolf, be The Black Bastard of The Wall, he thinks, and he shouts again, his strength and his pride returning at long last, falling over him like a cloak. "Our enemy comes to swallow us now! Winter is here! But we have sworn our oaths, and we have lived thus far! No matter what happens today, The Night Watch will live on! For this night, and all the nights to come!"

Grenn is the first to whoop in assent, his eyes burning as he looks at Jon. Jon smiles, and it's like he's stepping back into a well-worn pair of boots. He shouts his orders, rushes around the yard, tacks up his own horse, refusing to let the tempest in, refusing to let himself break under the weight of the world. Theon is ever at his back, helping where he is needed, silent and stalwart to the very end. They are so very changed, and as much as Jon longs to go back to the old world, the one he knows to be long since gone, he is glad that there is something good left in his current reality.

Men start rushing from the gate, bloody and covered in gore. Jon hears someone scream and winces, forcing himself to not think about who it could be, forcing himself not to think of what fate they are doomed to meet. He can smell burning flesh. Pyke and Mallister are doubtless down in the tunnel, with their Lord Commander and First Ranger, and Jon knows the four of them will be the last to abandon The Wall, at any rate. The thought of losing Benjen or Edd is terrifying, so he does his best to ignore it outright.

The yard is still in chaos after a few minutes, but the men seem to be following his example, and simply choosing to push their panic and their worry aside. Theon is shouting orders, and though he is no black brother, he's one of the only men doing so, so the men follow him. His voice joins Jon over the din, strong and sure, guiding people through the dark and the end of the world.

The oath rings ever in his mind, words said by a boy who died in this here yard, betrayed to the end and shattered beyond thought in the process. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.

But then a new horn breaks through the evening air.

Jon screeches as the sound cuts through his mind like a knife, his wounds aching and his head splitting in two. He hears Ghost howl like he's never howled before, hears Theon shout his name in panic as his knees buckle under him, head throbbing in agony. "The Horn," he gasps out with world-ending certainty, a trail of blood streaming out of his nose as he turns his Stark-grey eyes to The Wall, ever looming before them. And with a conviction so sure that it burns, he says, "That was The Horn of Joramun."

For a moment, his words ring out in the still air. The horn is still blowing, still scratching at his mind, demanding and taking everything he has left to give. Theon's hands are on his shoulders, his shadow over him, and Ghost is at his side, silent again but tenser than ever. The implications of that blast have not even settled into Jon's bones, for all he can think about is how much his head is hurting, and how strange that shrill horn had sounded, really.

That is until he hears the crack.

The whole courtyard looks up in outright horror as a crack grows on The Wall, followed shortly by a wash of power unlike anything Jon has felt. He bites his tongue to keep from screaming as the power of it washes over him, cold and horrible and terrifying. Theon's grip on his shoulder is almost painfully tight. He knows what has happened. They all do–whether they be Wildlings or Night Watchmen. The Horn of Joramun was made for one purpose alone–it was made to break The Wall. And now, its purpose has at last been fulfilled, after eight thousand long years.

Someone screams. Jon barely hears it, struggling to his feet, eyes fixed on the tunnel. The crack is right above it. Tens of men are down there. Edd is down there. Benjen is down there. When you see Edd and I, then it's time to run. Or, when the horn is blown. He cannot leave them. He cannot leave Benjen. He will never forgive himself if he lets his uncle die without trying to make a difference. Can you forgive me for leaving?

He's moving before he can so much as think, but a hand lashes out, keeping him in place. He whirls to see Theon Greyjoy and the storm of a man he has become. His eyes are no longer swirling waters, rather a pair of raging hurricanes that threaten to swallow the whole of the world. There is no hallowed out man, no coward, no fearful man before him. There is only Theon Greyjoy, stubborn, bold, and insolent till the final hour. His voice is like gravel. "Benjen gave his orders, Snow. Time to go."

"I'm not leaving him."

"Do not run into a fight you cannot win. We have to go, now," Theon presses, wrenching Jon closer, the closest they've been in years. The closest they've been since perhaps that one fight, back when they were both young and stupid. Jon can see the pain and the worry in his eyes, being this close to him, see the troubled waters below the storm. But still, Theon manages to stand tall. His eyes narrow, and he says, "Do not make me have to deliver the news of your death to Robb. Don't throw the chance you've been given away, Jon."

Jon does not have to ask what chance he speaks of. There is only one chance, really. Fire and life and the beat of a heart under his fragile skin, the feeling of blood rushing in your veins. He has been given the chance at life again. He has been given the chance to have his family with him again, and if he throws it all away, now…Love is the death of duty.

He sends a pained look towards the tunnel and the gate. He can still hear noise coming from it, noise and burning flesh. He looks up at the sky and sees snow is falling now, covering the world and swallowing it whole. He remembers another fight, the press of bodies. The Battle of The Bastards feels like centuries ago, now, a dream from another, warmer time. The days are fading. The end of the world has come at long last for them.

If I am to die, let it be on my own terms, and on a friendly sword. I am Jon Snow of Winterfell. I am a wolf of Winterfell, and the blood of House Stark is my blood. I will tear them apart, show them what a wolf is, why we rule the North. Show them that there is still fear to be found when it comes to House Stark. Remind them whose blood built Winterfell and has ruled the North for eight thousand years. He looks one more time at the gate. When you see Edd and I, then it's time to run. Or, when The Horn is blown. Can you forgive me for not being fast enough?

He saddles his horse, tears in his eyes, freezing as they hit the air of winter. He hardly cares that he can barely see through the tears, and he forces his voice to be even as he shouts for the men to leave, to get the hell out of here while they still can. The gate creaks open, and men stream outwards, horses thundering under them, the snow whirling around them, their oaths left in the mud behind them, left in the shadow of The Wall, just like he was once left. Duty is the death of love.

But when he tries to go, to turn his heart on Benjen and Edd and The Wall that was once his dream, he cannot make himself do so. He stares at the entrance to the tunnel, praying to the silent gods of the man who raised him, the gods of his mother, the gods whose icons she once bore as her knightly sigil, praying to them for one life, for one small mercy. Benjen did not abandon him. Benjen fought for him. Benjen cradled him as he died and avenged him with his own sword.

"Jon!" Theon is shouting at him, voice wild with panic. He tugs on his sleeve, imploring Jon to the last. "We have to go!"

"I can't leave them," he whispers, but somehow Theon hears it. The man he has known for so long hesitates, his eyes full of pity and remorse, and so much understanding it stings. Love is the death of duty. Duty is the death of love. Love is the death of duty. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Love is the death of duty. He has killed the boy once before. But now, all he knows how to do is allow the tides of love to wash over him and swallow him whole. So, he moves to go to the tunnel, his uncle's sword in hand, and Theon Greyjoy in his shadow.

But then a miracle comes.

Benjen and Edd both sprint out of the tunnel, a few other men behind them. Pyke looks to be half dragging Mallister out–which is a strange, but welcome, sight. Besides that, Jon only recognises Emmet and his sword, which is dripping with blood and who knows what else, amongst the rest. Edd is limping and Benjen's face is covered in blood and ash alike, but the group are on their horses in record time. Ghost howls once more, the sound like a final bell before the end. Another blast of the horn answers, and The Wall cracks again as a rush of power runs over the yard. Jon groans, nose beginning to bleed all over again.

"Fucking go!" Benjen shouts at Theon and Jon as he sees them sitting there, shocked into inaction. Longclaw is in one hand, the reins of his horse in his other, and his eyes are wild like a wolf's. They do not have to be told twice, and then the world is lurching and they are abandoning their post at long last. The last of The Night Watch leaves The Wall, now, with their dead and dying brothers left to fate. I shall live and die at my post.

The tears flow freely as they ride. Jon can see the anguish in Edd's eyes, and the terror in Theon's. Benjen is blank-eyed, urging his horse on softly, Longclaw still dripping with blood in his hand. They rush towards the shapes on the horizon, the shapes of all that is left. Jon thinks he saw Tormund and Sigorn in the leaving crowd, at least, and Grenn and Pyp too. Small mercies, small gifts of The Gods he knows he will never forget, so long as he continues to live. A chance.

About a mile out from The Wall, they hear a massive crack shatter through the world. They all draw up, turning to look at The Wall, horror in all their hearts. Jon feels his world shatter as he watches The Wall begin to crumble and fall at the crack, swallowing Castle Black whole, silencing the horn that has been blowing forever at last. And Jon sobs soundlessly then. I am the horn that wakes the sleepers.

The hornblower, a ranger named Bryer, had long since insisted on dying with The Wall, dying in its fall. He said his fate was tied to it, and promised that he would die with it, die with The Watch. He'd been a grim man since Jon had first met him as a recruit, his glory days long since gone and his missing left leg making it impossible for him to continue his duties as a ranger. So, he'd taken up the gate, ran it like a lord runs his keep, and blown his horn, The Horn of The Night's Watch, that which heralds friends and foes alike, till the very end, like he'd been telling everyone he'd do for months.

Jon looks at his uncle and sees grief etch its way into his face. Edd hangs his head. Theon stares listlessly at the wreckage, the first and most horrendous blow. Jon feels the cold consume him as Benjen whispers softly, "Bryer." The wet click of his swallow fills the still air. "And now his watch has ended. We shall never see his like again."

Edd and Jon echo his words under their breaths, but the time for mourning is soon gone, as Benjen spurs his horse onwards again, saying, "We ride to Last Hearth!" They nod, and take off after him, gaining once again on the group ahead, which seems to have slowed somewhat for them. The Wall is gone, and they are what is left. They have better hope of survival if they travel together, and travel swiftly. After all, The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

Benjen and he lead the charge, together. He can see the hard look in his uncle's eyes, see the turmoil that is threatening to creep in. At some point, they pause for just a second, trading swords, and the comforting weight of Longclaw at his side is undone by the heavy looks his uncle is sending him. Jon has little doubt that his uncle is far from happy that he obviously didn't obey his explicit orders, when it came down to it. But all the same, Jon doesn't know what else he expected.

Ghost runs beside them, nearly blending into the whirling snowstorm. Jon thinks of all of Old Nan's stories…stories even Benjen was raised on, just as Jon and later Theon were. Her voice rings in the back of his mind, her warnings and her stories, and he wishes, for just a heartbeat, that she could tell them now, wishes that she was here to tell them to be afraid, but to not give into it. She was made of The North, made stronger through her blood and all the years she lived. If Theon didn't…then Ramsay…Jon does not let himself finish that train of thought and open those wounds.

"Winter is coming," he whispers to himself as they continue to ride through the night, their only lights being what few torches have survived The Wall and the storm. He reaches up to grip Longclaw's handle, thinking of The Valyrian Steel with a lurch in the bottom of his stomach. It is his only comfort now, the fact that he wields a blade that can give him some chance against their enemies.

That and…that and Ghost. He'd barely been able to sense Ghost, when the horn had ripped through the world. But now, he is where he has always been–at Jon's side, at the very back of his mind, ever tied to him. And with his wolf at his side, he feels almost fearless.

Almost.

---

notes:

-I think people tend to misunderstand book!Jons wants and his line of 'I want a great many things' and say he's this incredibly ambitious guy who will stop at nothing to get it. He DOES want so much (and he is ambitious), but it's always for the people he loves and more importantly, for the north and House Stark. Jon's struggle comes from the fact that he cannot put his love aside for the greater good, and he is learning how to make the hard decisions. Obvi I haven't done some of the book plots (notably val, gilly, and their children), but the core remains. Hence, his musing on friends…

-Jon and benjen dude. There is so much there, and in benjens case, as Jon so wisely deduces, there is a lot of layers to being with Jon again. Lyanna, and Ned, and the mutiny and everything have boiled down into Jon, for better or for worse. But at least they get to hug one another and actually talk

-ofc I had to have some levity before the end and some much needed honesty on Jon's part. It's also very telling, almost, with him looking at Theon and going 'I do trust you, in some way, and I know you have learned your lessons and that you can know this'. A moment of mutual respect, if you will

-ned is such an important character in both Jon and Theon's lives, oh my god. Just. They actually make me insane, and having Jon and Theon go into the final fight with him on their minds, and the idea of being worthy of his memory and his succession is so crucial to how both of them handled it. It's not just for the north or life. Its a chance to do right by someone they both feel like they have failed/betrayed the memory of

-magic destroys magic. The horn is the magic of the north. Jons powers are the magic of the north. While his magic isn't being destroyed, the fall of the wall isn't that fun for someone like him lol

next up, jaime faces the consequences of his own actions (woooo?)

reviews are always appreciated! :))