CHAPTER SEVEN: THE WHITE WOLF II
Jon Snow returns at the hand of the Red Priestess, Mellisandre of Asshai. Dealing with fractured loyalties, and the confusion of his return, he and his now returned Uncle argue over what to do next. Another wolf finally arrives at The Wall.
Jon Snow is dead, and for a moment, there is nothing. No cold, no warmth, no snow, no fire. There is nothing but an endless sea of black, glimpses of something through eyes that are not his own. But he hangs between the end and something else, and for a moment, warmth explodes across his chest, and then he's gasping, choking on air, he's flailing and clamouring up off a hard table–
The cold slams into him not a moment later. Someone shouts his name, but he can't breathe around the panic in his chest, his most recent memories slamming him in the head over and over again. A cloak wraps around his shoulders as he dry heaves, fingers reaching up to brush over the wounds on his chest that rise and fall with each and every unsteady breath he takes.
And then he looks up and realises he must be dead. His uncle is staring at him, a worried look in his eyes, hands on Jon's shoulders, grounding him to the moment. But he can feel how his fingers dig into his shoulders, he can feel the cold that's cutting through him. And then Ghost is at his side, butting at his hands that shake in his lap, his red eyes staring up at him. His eyes–the eyes that are as red as the wounds in his chest.
Benjen shakes him slightly. "Jon, listen to me. What do you remember?" Blood. Your sword singing in the night. You saved my life, but what good did it do me?
"They–" he tries to speak, but the words are molasses on his tongue. He can't stop shaking. He's so cold. "They stabbed me. Olly–he." He lurches forward, but his uncle catches him easily, holding him close as he shakes violently in his hold. He shakes his head. "I shouldn't be here. How are you here?"
"Later," Benjen whispers, pressing him close. The room is a rush of noises and sounds, other people barging in, but he clings to the rise and fall of the chest he's pressed against. In and out, he's felt this a hundred times. Breathing should be as natural to him as the cold is to The North. "Lady Melisandre brought you back."
And speaking of, she grabs his arm, and when he looks at her, her eyes burn with an earnestness that burns. "Afterwards, after they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?"
"I don't know," he says with a shake of his head, feeling feverish, feeling completely untethered to this world. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be alive. Why am I alive? Why am I alive? Why am I alive? "I don't think–I don't think I saw anything." He glances at Ghost. Those glimpses of something, were they glimpses through his wolf's eyes? Or were they just another dream? How does he know this isn't one?
"The Lord brought you back for a reason," she tells him, and he shakes his head, but she keeps on going. "Stannis was not the Prince Who Was Promised, but someone has to be." Her eyes dig into him, and he shakes his head again, mind struggling to catch up to anything that's happened. His uncle tightens his grip on him as he says something that Jon barely hears, but he does notice when they all leave the two of them and the wolves alone.
"Jon," he says softly, crouching in front of him, holding his face between his hands. "Listen to me. You were dead. Now you're not. It's fucking wild, but you are here, despite it all. I can't imagine what it's like for you, but you are here."
"I did what I thought was right. And I got murdered for it. And now I'm back. Why?" He asks, and when his uncle says nothing, just holds him tight, he feels more afraid than ever. "How are you here? Where did you go? I thought I had lost you too, like Father and everyone else? What happened?"
"I don't know. Maybe we'll never know. What does it matter? You go on. You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of this…shit as you can," he tells him, grip on his face tightening. "You know who you are, Jon. Stark Blood runs hot through you, the blood of the First Men, the blood of The North. I can't speak to why you're here, or even why I survived what I did. But we're here for a reason. Both of us. What are the words of our house?"
"Winter is Coming," he says, the words spilling out of him like water. "But, I don't know how to do that. I thought I did, but...I failed."
His uncle presses their brows together. "Good. Now go fail again."
Jon sobs soundlessly, and Benjen holds him close. "How?" he gasps out, over and over again, stunned by the sheer impossibility of everything. He's alive. Benjen's alive. His uncle holds him close and tells him about it all, walks him through his story, voice steady, like the beat of a drum. He takes him through nearly dying in the forest, through seeing the dead, seeing Bran, hiding in The North, coming to Castle Black, to Jon dying in his arms. Jon sobs harder with each word until he's wailing.
He saw nothing. Which means there's nothing waiting, there's no future for him after this one. Maybe dying by The Night King wouldn't be so bad if there's nothing waiting for him anyway. Is there a point to living if nothing is greeting him after the fact? I'll never see Father again, he suddenly realises, sobbing even louder into Benjen's shoulder.
At some point, he gets clothes back on himself, and Benjen gets him to his bed, the wolves curled up around him. But his uncle barely seems able to leave him either, holding him close to his side as Jon's fingers curl themselves into fists, clinging tightly to him. "I'm sorry," he whispers, over and over again, and Jon wishes he could say he's not angry. He wishes he could say that there's not a part of him that wishes Benjen rode in earlier. There's a part of him that wishes that Benjen was the one to shoulder what he did. He knows it's selfish, knows it's cruel, but it's true.
"You're feverish," Benjen says, after a while, pressing his hand to the back of Jon's brow. He mumbles inanely, shaking his head as Benjen pushes him back against his bed. "You'll face The Watch later, it's early morning now, not even dawn. But for now, sleep, Jon. You just came back from death. I can't have you running yourself into the ground just after I got you back."
Jon thinks he would do just that if left alone. He can't say he really blames his uncle. They've both lost more than themselves. Jon wanted to be in The Watch for so long, and now he thinks there's nothing he hates more than it. Benjen ran here after The Rebellion, trying to escape the ghosts that haunted every step he walked. Any sane man would run themselves to the end of the world, but Jon's at the edge now and there's nowhere left to go but down.
Sleep circles him slowly, tantalising, and he spends more time than he likes staring at the crackling flames in his hearth or at the ceiling, his fingers buried in Ghost's fur. He's never been so glad to have the wolves around him, never been so acutely aware of how his heart hammers in his chest. Every breath feels impossible. Every second that passes barely feels like it could be real.
"I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner," his uncle's voice carries through the room. He's sitting at his bedside, looking like his father, looking like a shred of home he's almost forgotten. "I didn't know how to come back. And then Bran told me Ned was gone, and…" he looks away. "I made mistakes, Jon. But I'm here now, and even if it's too late…"
"You came eventually," Jon whispers. Ghost presses closer to him, and he closes his eyes, and imagines, for just a moment, he's back home, back at Winterfell, and his brother is the next door over, that his father is just down the hall, just in reach. "I remember you. You were the one who saved me from Thorne. Did you kill him?"
"Yes," Benjen says with a nod. "Him and Yarwyck and Marsh. Traitors, the whole lot of them, and they died like it. The boy…Olly?" Jon nods, breath shaking softly. "He died just after you. I wasn't going to let them live while you were lying dead on a table. Not when we've had so many people take things from us. Take the people we love from us."
"I want to go home," Jon whispers, and his uncle says nothing in reply. He wants to hate his uncle for leaving, but he's the only scrap of his home he has, save for the wolves. The only person in the world who might even understand how much his heart longs for his home, how the one place he wants to be is Winterfell, how all he wants is to have his family back.
Sleep finally comes for him, but there is no peace. His dreams are dreams of fire, dreams of flames and smoke and breaths that can't leave him, every scream getting stuck in the back of his throat. A tower looms in the distance, blood covers his chest and stomach, and swords clash in the distance. The wind rushes around him, and the world is a sea of white and gold and red.
Robb lies in darkness, blood running from his head like an inverted crown. Sansa's red hair is like in the snow as she lays down, her eyes closed, her chest gently rising and following as the world swallows her. Arya is a shadow and a whisper of smoke, a needle in her hand, dripping with blood. Bran is crowned in Weirwood leaves, blood spilling from his mouth like a face on a Weirwood tree. Rickon is a flinty-eyed wolf, trusting no one, bound in ropes that tie him down. Winterfell is swallowed up by the snow and a darkness as thick as blood, and then he's being swallowed up too.
Heat climbs up his back. Wolves howl in the night, and a roar meets them. The Old Bear's raven screams on and on. Snow! King! Snow! Wall! Snow! Corn! Snow! Home! A soft song drifts down a hall, and blue petals fall around him, crowning him. A sword swings in the darkest night, and ice shatters into a million pieces. A dagger flashes, words burning in the steel. The sun rises in the distance, revealing a field of dead.
Jon wakes up, to see Benjen looking at him, clearly just about to wake him up. Their eyes meet for a moment, and after a brief pause, Benjen offers his hand to Jon, helping him sit up. "Your friends are waiting for you," he says, rubbing Jon's back through his shirt. Jon glances outside, and sees the snow is still falling, the sun low in the sky. Something demands his attention, something pulls in his gut, and he glances at the wolves. At Sansa's wolf. He frowns. "Are you ready?"
No, Jon wants to say, but he doesn't. He just nods, and gets to his feet, pulling on whatever clothes he finds, lacing up his boots slowly. His hair, he finally notices, is shorter than it's ever been, the shortest it's been since King Robert came to Winterfell, a lifetime and change ago. He binds it back like his father used to do, and he's glad he doesn't have a mirror here, so he won't have to see his father looking back at him.
That damned raven finally makes itself known as he steps outside, perching on his shoulder and screeching out Corn! as it's always likely to do. He smiles despite himself, glad that someone in this damned place seems to be much the same. He wonders if the old bird even knows about what had happened, or if he'd bothered Thorne by squawking out Jon's name in his ear. He hopes he did, although its whereabouts have been quite hard to discern for a time.
And then he's amongst the men again. He'd left Longclaw in his room, but suddenly he wants it more than anything. Knives in the dark. Shadows in every corner. How many of these men have my blood on their hands? He squares his jaw, keeping his brain focused on his single destination. His friends wait for him at the other end, and he stops before them, staring at their wide-eyed faces.
But Tormund cuts him off before he can get to them. Jon winces as the man hugs him, jostling some of his wounds, but there's something nice about it, too. Something grounding in its own, very Tormund, way. When Tormund speaks, his voice is low, "They think you're some kind of god. The man who returned from the dead."
"I'm not a god," Jon says, and Tormund nods, looking like he is, for once, holding back some commentary, but it might be because Jon's friends are coming closer, all of them looking like they're itching to talk to Jon. Tormund pulls away, and Jon is pulled to the three of them like a magnet.
Edd, to his surprise, is the one who hugs him first. When he pulls back, he's smiling, and Jon thinks that the world must really have just turned upside down if Dolourous fucking Edd is smiling at him. "Your eyes are still grey. Is that still you in there?" He says, tilting his head at him as he sees him.
"I think so. Hold off on burning my body for now," he says, trying to smile. Edd laughs, clapping him gently on the shoulder, eyes roving over him.
"That's funny. You sure that's still you in there?"
"Course it is," Pyp cuts in, pulling Jon in for his own hug and nodding towards Ghost, who Jon hadn't even noticed coming with him. Even now, the name still fits. "Who else would have a wolf crawling after him like that?"
"Well, with enough food you can bribe any of them," Jon says, and they all laugh. Grenn hugs him too, not saying much but nodding at Jon with a serious look in his eyes. Jon glances up and watches the snow fall for a moment, watching this sight he's seen a thousand times. The Wall looms above, stretching towards the sky. He remembers when this was all he wanted. Then, he looks at his friends, and whatever they see makes their smiles fade.
He unfastens his cloak, the black cloak of a Lord Commander. He can see his uncle in the corner of his eye, his eyes widening as he realises what Jon's saying without uttering a single word. He lets it fall to the floor, lets the snow start to cover it, and then he looks out on every single person who assembled here. How many had a hand in his death? How many would have put a knife in his heart too? He doesn't want to know, but some part of him needs to know, all the same.
"Jon–" Edd starts to say, but he cuts him off with a single look and a shake of his head.
"My watch has ended."
—
"Jon!" Benjen says as he comes barging in, eyes burning as Jon whirls around. He grabs him by his shoulder, shaking him slightly. There's a wild look in his eyes, a desperation like he's losing something, like he's afraid. Jon grits his teeth. "What are you doing?"
"I can't stay here," Jon hisses right back, heedless of the way his uncle's face shifts into something stony and cold, as unforgiving as the Starks of Winterfell buried in the crypts. Winter is Coming. The words of The House that could never be his ring in his ears, toll like a bell, sentencing him to the cold and the dark for all time. "I don't want to stay here."
Benjen sighs, closing his eyes like he's trying to keep himself together. "Jon," he says, and for a moment, it's his father speaking to him, closing his eyes and breathing deeply as an expression etches its way onto his face, an expression of pain, but it's just his uncle. "You saw what was out there. You know what is coming. How can you leave now, with Winter almost on our doorstep? You swore an oath."
"I did everything I could," he hisses out from between his clenched teeth. "And aye, I pledged my life to the Night's Watch–"
"–for all night's to come–"
"They killed me!" He shouts, feeling nothing like himself. How can anyone expect him to really be the same? He was dead, he was gone, and now he is back by the magic of a God he does not believe in. The world has lost all sense. "My own brothers. A boy I trusted put a knife through my heart. How can I fucking stay here, after all that? You expect me to roll over and forget?"
"No, but–" Benjen doesn't get to finish his next argument as a horn blasts through the keep, followed by a shout of riders approaching! They exchange a glance, and without a word, they go out into the yard, to where the snow is falling softly, and three riders have just come through the gate. Something tugs at him low in his stomach, like he's being pulled somewhere he does not know. He wonders, suddenly, where the wolves have gone.
Three riders have come in, and he pauses at the top of the steps to watch the three of them. Benjen grabs him by the elbow, holding him back as they watch the riders dismount. Something is demanding his attention, and he stares at the rider on the white horse with their covered hair, nearly heedless of the other two. Slowly, with their back to him like they have no sense of how intently he's staring, they lower their hood.
He sees red hair, and it's not Tormund–he's staring from the sidelines. There's a woman in armour and a boy with a wide-eyed stare, (there are others who he should be paying as much attention to) but his gaze is locked on that flash of red hair. It's innately familiar, bringing up memories he thought he would one day lose to time like everything else he's ever had, memories he thought were gone. Red hair, the colour of tree leaves in a snowy wood, the shape of girlish laughter around the corner.
And then she's turning around towards him, and the world is screeching to a halt. He knows who it is, he thinks he knew from the second he saw her fiery red hair. Everything fades away, everything disappears into the wind, meaning nothing compared to her. Her eyes meet his, and he's not aware of Edd's gaze on him, his uncle's hand, holding him back by the elbow, or even the softly falling snow anymore. There is nothing but the image of his sister in front of him.
He shucks off Benjen's grip and he's going to her. The steps are nothing. Every single one brings him closer to home. Her eyes are on him, his are on hers, and he can't imagine ever daring to look away, never mind ever even wanting to. This feels like a dream, but he can feel his heart beating steadily in his chest, can feel the cold, can feel everything that tells him this is real.
She's a breath away. It feels like miles. It's the closest any of his siblings have been since he left Winterfell. She looks like home, looks like Robb and Father and Lady Stark and Winterfell. There is nothing left of the world. It fades and fades away until there's nothing left but him and her, the distance closing faster than he can process how she even got here in the first place. He stops, a few feet away from her, and for a long moment, all they can do is stare.
She's grown tall. Her hair is as long as ever, but more unkempt than he's ever seen it, done in two simple braids at the top of her head. She's pale and a little too gaunt for his liking, a scratch on her face. Her clothes are plain and worn by travel, her hands wringing nervously in front of her. Her eyes are wide, and she's looking at him like he's some sort of dream. He thinks this might just be.
And then she's throwing herself forward with a breathless sound, and higher thought gives way to his baseline instincts. He's never really stopped being an older brother. He doesn't think there's anything that could ever make him stop being one. Her arms are around his neck, and he's holding her tight, one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders.
"Jon," she gasps into his shoulder, and he holds her tighter, hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck. She's shaking like she's cold, but it takes him a moment to realise she's crying into his shoulder, body racked by the force of the sobs that are pouring out of her. Breathless and with his own tears rising, he holds her impossibly tighter.
"Sansa," he finally manages to say. He pulls back, heedless of how she tries to stay close to him, scanning her face with desperation, taking in the young woman his sister has become. Her face is red from tears, and he knows he doesn't look much better, everything considered. But he's never been so happy to see someone, he thinks. He's grinning like a loon, despite the tears running down his face.
She laughs when she sees him then, lower lip trembling as she reaches up with a hand to trace the scars from Orell's eagle around his eyes. Her gloves are cold from the snow, her fingers trembling like the rest of her. His arms are holding her tentatively, the old thoughts of propriety and rightness creeping back in. But he gives them nothing. Sansa is his sister, and he'll be damned if he lets her go so soon after getting her back.
After a moment, she throws herself back into his arms, and he's muttering I have you and I'm here into her hair, because it's the one truth he knows for sure. His little sister is in his arms, and it feels impossible. But he can hear her breath, feel the cold, feel his own heartbeat again. It's all real. First, he lives, and now the world gives everything back to him.
He hears footsteps coming closer, and Sansa looks up at whoever's coming. He knows who it must be the second he sees how her face gets somehow brighter, endlessly more relieved. His uncle almost shoves him aside as he hauls Sansa up into his arms, picking her up off the ground ever so slightly as he does. She hides her face easily in the fur of his cloak, and Jon catches a glimpse of his uncle's face and thinks I must look like that too.
When Sansa is finally let go from Benjen's death grip, Jon comes to stand in front of her, grabbing her hands and pressing them to his chest. She gasps softly as he does so, and they pull together, brows pressed to one another as Jon finds the strength to finally ask, "How did you get here?" It's one of so many questions that he has, one of a thousand things that he wants to know. But it's the most pressing.
Sansa glances around, suddenly seeming all too more aware of every single eye on them. Jon certainly is. How many of these men can he trust? How many knew and did nothing? How many clung to the shadows while he was murdered? He shakes the thoughts away, holding tighter onto Sansa before glancing at his uncle, who seems to understand, in some part, the thoughts running through his head.
"Let's get you inside," he tells them both in a low voice, resting his hand on Jon's shoulder, squeezing once. Pushing on it ever so slightly when neither of them moves, he continues, speaking mainly to Jon now. "Jon, don't let your sister freeze out here. Get inside–I'll be there in a few. I'm going to greet our other visitors and figure out what they need. Take your sister, I've got everything else."
This time, Jon listens to his uncle. Sansa clings tightly to his hand as he leads her away and up the stairs, past his friends with a muttered my sister that has them all exchanging wide-eyed looks. She holds on tight, and he does too, knowing they've both been caught by the inane notion that if they let go, the other will disappear. They say nothing, at least until Sansa stumbles slightly the second they're out of view.
"Sansa–" he says hurriedly, helping her stand as she sways, exhaustion in every inch of her now. They'd looked as if they'd ridden hard from the moment he'd seen her, and now that she's with him and only him, anything she'd been doing to ignore her exhaustion looks to be falling apart. She leans heavily against him, eyes fluttering shut as she clings to him, all but being held up by him. Glancing around, Jon presses closer. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"
She just holds onto him even tighter, crying softly against him. She gestures for him to keep moving, but he hesitates, uncertain. Holding her tighter, he lowers her voice so it can only be heard by her, so that it does not carry dangerously. "Can you walk?" After a moment of apparent deliberation, Sansa shakes her head, sagging against him even more. "Oh. Okay. Okay, I'm here."
And so he all but carries her the rest of the way to his rooms, helping her sit on his chair, crouching in front of her and taking off her gloves for her so he can hold her bare hands between his. She looks at him again, smiling softly with tears running down her face, breaths hitching softly as he reaches up and pulls her brow closer, just to kiss it. "It's alright," he tells her. "You're safe."
She sobs, throwing herself forward again. Her sobs get louder and louder with each moment until she's wailing into his shoulder, clinging to him like he's all she knows. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut against his own tears, he rocks her back and forth, hand buried in her hair, having so much to say and no idea how to say any of it. The sudden realisation that this is the first of any of his siblings he's seen since he left for The Wall makes him cry harder.
Suddenly, there is a thump at the door, followed by frantic knocking, accompanied by muttered curses. They both whirl, eyes wide, Sansa holding onto him like he's a shield for her. "Your wolves!" Edd shouts through the door, followed by what sounds like him telling said wolves to move and to stop trying to run me over. Jon smiles breathlessly, and Sansa's eyes are wide as plates. "Can I let them in?!"
"Yes!" he calls back, and not a second later, the door is open and there's a streak of grey rushing towards them. He gets out of the way just in time for Lady to barrel into Sansa, who bursts into tears all over again, but this time she's laughing as we;;. Edd meets Jon's eyes with a single raised brow, as Ghost and Nymeria follow in at a slightly more sedated pace. Jon nods, and Edd leaves, shutting the door behind him.
When he turns back to Sansa, her face is buried in Lady's fur, and her wolf is licking the side of her face. Her soft laughter fills the room, doubling only as Nymeria yaps for attention. Ghost stays by Jon's side, watching the girls reunite for a moment, before he noses his way forward and gives Sansa a single nuzzle before curling up at her feet. Sansa's blue eyes turn to Jon.
"When did they get here?" She asks, looking at them like she's dreaming. Jon himself feels like he must be dreaming too, but there's plenty of evidence to the contrary. Smiling as he remembers how the girls had greeted him, he pulls up another chair across from Sansa's, petting Nymeria absentmindedly as she passes by him to curl up at his side. Leaning forward, he takes Sansa's hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over the back of her knuckles.
"They came a little while past, now," he tells her. "Stannis Baratheon had come to The Wall by that point. He'd…we had just spoken, and I was in quite the mood. Then suddenly people were shouting and Wolves were howling, and there they were. Barreled me into the snow, though. Don't know that Lady retained her manners without you." Lady blinks innocently at him, and he rolls his eyes.
Sansa smiles briefly, though, which is worth a hundred gold dragons. Her smile does not remain, though, as she sends a worried glance out the window, taking a deep breath like she's steeling herself for whatever she needs to tell him now. He squeezes her hands, and she looks back to him, tears once more welling in the corner of her eyes. He decides to speak.
"Last I heard of you," he says, still running his thumbs over the back of her knuckles, both for her comfort and his, "You had killed Joffrey. Did you?" He glances up at her, and she shakes her head. "Hm. Shame. But, that was the last I, or really anyone up here, had heard of you. But we don't get news up at The Wall very often, anyway, and I think no news is good news–"
"You didn't get news because people knew what you would do if you knew where I was," she cuts him off, and when he looks at her, her eyes are full of pain. He scooches just that much closer, looking at her with as much love as he can muster up. She smiles at him, but it's warbly and strained. "I…It's a long story, Jon. Let me tell it, before you…before you ask anything." He nods.
For a moment, Sansa just sits there, looking close to sick. But finally, she takes a deep breath and begins to speak. "Lord Petyr Baelish–Littlefinger–shepherded me out of King's Landing, and to The Vale and Aunt Lysa. I pretended to be his bastard daughter for a time, Alayne Stone. We were received in The Eyrie by Lysa. She was kind, at first. But then she saw Petyr…kiss me."
He stills, a dark look in his eyes. But Sansa meets it easily, squeezing his hands. "He loved mother, I think. He saw me as a replacement, and Lysa too, in her own way. She went into this fury. Petyr, he–he saved me from her. And then killed her, throwing her out of the Moon Door and calling it suicide. We left The Eyrie and The Vale as a whole shortly thereafter, after he'd been granted the title of Lord Protector, of course."
There's a dripping derision in her voice, unlike anything he has ever heard. But she continues on, a hesitation slowly coming into her voice. "On the way to our next destination, we encountered Brienne of Tarth, the woman who brought me here." He nods, committing the name to memory. "She said that Mother had tasked her with bringing me to safety. I refused her services. Gods, I should have–I should have gone with her then, when I had the chance!"
She barks out a humourless laugh and then falls silent. Silent for so long that Jon gently calls her name, holding her hand tightly when she turns her red-rimmed eyes to him. "Our destination was to Winterfell. Baelish, you see, had formulated a marriage. For me." Understanding begins to dawn and he straightens. "To Roose Bolton's legitimised Bastard, Ramsay."
Her voice shakes on the name in a way that already has him seeing red. But he holds himself to her request and says nothing as she slowly forces the next words out of her. "I was…he was alright, at first. But I hated them all, for what they did. They needed me to secure the claim, because some of the smallfolk and many of the bannermen do know that Robb lives. Even as a prisoner seemingly stripped of title, he is dangerous to them, and they needed a way to lock their hold down. And with treachery like theirs…"
"But then he…" she pauses, taking a deep breath. "He had captured Theon, following the sack of Winterfell. It was…Jon, I…I can't begin to describe what he did to Theon. I hardly recognised him. It was…awful. Wrong, and cruel. Cruel beyond all words. He showed me Theon, had him apologise to me for everything. But he was a beat dog, Jon. It wasn't our Theon."
Jon struggles for words, struggles not to yell. Sam said he saw Bran, and so had their uncle. Both had said that Bran and Rickon had survived Theon's sack, and he knows what he saw at Queenscrown. Two direwolves, one grey, the other black. But Theon had betrayed them. He killed Ser Rodrik, spat on the grave of their father, and betrayed Robb. That stings the most. But Jon says nothing, just gapes at Sansa as she keeps spinning her tale.
"Our wedding night…" she doesn't say any more, but the sob says enough for her. Wide-eyed, Jon pulls her in for a hug. Sansa keeps talking after a moment, face hidden in the curve of his shoulder and neck. "He made Theon watch. He beat me, never touching my face. He was…he likes hurting people. Theon and I escaped when Stannis attacked. Brienne saved us from Ramsay's men. But they're why you didn't know. Because both Ramsay and Roose Bolton knew that you lay here. They knew what would happen if you knew I was their prisoner."
He freezes, suddenly remembering Locke. Sansa feels him freeze and pulls away, looking at him with wide eyes. "Jon?" She asks softly. "What is it?"
"A little before Stannis arrived at The Wall, a man joined The Watch. A man who called himself Locke. He attempted to kill me, and before he died, he said that had been sent by Roose Bolton to dispatch of me, or at least to get stock of me." He shakes his head. "I can't fully remember. I presume you ran from them?" She nods. "They know I'm here Sansa. They'll know you're here. I can't protect you, I'm sorry–"
"–You're the Lord Commander, though, Ramsay told me," she cuts him off, her voice so very earnest. But Jon flinches, turning away from her, his wounds aching. Her brow furrows, a despondent look on her face. Slowly, he tries to pull away, standing up, but she wrenches him back, eyes burning. "Theon saved me first, Jon. He told me Bran and Rickon live, too. I know he made mistakes, but he saved me, and he told me to go here. He knew you, too once. For him, for me, I need you to help me. I need you to help me stand against the people who took our home, who betrayed Robb, who raped me. Please, Jon."
"I am not the Lord Commander anymore, Sansa," he says softly, covering her hands with one of his. She's searching his face, eyes wide as he crouches in front of her again, pressing her hands to his chest, letting her feel his heartbeat as he tells his story. "You saw the Wildlings in the yard, yes?" She nods, and he sighs, closing his eyes against the memory. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
"I saw things beyond The Wall, Sansa. Things that don't see a difference between Wilding or Night's Watch, Northerner or Southerner. I knew that if I let them stay beyond The Wall, if I left them to rot, I would be feeding into the enemy. Our oaths say that we are The Shield that Guards The Realms of Men. The purpose of The Wall and The Night's Watch was never to keep out The Wildings, The Free Folk. It was to keep out what rides with Winter."
"Old Nan always spoke of Others," he says, smiling sadly. "But there's a difference between hearing and seeing. I saw them. I saw the Night King. I saw the Army of the Dead. I knew what was coming, and I made my choice. Some men of The Watch took issue with that." His face screws up in pain, and slowly, he reaches to undo his jerkin and unbutton his shirt, Sansa's eyes widening with every movement.
Then the angry red scar is there for all to see. She reaches out slowly, and he inhales sharply as her fingers brush over the stab from Olly, the true thing that killed him. She meets his eyes, and he sees so much hurt and pain in them, but she looks like she finally understands something. Her fingers leave, and he redoes his shirt, staring at her with remorseful eyes. "They killed me, Sansa. Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman brought me back, but my Watch has ended. I can't…I will not stay here."
"I saw you die, Jon," she says, and those five words might just be another knife in the heart. He gapes at her. "Through Lady's eyes. I didn't want to believe what I was seeing, I didn't want to listen even as Theon explained about warging, and the like. I saw the start of you being brought back, I think. There was a woman in red. Was that her?" He nods, tears rolling freely now.
"I'm sorry Sansa," he croaks. "I'm sorry that you had to see that. I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I'm sorry for all of it, I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry that he hurt you, I'm sorry for everything. But I don't know how to help. I don't know what to do anymore. All my life, I thought my place was here. But this place killed me." He shakes his head.
"So where will you go?" She asks him, her fingers intertwined with his.
That is easy enough, and he finds the strength to smile at her, now. "Where will we go? If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and haunt me." She laughs softly at that, and he continues. "Father said a lot of things to us, as children. But I remember what he said, whenever we argued. The Lone Wolf dies… "
" ...but the pack survives, " she finishes, smiling sadly. "And for what it's worth: I'm sorry too. I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could take it all back."
"We were children," he tells her, in all truth. He hasn't really thought about the worst moments of his little sister in a long time. Mainly, he's just missed her, all of them, fiercely. And they were children, they were young little fools who knew nothing of the world. She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off before she can protest. "I haven't thought about it in a long time, Sansa. We were children, and now we aren't. You're still my sister." He reaches up and holds the side of her face, smiling wanly.
She looks out the window, a look coming into her eyes, a look he has only seen in his Father's eyes. A cold resolve, a bitter understanding of what comes next. Her grip on his hand tightens for the briefest moment, and then she says. "There's only one place left for us to go, then. Home. Winterfell."
"What, should we just tell the Boltons to pack up and leave?"
"No," she says darkly, and he thinks he knows where this is going. "We rip them out, root and stem. Stannis tried, and he failed, but he was no Northman. The Northern Lords will follow you. And how many Wildlings did you save?"
"They're not here to fight for me," he replies sharply. "They're here to escape The Dead. They're here to escape Winter. Not to serve me."
"They owe you their lives," she says, voice sharp, voice strong, sounding so much like Robb and their father and even a bit of him. She's not the girl he said goodbye to in Winterfell. He's not the boy who walked away from them all, either. What are they now, though? "They won't be safe, you and I won't be safe, so long as Roose Bolton is Warden of the North. Winterfell is our home. Ours, and Arya, and Bran, and Rickon, and Robb's. Wherever they all are, Winterfell belongs to us. Our House. Our family. We have to win it back."
"I'm tired of fighting," he says, louder and sharper than he means to. She recoils, dropping his hands, and he sighs, running a hand over his face. "It's all I've done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch. I've killed wildlings. I've killed men that I admire. I've watched a woman I love die, and held her as she did. A boy younger than Bran put a knife in my heart. I fought and I lost."
"If we don't take back our home, we will not be safe, no one will be safe. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You say Winter is Coming, you say that The Army of The Dead has returned. I believe you, I do, but have you thought about what happens when they get here? If there is no Stark in Winterfell, The North will fall, and it will fall fast. I want you to help me, Jon, I do. But if you can't, I will do it on my own."
He closes his eyes, shaking his head. Sansa's gaze bears into him, and he wishes, for once, he knew how to make it right. They're both bleeding, they're both hurt. They only know half of what happened to the other, and even thinking about Sansa, sweet, lovely, Sansa, his little sister, enduring all that…it makes him want to scream. But the thought of yet another hopeless battle…
"They will follow you," she says softly, holding his face between her hands. "A son of Eddard Stark, brother to their king. I am a…Bolton Whore who married a traitor–"
"Never call yourself that again," he says, fiercely. She looks taken aback. "You are not a whore, Sansa. You are the eldest free child of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Arya, Bran, and Rickon may yet still live. Robb may still be out there. But as far as anyone knows, you are what remains. You are the rightful heir to all. Lady of Winterfell. Wardeness of The North. Queen of The North. They will follow you if you ask."
"They'll follow both of us," she eventually decides. "Snow and Stark. Two Wolves of Winterfell, returned to take back what is ours. And when Winter comes, we will be there to stand against it. We will find Robb, find Arya and Bran and Rickon and bring them home. It's the least we can do, Jon. And I want you by my side."
He nods mutely, still unconvinced. But any chance for further debate is stopped by another knock at the door, and when he calls for them to enter, in steps their uncle. Closing the door behind him, he crosses the room in a few short strides, coming to crouch at Sansa's side. He holds her face for a moment, smiling as his eyes rake over her.
"I've asked some men to draw you a bath in here," he tells her. "I presumed you would probably want one. They'll be here soon"
She nods, but looks hesitant, picking at her travel-worn dress. "I don't have anything to change into."
"It's alright," Jon says, then, smiling at her. "We'll find something for you–I'm sure someone here is your size. I'll also go about finding some food for the three of us, and give you some time to rest here, okay?" She nods, looking hesitant as they rise to their feet.
She grabs his hand, after a moment, and says, softly. "And could you bring your Maester, please?"
Jon's heart aches, but he still tries to smile. "Our Maester passed away a few months ago. I sent someone to go train in Old Town, but he's probably just now reaching Braavos. But I can grab some things if you need them. I'm no Maester, but I know the basics." She glances at Benjen, and then back at Jon, before nodding. "I'll knock before I enter."
The second he leaves the room and the door shuts behind him, though, Benjen is grabbing him by the elbow and turning him around so they're looking at each other. "Jon," he says, voice soft, aching with a thousand mixing emotions. He hesitates, and then says, "Get those supplies. I'll find food and clothes for her. Is she–is she alright?"
"She's okay," he says, glancing at the door again. She has the wolves, he thinks, trying to convince himself that will be enough to protect her if he's not there. A woman on The Wall will draw attention, the wrong kind of attention, and he's lost all trust in the men who were supposed to be his brothers, all of them save for a select few. His mouth pulls down into a frown, "It's not my story to tell, though."
Benjen nods, scanning Jon's face for a moment again, like he did when he first came back. Jon tries for a reassuring smile, but it falls flat, and they both know it. His uncle claps him on the shoulder and sends him away without another word, looking all sorts of troubled as he does so. With one last glance back at the door that his sister lies behind, he sets out towards finding Maester Aemon's supplies.
He's halfway to the room where Maester Aemon kept his supplies when a hand grabs him by the elbow and someone says his name. He whirls, hand halfway to the sword that's not at his side, heart hammering in his chest, but it's just Edd, with Grenn and Pyp behind him. He looks semi-apologetic, but his eyes are bright with a different kind of emotion: worry.
"You alright, Jon?" Grenn asks, voice kind. Jon purses his lips and looks away from them, pulling out of Edd's grip as he does. As Jon's silence continues to stretch on and on in the nearly empty hallway, his friends exchange a glance amongst themselves, causing Jon to grit his teeth together. "That was your sister, wasn't it?"
He nods, breathing heavily and flexing the hand he burned when the wights attacked. Gods, that feels like a lifetime ago, he thinks. "It was," he says, surprised by the ache in his voice, how weak and hoarse it sounds to even his ears. He shakes his head. "She's–she's hurt. I need to get some of Maester Aemon's supplies. And make sure she's safe, The Boltons will be looking for her–"
"Jon," Grenn says, something harder in his voice. Jon looks at them properly then and sees something he really didn't expect to see from them. There's a genuine look on all their faces, a look like they want to help, like they want to know what they can do. Grenn reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "I know you don't wanna stay with The Watch, we all do, and we get it. But you're still our brother, and any sister of yours is ours too. We want to help you, Jon."
He smiles at them then, a soft, grateful smile. Grenn slaps him on the back and they get going without another word. And he'll admit it's nice to be with them all again, to hear them talking and laughing like nothing's changed. He'd missed this, as Lord Commander. Missed Edd's dour jokes, Grenn's booming laughter, or Pyp's warbling voice as he breaks out into intentionally bad song.
They leave him right before he gets to the door, but they do linger for a moment. "We'll always be here," Pyp says, sending a look at Edd when he mutters something under his breath. His mouth quirks into a crooked smile. "Willingly or not. You're still one of us, yeah?"
"Yeah," Jon agrees, before leaving them behind. They disappear down the hall as he knocks at the door, raising his voice a bit so it carries through the door. "Sansa? It's me, Jon."
"Come in!" She says, and he pushes the door open a moment later, petting Ghost absentmindedly as he brushes by him. A basin is in the centre of the room, but she's sitting on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old cloaks, her red hair still wet from her bath. He smiles at her as he comes to sit next to her, setting the salves and bandages they'd grabbed down next to him.
He doesn't need to ask before she pulls the cloak away from her back, brushing her hair away from the red wounds. He tries to not let the emotion show on his face, tries not to make a noise, but his fingers shake as he reaches out to inspect the shallow cuts and still fading bruises, bruises in the shape of a hand. His anger coils up in his stomach, low and resonant. He bites his tongue to keep anything stupid from coming out.
He imagines what he'll do when he faces Ramsay Bolton. He imagines what it would be like to kill a man like that. How easy it would probably be. But looking at these wounds, looking at what he did to her because he could, he knows that the honour should lie with her. The sentence is not his to pass, and thus, he will not be the one who swings the sword.
Sansa doesn't say anything as he rubs the cold salves over the cuts, as he bandages it slowly. But he can feel how she shakes, can hear the slight inhales she makes every time he touches one of them. Only when he is done does she properly move or speak, pulling the cloak back around her and whispering a soft "Thank you" that he waves away.
Benjen comes a few minutes later with clothes for her and food for the three of them. Jon stares at the ceiling of his room again as she gets dressed, Benjen looking out the window or something like that. Only when Sansa sits next to him does he look away from the ceiling he's stared at a hundred times, sitting up slowly and letting her press close to him as Benjen hands them both some food, and Jon some of the shitty Night's Watch ale.
None of them says anything, really, as they eat. Benjen is watching them both like he's afraid they might up and disappear if he looks away for a moment too long, like he's not quite seeing just them. Jon thinks he knows who he's seeing–after all, he knows that in the same way he's always looked the most like their father, Sansa has always taken heavily after Lady Stark. They both must seem like ghosts to him.
When Sansa stretches out her hand towards the ale, though, Jon can't help but exchange a glance with Benjen as he hands it over. He sees the same amused smile on his uncle's face as the one that stretches across his, and they both laugh when Sansa sputters at the taste, face screwing up as she says, "That's awful!"
"You think after eight thousand years, the Night's Watch would know how to make a good ale," Jon says with a snort, grinning as Benjen gives him a look.
"And any ale you would make would be so much better, would it?" He asks them, rolling his eyes as they both start laughing, but the utter look of fondness on his face really doesn't sell his annoyance. Jon takes another sip of his ale, and really, Sansa is right. This ale is awful.
They sit in silence for another moment, and then Jon just suddenly needs to say it, really to her, but he guesses it could apply to Benjen too. "We never should have left Winterfell," he says with a shake of his head, eyes fixed on the fire. He sees his uncle bow his head and look away, but Sansa seems to follow his gaze, pressing just that much closer to him.
"Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left?" She replies softly, that same note of longing in her voice as the one that's been singing in his heart. "I want to scream at myself, don't go, you idiot. I was such a fool."
"We all were," he tells her. He shakes his head. "But how could we know?"
"You couldn't have," Benjen finally interjects, and when they look at him both, he slowly gets to his feet, coming to crouch in front of them, taking their hands in his. "I know you both want to go back and trust me, I get it. But none of us can, okay? But you two have each other now, and that's more than you had yesterday." He smiles sadly. "It's your job to take care of each other, now. You understand?"
Jon looks at Benjen, his eyes wide, and he finally understands. This is a man who has watched his family be slowly ripped from his hands, this is a man who ran from his ghosts to the end of the world because there was nowhere left for him to go. This is a man who didn't want his nephew to leave because they'd been raised on the same promises, because he wasn't willing to let go of one more person.
But then Sansa had come and thrown it all on its head. And Benjen must have seen something bigger than the both of them, understood something that loomed larger than any of them. Even now, Jon can hear his father's voice, low and resonant, saying the words that rattle around his brain as he looks at his uncle– The Lone Wolf dies, but the Pack survives.
"You have each other," Benjen says, and Jon knows that the glimmer in the corner of his uncle's eyes are tears. Benjen, who has lost all of his siblings, and would likely do everything to spare the children he loves from that pain. He squeezes their hands in his. "You are both born from the blood of the North. Wolf blood runs through you, no matter how much it seems otherwise. If you do anything, stay together. You are stronger together than you could ever be apart."
Sansa sniffles, and when they both send her worried looks, she smiles shakily. "After Arya sent the wolves away, Father said something similar to us," she sniffles, and Jon feels his heart ache for his little sister, ripped from her wolf for so long. Lady makes a mournful noise, and Sansa reaches out towards her, petting her as she comes within reach. "You are both Starks of Winterfell, no matter what. You must stand together when Winter comes. He said much the same to Arya, too, I think. If only we listened!"
"You could not have known what horrors would fall upon your shoulders, Sansa," Benjen replies, standing up slowly, hands moving from their hands to the sides of their faces. They both look up at him with wide eyes, and when he looks at them, a sad smile is on his face. "But there is a chance for you both to start anew, now. Take it, while you still can."
Later, much later, when the fire dies down and the hour of the wolf draws nearer, Jon lays in his bed, his sister at his side. He's suddenly so aware of the cold around them, remembering how cold he was his first day. So, he lets her burrow close to him, lets her steal his warmth, the wolves curl up around them, taking up what space they aren't.
She rests her head on his ribs, her red hair spilling across his stomach. Old thoughts of propriety fill his mind, old whispers of bastard ringing in the back of his mind. But as the wolves jump up to the foot of his bed, as she presses closer to him, no doubt cold, as the snow keeps falling, he thinks he stops caring. Sansa needs him, and damn anyone who speaks of this wrongly. He is her older brother, and he's doing what he can to keep her safe, keep her feeling warm and protected for once in her life.
"I missed you," she says softly into the dark, and he smiles, pulling her closer.
"I missed you too," he replies, knowing that for both of them, it's probably an understatement. He rubs her shoulder, and tells her one more thing. "When I heard about Father, all I could think of was how much I wanted to be with you all again. I tried to desert. My friends brought me back, but I never stopped wanting to be at Robb's side. When there was no word of you or Arya, at first, I worried beyond…I was so afraid that you were hurt."
"I was hurt," she says softly, and although he knows already, although he put that together well enough on his own, the confirmation stings. "But I survived, Jon. I made it out. Arya did too, I think. I don't know where she went, but Brienne said she saw her. If anyone could survive, she could."
"I wonder if she still has Needle," he says softly, thinking out loud. He remembers the little blade very well, the skinny little thing he had Mikken make for her before he left. The last time he'd properly seen her was when he'd given her the thing, and he sorely hopes she still has it, out there in the world, wherever she is. He hopes she still has some scrap of home.
"Needle?"
Jon pauses, suddenly remembering the promise he and Arya had made when he'd handed it over. Don't tell Sansa! "The sword I gave her."
Sansa sits up, just to look down on him with an utterly incredulous look. "You gave our eleven-year-old sister a sword? Did father know?"
"Oh, yes. He sent a two page letter about it. He was quite displeased. The Old Bear laughed his ass off when he read it," Jon smiles fondly.
"But did Arya say you gave it?"
"Probably not, but father was smart. If he saw it, he'd have known. Skinny little thing. I had Mikken make it." She laughs at him, and he smiles too, better memories warming him. "I mean, Rickon and Bran couldn't have–Mikken would have gone straight to father. You…definitely not." She laughs. "Theon, maybe, but Mikken would still ask questions. That leaves Robb and I, and…"
"You're the more obvious choice," she finishes for him, laying back down next to him. After a moment, she snorts. "So that's what those dancing lessons were. I used to get so mad about them. Arya would say she was going to dancing lessons but she'd come back bruised and dirty. He must have found her a teacher."
"He mentioned that as well. Some Braavosi swordsman."
"Arya wanted to bring him with us back to Winterfell, I think," she says, voice softening. "Father wanted us to leave. We both threw such fits–gods, we were awful. She wanted her teacher, and I wanted to stay in King's Landing, and he was just trying to keep us safe." She shivers against him, and after a moment says, in a much quieter voice, "I miss him."
"Me too, Sansa," he says, pressing a kiss to her head. "Me too."
—
The next morning, they take an early lunch in the main hall, meaning it's blessedly empty as he, his friends, Sansa, their uncle, Tormund, Ser Davos, along with The Lady Brienne of Tarth and her squire, Podrick Payne, squeeze themselves onto one the tables, the wolves nearby, just in case any food falls to the floor. It's a tight fit for the ten of them, but they largely make it work, even if Jon really doesn't like the eyes Tormund is giving Brienne. She too seems off-put by it, but no one really says anything.
The room is so quiet, really, it's almost awkward. Jon knows he and the rest of the men aren't really paragons of table manners, and he knows the food is worse, but when Edd tries to apologise for it, Sansa just smiles at him and says, in a way she never would have all those years ago in Winterfell, "It's fine. There are more important things."
Edd smiles at her for that, and that's really the thing that Jon is noticing the most. His friends, while certainly very genial and polite with his sister seem almost enamoured with her. Not in any way that has Jon thinking he needs to truly intervene, but more in that they stare at her like she's just stepped out of a story. What he really can't discern is if it's because she's the first Non-Wilding Woman they've seen in a good long time or because she's their friend's sister, who they've only heard of from the occasional story.
No matter the actual reasons for their wonder about his sister, he's glad they're not trying anything too bold. He's sure Tormund will find an excuse to talk to her in the coming days, and he figures he should warn her about it before he makes a fool of himself or utterly unnerves her or both. But at any rate, he thinks Tormund's attention will be, blessedly, focused on Brienne of Tarth for a time.
The door creaks open, and he turns just in time to see a Black Brother come in, a letter in hand. He tells Jon, "It's for you, Lord Commander."
"I'm not the Lord Commander anymore," he corrects, but the man still offers it to him. I suppose it's still for me, regardless of my titles or lack thereof. Jon dismisses him with a pinched expression and a nod, turning the letter over in his hand to get a good look at the wax seal.
He can feel the very moment his heart drops out of his chest. Across from him, Sansa has gone still, and the room is silent as he slowly pulls the wax sealing off, unfurling the parchment with a hammering heart. He knows what this probably means, what that man will be demanding. The Wolves are still as well, likely sensing he and Sansa's mood, but their presence is no real comfort, now.
"To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow," he begins, doing his very best to keep his voice even, to keep it steady. Sansa's eyes dig into him, and at his side, Benjen is as still as a statue. "You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon–"
Somehow, he feels his heart sink even lower, and for a moment he thinks it might just stop all over again. Benjen is shaking in anger at his side, and Sansa's face is awash with fear when he meets her eyes. She shakes her head, and he turns back to the letter, his voice shaking more than he cares to admit.
"My men hunt his wolf as we speak, to decorate my floor. I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. " Tormund growls lowly, and the room is dangerously cold. But he has to keep reading. " You will watch as my soldiers take turns…"
His eyes rove over the words, and he shakes his head, struggling to breathe as he drops the letter to the table with a ragged breath. He runs a hand over his face and says, "It's just more of the same." For a moment, he thinks they'll leave it at that, that Sansa will pick up as his fear.
But Sansa does not seem keen on the idea. "You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." She throws the letter down with a noise of disgust.
He can't look at her, can barely force the words out of him. His anger burns hotter than a thousand fires in a chest, burns him from the inside out. He clenches his hands into fists, and grits the words out, "Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North? "
But Sansa's voice is cold, deceptively so, where he feels like a hundred fires. "His father is dead, then. Ramsay would have killed him. And now he has Rickon." He tries to protest, tries to poke a thousand holes into the letter, but he knows it's meaningless even before she cuts him off. "We do know that, Jon. He has Rickon." She shakes her head.
"How many men does he have in his army?" Tormund asks, and Jon feels his heart start to hammer loudly against his chest, and hears the blood roaring in his ears. Ghost presses up against his back, his weight a comfort.
"I heard him say 5,000 once when he was talking about Stannis's attack," Sansa says, and Jon swears softly. "He may have more if he gets any of the Banners behind him. Someone must have turned Rickon over to him. Someone else has betrayed their rightful Lords."
"How many do you have?" Jon finally says, turning to look at Tormund, seeing the same intense expression on his face on his friend's face as well. He catches a glimpse of his uncle and the dark look that's etched its way onto his face too.
"That can march and fight? Less than 2,000," Tormund says with a shake of his head. "The rest are children and old people."
"We're the only free children of the last true Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal. They'll fight for us if we ask," Sansa tells him, but he cannot find the strength to meet her eyes. She makes a noise, and finally grabs his hand and tugs, forcing him to meet her eyes. "A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both."
Jon licks his lips, staring at the wooden table in front of him, at the swirling patterns of the wood grain. Sansa's words from the day before ring in his ears, I want you by my side. But how many fights has he really ever won, since he left home? How much longer will he have to keep on fighting before he dies or all the wars end? He doesn't know how many fights he can throw himself heedlessly into anymore. He doesn't know that he has the strength left in him to do so, not anymore, not after everything he's lost.
But Benjen's voice cuts through his thoughts a moment later, stern and cold as winter. "The North Remembers," he says, and Jon winces, the words rolling over him. "It is House Bolton who betrayed Robb. Someone turned Rickon in. You cannot let them stand in our home, the seat of House Stark, without blood. If the blood runs with snow, so be it. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and Winter is Coming. Bring it to their doors. Remind them who you are. What you are."
They all glance at the direwolves, then. Jon remembers finding them still, even after all these long years that have bled him dry. They'd been so tiny, and now they're all nearly the size of horses, even little Lady, the smallest of them all. They're possibly the most dangerous things on The Wall, even above all the weapons and the magic of The Wall. What was it that father said the last time he saw him? You may not have my name, but you have my blood.
He looks at Sansa, and they both nod, understanding passing between them without so much as a word spoken to it. They need no words but the words of their house. Winter is Coming.
Two days later, and he stands in the courtyard of Castle Black, the snow falling softly around him, picked up by the wind that cuts through his clothes and his hair. The Castle feels nearly lifeless, with so much of The Watch continuing on with their day like nothing has happened. But Jon himself feels rooted to the spot, staring out at the Castle that had once been the only dream he'd allowed himself to really have.
For so long, he'd pictured himself as a Black Knight of The Wall, as a solemn Ranger who patrolled the wilds that lay beyond, a dark blur of black against an endless field of white. He left Winterfell for this place gladly, and maybe it wasn't what he expected at first, but he carved a place out for himself. He thinks he owes his life to his place here, because who knows what fate would have befallen him if he'd ridden South and joined The War like he so desperately wanted to, once?
But he also died here. Every dream and hope and wish he had died right over there, feet away from his wolf and his sisters's wolves. The blood is gone from the snowy ground now, long gone, but he knows where he died well enough. He knows who did it. He knows that, as much as he wishes it was otherwise, there is no place left for him here. His road finally leads him away.
But still, he wishes it did not have to be this way, in some capacity. He still has friends here, and he knows that when Sam finally writes to him, one of them will have to tell him that Jon has left, tell him what befell him, tell him who the new Lord Commander is, for the Citadel's records, at the least. But he also hopes that they'll also be able to tell Sam that he can write to Winterfell if he wishes to speak to Jon. He hopes that Winterfell is the end of this road.
Footsteps crunch in the snow, and he turns to see his uncle coming silently towards him. He lets him pull him in for a hug, resting his head on his shoulder briefly and breathing deeply. Benjen rests his hands on Jon's shoulders as they pull apart, his Stark-grey eyes roving carefully over him. And then, slowly, a smile crosses his face, small and wane, but loving all the same.
"Take back our home," he says, firstly, and Jon nods. When he continues, though, there is something sadder in his voice, a lingering note of the same emotion that always filled his father when he spoke of his siblings, of the past. "But never forget that there is always a place for you here, Jon. There has always been a place for you."
"Maybe someday I'll return," he promises vaguely, his eyes taking in the Courtyard once more. It has stood unchanged for so long, save for the memories that now linger stubbornly in every corner. The North Remembers. He died over there. He held Ygritte there as she died in his arms. Sansa and he stood there as they hugged each other for the first time in years, as they felt safe for the first time in what felt like forever. "But there's too many ghosts, now."
He looks at his uncle and sees understanding in his eyes. He thinks he might be one of the only men who truly understands what it's like to see ghosts everywhere, how deep it hurts to have your home and the things you love become a prison of your own mind. Benjen ran to The Wall from Winterfell, from the ghosts of his father, his sister, and his brother. Jon now runs to Winterfell from The Wall, haunted by the knives in the dark and the blackness that he sees every time he closes his eyes.
Benjen pulls him forward once more, pressing their brows together, their breaths mingling in the air, visible in the cold air. His hand holds the back of Jon's neck carefully, and his voice trembles as he whispers the next words, "Your father told me to protect you before we left. And I didn't. I couldn't. But promise me, Jon, that you will protect yourself, and your sister. Winter is Coming, and I cannot be the only Stark who stands against the cold."
"I will," he says. For a moment, they linger there. Jon has the acute sense that there are a hundred things that his uncle wants to say to him, and for a moment, when he looks at him, Jon doesn't think Benjen is fully seeing just Jon. But he doesn't ask who he's seeing, because he knows that he'll never get an answer to that question.
Sansa comes then, and Benjen hugs her too, kissing her brow and whispering a few words to her that have her smiling at him in a sort of sad way. Jon watches them with a soft smile that breaks into a true grin when Sansa comes to him and presents a gift. He runs his hand over the soft fur of the cloak, looking up at her with wide eyes as she says, "I made it like the one father used to wear. Or as near as I remember."
The pain flashes through both of them, but he meets her eyes, and sees a strength there, too. He pulls it on, looking out at The Wall which he thought would be his home until the end of his days. Years ago, he tried to leave for his brother's war, only to be stopped by his brothers here. And now he leaves to settle the blood debt of that war, and there's no one left to keep him here.
He and Sansa mount their horses, the wolves hanging close as the gate slowly opens. And then, for the first time since he came here, Jon sets off towards his true home, towards the seat of his father's house, to the heart of The North. The Old Bear's Raven follows him, crying out Snow! To Winterfell he goes, his sister at his side, and their wolves of white and grey, the colours of the banners they fly, following behind them, the snow falling around them.
Notes:
-this chapter got so long. so fast. there's parts i could have gone on and on with, but like. i have to shut up at some point, unfortunately. there were many darlings killed.
-i lowkey forgot about mormonts raven in jons last chapter but he's here now! the funniest asoiaf character actually. i will be utilising him to the fullest extent.
-screaming, crying, throwing up. i love sansa and jon. i love their reunion. they're my actual babies.
-it was really important to me that we see these two actually, you know, talk and to see them actually explain what happened to them and why they are the way they are. that bath scene, esp, really just adds to it, because jon is seeing exactly what she survived, and it's helping him, in some way, understand why she's so insistent on getting ramsay out of here! but honestly you go girl.
-dont know if any of you could tell but i love the north. and while i still want botb to have some of that underdog aspects, I'm also very much in favour of highlighting how ride or die the north is for its starks. but trust, there will be a reason that ramsay has more men and why some certain knights of the vale will be a very important piece in this game. but the north remembers, do they not?
next up, a girl gets a name...
