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)

9. THE WHITE WOLF III

CHAPTER NINE: THE WHITE WOLF III

Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, eldest free children of Eddard Stark, tour the North, trying to bring their bannermen behind them. Loyalties are rekindled, and girls decry their families. Their army marches on Winterfell, where the youngest of their pack is fighting to survive. A black wolf prowls the night.

---

The message finds them almost the minute they leave The Gift. Just as they begin to set up for the night, a rider in solemn grey rides towards their camp on the edge of The Gift, a banner that Jon doesn't recognise held aloft. Sansa, however, clearly does, as she inhales sharply and her eyes narrow into thin slits. At her side, the normally sedate and gentle Lady tenses, baring her teeth as the rider draws near to them, pausing some ten feet away from where they watch.

Ghost and Nymeria, on the other hand, press closer to Jon, silent and wary.

The rider dismounts before approaching Sansa without even looking at Jon, who stands right next to her, a black shadow in the day. The men around them have gone quiet as the grave, and Jon glimpses Tormund from the corner of his eyes. The man is looking at the three of them, eyes wide but no less dangerous for it. Jon meets his eyes and shakes his head, looking back at the rider as he draws to a stop in front of Sansa.

"Lady Sansa," the rider says, procuring a rolled letter from his pocket, and offering it to her. Sansa's face is cold, her eyes bearing into him for a long moment, not moving to take the letter. The rider begins to look nervous and finally glances at Jon, who greets him no more warmly. Lady is pressed to Sansa's side, and the tension stretches for a few more moments, before Sansa finally lifts her chin, and takes the letter, unfurling it with a dark look.

She reads it, and scoffs, furling it up and handing it to Jon. "Tell Lord Baelish, if you would, that if he wishes to meet with me again after this, he can meet me and my brother in our camp, under a white flag. I have no trust left in him, and do not come at his beck and call." Jon, recognising the name at last, glances down at the crumpled paper in hand, smoothing it out and reading the thin, slanted hand.

Sansa, it reads. Jon's grip on the paper tightens.

Please meet me at the inn of the Croft Village, some four miles south of your camp. I have a proposition for you. I request secrecy and speed to this meeting.

Petyr Baelish

Lord of Harrenhal.

Breathing deeply, Jon hands the paper back to Sansa. The rider glances around before turning on his heel and heading back to his horse, riding away after a moment, with a sole glance back towards him and Sansa. They both watch him go, before Jon finally turns to her properly, sending her a look, which she replies to with a look of her own. "Are you going to go?" He asks.

"Yes," she says, burying her hand in Lady's fur, taking a deep breath as she looks away at the horizon. Then, she turns her sharp eyes to him, and says, her voice leaving no room for argument, "And you're coming with me."

They do not find the chance to leave until maybe an hour shy of nightfall, but they make good time on their horses, the wolves and Lady Brienne their only companions. They'd left the camp in the care of Ser Davos and Tormund, and Jon elects to not think too hard on his own decisions, lest he lose his mind with worry. The village looms on the horizon, and Sansa and he both pull their hoods up, sending the wolves away to hunt nearby.

Only Lady hesitates, looking up at Sansa with a soft whine that has his sister smiling gently, offering her hand for Lady to butt against. "Go, love," she whispers, petting Lady gently before patting her head. Lady pauses for one more moment before she bounds away, following Ghost and Nymeria into the woods on the edge of the forest.

They go through the village at a sedate pace, bowing their heads in order to not draw attention. But strangers draw attention anywhere, and Jon feels his hands tighten on his reigns as he feels the eyes on him and Sansa, and plenty go to the also as disguised as possible Brienne. She runs less of a risk of being recognised, certainly, but Jon doesn't want to risk anyone in his trio being recognised, knowing too well that it would not be good for these people to know a Stark and a Snow walk through them.

Benjen told him about the villages he visited, and about the hope The North still has in the survival of House Stark. He hopes that the hope of the common people has also spread to the Lords they need to treat with. He hopes it will all be enough.

They enter the inn, and at once, a man is approaching the three of them, hesitating when he sees Jon standing beside Sansa. Jon takes stock of the man. Slender and shorter than all three of them, the man they call Littlefinger has a sharp face and grey-green eyes that glimmer with a light that makes Jon feel tense. His gaze rakes over Jon in turn, his lips curling into a smile. "I have a room for us," he says, voice soft, eyes digging into Sansa who raises her chin and follows him when he turns and goes.

"My Lady–" he begins to say, turning to both of them the second the door is closed.

But Sansa is not waiting. "Did you know?" She hisses, storming up to him, her cloak falling back from her hair. Littlefinger's eyes widen, and Jon rests his hand on his pommel, glancing at Brienne as she does the same. He has spoken little to his sister's sworn sword, but he knows they agree on at least one thing, and that thing is Sansa's safety. "Did you know what he was? If you did not know, you're an idiot, and if you did know you're my enemy."

"I underestimated a stranger," he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Both Jon and Sansa narrow their eyes at the man, and he sends another worried look at Jon. "But, My Lady, I rode North with The Knights of the Vale. They are encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak. They would come to your aid."

"My aid," Sansa echoes flatly. "Because you care so much, no? Would you like to hear about our Wedding Night? He never hurt my face, he needed it, of course. The face of Ned Stark's maiden eldest daughter." Her lip curls into a sneer, and Jon feels his grip tighten on Longclaw's pommel as she draws closer to Littlefinger. "But the rest of me…he did what he liked with the rest of me. And you, Lord Baelish, are the reason that happened. Do you think my brother feels kindly towards you, for that? Or that I do? Or that I find I have any reason left to trust you? So tell me. What do you think he did?"

Littlefinger is silent for a long moment, even when Sansa repeats the question venomously. Exchanging a glance with Brienne, Jon clears his throat, fighting a smile when the man turns his wide eyes to him. He is seeing my father, Jon thinks grimly. The man who stole Lady Catelyn from him. And now his echo steals hers away from him. "I have no love lost for you, Littlefinger. Answer my sister's question, and I do not run you through, here and now."

He turns back to Sansa, voice hoarse. "He beat you–"

"Yes, he enjoyed that. What else do you think he did?" Littlefinger tries to say her name, but she cuts him off. "What else?"

"Did he cut you?"

She tilts her head at him, eyes sharp as a wolf, cold as The Wall. "Maybe you did know about Ramsay, all along." He shakes his head, denying it, and her lip curls into a mocking grin. "I thought you knew everyone's secrets. You say you underestimated a stranger, and that makes you an idiot or a traitor. The other things he did, Ladies are not supposed to speak about in polite company. But my brother knows. And I imagine brothel keeps talk about them all the time. Would you two like to discuss it? How I can still feel the wounds?"

"I don't mean in my tender heart I can still feel it so, I mean I can still feel what he did to me in my bones, standing here right now, before you. The man who put me there."

"I am so sorry," he says, glancing at Jon who just glares cooly back.

"You said you would protect me."

"And I will," he promises, taking a half step forward, arms outstretched. But he pauses when Jon shifts, sending a terrified look towards him. "You must believe me when I tell you that I will–"

"I don't believe you anymore. And I don't need you anymore. You cannot protect me. It was not you who freed me from Ramsay, it is not you who guided me through The Gift. It is not you whose arms I fell into at Castle Black, it is not you who made me feel safe for the first time since my father's head was cleaved from his body. You won't even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down, or I leave you to the mercy of my brother and our wolves." She pauses. "And why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I leave you to the mercy of The North?"

"You want me to beg for my life. If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask, that is within my power, I will do."

"And if I want you to die, here and now, your blood on the swords that my brother and Brienne carry?"

"Then I will die."

She breathes deeply, eyes hardening and her chin raised proudly, like a Queen's. "You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family, and you gave me to the other monsters who murdered my mother and betrayed my brother–their liege lord, their king. Go back to Moat Cailin, to The Vale. Jon and I are of Winterfell and The North. We will take it back on our own. I never want to see you again."

"I would do anything to undo what has been done to you." He shakes his head. "I know that I cannot. Will you allow me to say one more thing before I go?" She glances at Jon, who nods. Turning back to Littlefinger, she nods as well. "Your Great Uncle, Brynden–The Blackfish–runs free still. Whispers say that he is gathering what remains of The Tully Force, and seeks to reclaim Riverrun and free your uncle, Edmure. You might consider seeking him and his council out. Your brother Robb trusted in him." He glances at Jon. "The time may come when you need an army of your own, not one of your half-brother's."

Jon draws Longclaw in a second, levying it at his throat. "My uncle Brandon once slashed you in a duel," he says, voice cold and sword held steady. "You know the Wolf's Blood well enough, I reckon. Whatever you suggest now, I recommend you never whisper it again lest I finish what he began." He lowers Longclaw after a moment, and they both turn to Sansa, although Jon thinks Littlefinger expects her to look turned away by Jon's actions. But her face is impassively cold.

"I would heed my brother's words, Lord Baelish," She tells him, smirking ever so slightly. "It is not you who I ran to, after all."

—

Lord Robbet Glover, Presumed Lord of Deepwood Motte given his currently missing older brother, gives both Sansa and Jon something to drink before they even begin negotiations. Jon recalls that the man visited Winterfell when he was but a boy, but little of that proud and lordly man who came that day can be found in the man who sits across from them. His brown hair is bound back messily, strands flying everywhere, and there is more white in his hair and beard than Jon recalls. His dark eyes gleam, though.

"My lord, Princess," he begins, voice tired as he clutches his own drink between his hands. His eyes rove over them both for a moment before he continues. "I know what it is you come to ask of me. And I regret that I will not be able to give you as much as you want or need, but I hope to impress on you the gravity of The North's position under the rule of House Bolton."

"But before I can," he says, turning to look at Jon properly, his voice darkening, "I must ask Lord Snow here a question." He scans Jon once more, noting the black ring mail and the black cloak, and all the ways Jon still looks like a man of the Night's Watch. His eyes linger on both the scars around his eyes and Longclaw, too. "Every Lord of the North knows that Ned's Bastard Son joined the Night's Watch. They know that he is Lord Commander. They know he brought Wildlings beyond The Wall. And yet, here he sits in my solar. How, boy? Why?"

Jon sighs deeply, glancing at Sansa. "Winter is Coming," he says softly, taking a sip of his ale. "I brought The Free Folk South because it's the only chance of survival they have. Lord Glover, all children of The North are raised on the stories of The Others. I regret to tell you that they are not stories, and that they are coming. I have seen The Army of The Dead with my own two eyes. As has my uncle, who holds The Wall now."

Lord Glover, a Northman through and through, does not seem to doubt Jon for a moment. His eyes widen, and Jon continues. "Some men of the Watch took issue with that choice, though. I was betrayed with Knives in the Dark and died in the arms of my uncle, Benjen Stark. Forgive me, my lord, if I do not show you the scars. Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman was upon The Wall. Using her fiery magic, she brought me back. But I fulfilled my oath. And now I ride with my sister to take back our home."

Robbet Glover leans back in his chair, looking shocked and nigh terrified. He takes a long sip of his ale, staring between the two of them. Northmen know Northmen, and know that they seldom speak anything but the truth. Jon knows, can see it in Lord Glover's dark eyes, that he has been believed. At long last, he speaks, "Then it is more dire than we knew."

He leans forward, setting his drink loudly upon the table. "I cannot call all of my brother's banners, not while there is still hope of his survival. They will not listen to me. I can give you perhaps five hundred men, but I dare not try more. The Bolton's and The Lannisters have The Northern Lords in a noose. We have not forgotten who we are–Stark Men–but too many of us have blood still trapped in The South. Should one lord stretch too far and too obviously, it will spell the death of all."

"We understand, Lord Glover," Sansa says gently. "And we thank you for the men. But when we take back Winterfell, I want your oath that you will ride with us after. Cersei and the Lannister's arms are only so long as the House they control, and I do not intend to let House Bolton survive this war. Will you swear yourself to House Stark of Winterfell, and give us what banners you can while your brother remains missing?"

"I will," he says. "And as for the men I give you, I will have to choose wisely. It cannot look like I sanctioned this. It may have to be from some of the bannermen who are loyal to me, and are already known to follow me. Perhaps…yes. I will send you men of House Forrester and Woods. The Boltons may think them like to turn already, and will not be too surprised if they turn to you. But for the security of our home, I must stay here."

"Do not apologise for your position," Sansa says, voice sharp. "I was Ramsay's prisoner. I know what is whispered of him in The North, and I tell you now that it is true. He has our little brother, which means we must ride, but you are in a position of your own. I also promise that when we have Winterfell, we will call all the banners, and look for your brother."

"And Lady Mormont," Lord Glover adds. "Her youngest girl controls Bear Island and the eldest is a prisoner of The Lannisters, but the She-Bear and her three other girls went with my brother. House Mormont will be a surefire ally to you. They are not likely to forget their oaths, and will not be as afraid to turn their cloaks back to Stark–but only with the right reason."

Jon smiles at that, "Indeed. The Lady Lyanna Mormont was not even afraid to tell Stannis Baratheon where Bear Island's loyalties lie. Bear Island knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark, she told him when he asked for her banners. I got an earful about it, and had to remind him that I could not give him The North." He shakes his head.

"I meant to ask about that as well," Glover adds, voice darkening a shade again. "You courted Stannis Baratheon at The Wall. You have his Red Woman and his Onion Knight in your retinue. Why?"

"He did save us, and he was the only one to answer our pleas for help against the attack from The Free Folk," Jon sighs. "But he fashioned himself King of The Wall, in a way. My authority he sought to undermine at every turn. He chafed against the fact that a Northern Bastard would not only deny him but stand staunchly against him, as best as possible. I did not play as neutral as I should have, I confess, but Stannis was not my King, no matter what I owed him. Ser Davos is a good council. Lady Melisandre…I have no reason to dispel her from our following."

Jon smiles wryly. "He was also not happy when I threw the offer of Winterfell back into his face."

Both Lord Glover and Sansa reel back at that. Lord Glover looks at him for a moment, before smiling with a nod. "Your father raised you well, Jon Snow. Not many would stand against an offer like that, nor live to tell the tale." His smile widens just a bit. "Oh, how I would have liked to see his face after that!"

"You didn't tell me that!" Sansa hisses to him. Jon mouths later to her, squeezing her hand which makes her huff. She turns back to Lord Glover and nods at him. "Thank you, my lord, truly."

"Don't thank me until you have taken back Winterfell, and The North, Princess," he says, voice dark. "You say Winter is Coming. I do not intend to be swallowed by the snow. But I also do not intend to follow any House but House Stark, and no king but the King in the North." He rises slowly, and they follow. "House Glover will do as we have for thousands of years: we will follow House Stark. And when our King comes again, we will follow him. That is my oath."

—

They rise at dawn the next day. Lord Glover had feasted them the night prior, and while Jon knows it is unlikely to be a common occurrence, he seemed to accept the presence of the Free Folk. He even ended up drinking for a time with a Tormund, who regaled the man with a whole host of stories, most embellished and many about Jon himself. Lord Glover seems to recognise, at least, that they have shared loyalties now, and that it is all of them against the cold, and that meaningless disputes will kill them all.

As they are midway through breakfast, pouring over maps of the Wolf's Wood, trying to figure out the best place to sail to Bear Island from without drawing too much attention to the Stark Banner flying again in The North–thus not alerting Ramsay to their whereabouts–The Maester comes bustling in, looking flustered. "Manderly Banners have been spotted in the distance, my lord," he says.

Jon and Sansa exchange a look. They'd sent a raven to White Harbour on some distant hope that it would be received, but it could not have reached them in time for them to already be here at Deepwood Motte. Lord Glover pauses for a moment, before he says, "Let them in and give them bread and salt. Bring only their chief leader here. I do not want too many to know of Lady Stark and Lord Snow's presence here, not until we know their intentions."

The Maester bows and leaves without another word. Lord Glover sighs tiredly, and they all wait with bated breaths for The Manderly Leader to come forth. Some five minutes later, their patience is at last rewarded when a quite tall man in ornate silver armour steps through the door, helmet under his arm. His eyes widen with naked relief when he sees Jon and Sansa, and he bows low a moment later.

"I am Marlon Manderly, cousin to Lord Wyman Manderly," he says, his voice sharp. "I came to treat with Lord Glover here, and speak of what the Iron Throne has offered us, but it would seem a sweeter gift has been given today. You are Lady Sansa Stark, are you not?" He asks, and Sansa nods. He glances at Jon, brow furrowing. "And The Black Bastard of The Wall. Lord Commander Snow, aren't you?"

"I was," he agrees. "If you prove yourself an ally of House Stark and someone who remembers his oaths, I might just tell you the story of what has led me here. But first, I ask what brings you here, Lord Manderly. You say that the Iron Throne has offered your house something. Pray, do tell, what it was so we can know where your loyalties lie."

"House Manderly and White Harbour know where we come from, boy," he says, resting his hand casually on the hilt of his sword. "It was The North and House Stark that took us under their banners when we were exiled. But The Iron Throne and House Lannister will not let White Harbour rule itself, not with what we control. Wyman has sworn an oath to them, in exchange for his son." His eyes darken and a foul smile crosses his lips. "But they have no issue breathing oaths, so neither shall we."

And so Marlon begins to spin his tale. They are in much the same position as House Glover, and the noose around their neck is directly in the hands of The Iron Throne. White Harbour is the biggest city in The North, and it is no wonder that The Lannisters and The Boltons find it crucial to keep them bent. But, as Marlon says, his voice cold as a northern river, The North Remembers. Wyman Manderly had sent him here to assess the other Lords, and in doing so, has found his hope.

"I cannot speak to how many men we can feasibly gather, but it will be less than Lord Glover's five hundred," Marlon says, leaning over the maps with a cold look. "But Wyman will be happy to hear this song, at least. We are with you, and will ride in strength to Winterfell as soon as we have cut the noose from around our necks." His eyes bear into Sansa and Jon. "There are whispers, foul whispers, of treachery in The North. Is it true that Ramsay Snow has your brother?"

Jon reels back, narrowing his eyes. "How do you know that, my lord?"

"People talk," he says darkly. "And White Harbour keeps as close an eye on Winterfell as Winterfell and King's Landing keeps on us. I know who betrayed your brother." Both Jon and Sansa straighten in interest. Marlon's hand curls into a fist on the table. "Most of The North keep private thoughts of their loyalty. But many are afraid of what will happen to their family that is imprisoned should they openly go against The Iron Throne. But some are willing to betray that for other reasons." His eyes dig into Jon.

"I do not dare ask why you let Wildlings South of The Wall. You seem like a smart man, and I trust you had your reason. But Mors Umber was not of the same belief. He sold your brother to The Bolton's and pledges men to House Bolton. Arnolf Karstark has done the same, but for what reason, I cannot say. What I know is that The Lady Alys Karstark, her brother's rightful heir, has disappeared into the North with her loyal men and that the Bolton Army has some two thousand more men than it did before."

"Traitors," Sansa growls, sounding so unlike herself that it shocks both Jon and the other two Lords. "I do not presume to ask too much of you, My Lord Manderly, but if you can, I have but one request for you before you return to White Harbour. Gather a list of not only all of those who have secret sympathies to us, but also those who don't. Those who have already betrayed their Lords." She tilts her head up. "I will not suffer more traitors in our ranks, lest there be another Red Wedding."

"I will do what I can, my Princess, and deliver the news of you and your brother to my cousin. White Harbour has not forgotten, I assure you. Nor do we plan to forget."

—

"Why are you here?" Lyanna Mormont asks as she stares at Jon and Sansa, Davos standing not far behind them. She looks both very much like her late uncle, and also nothing like him, being much shorter than him, and missing the great white beard. Jon almost brought The Old Bear's Raven along for this one, but decided, much like he decided when meeting with Lord Glover, that the too-talkative bird is neither an asset nor anything resembling helpful.

"Stannis Baratheon showed me the letter you wrote to him when he asked for House Mormont's help," Jon says, and the girl tilts her head at him, her dark eyes bearing into him. "I do not presume. But I remember what it said, and how he reacted to Northern Loyalties. It said–"

"I know what it said. Bear Island knows no King but the King in The North, whose name is Stark." She narrows her eyes at him. "You mean to act upon that, then?"

"We do," he says. "Robb is…I cannot say for certain that we can get him back, or that he will not die when Autumn turns to Winter at last and The Iron Throne gets hungry. But I know that House Stark survives. Ramsay Bolton has our youngest brother in his hand and defiles our home with his every breath. But we are free–Eddard Stark's eldest daughter and his second son. House Stark is not gone, and it needs your support now, more than ever. We come to ask if House Mormont remains loyal, and ask for your help in the coming storm."

She whispers something to her Maester, before turning back to them. "As far as I understand, your sister is a Bolton, and you are a Snow. Or perhaps she is a Lannister–the reports conflict. What's more, you are also the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Tell me, Lord Commander Snow, why have you abandoned your post?"

"We have both done what it takes to survive," Sansa says, her voice a little strained. "It was not always enough, though. I do not speak for my brother, but he has fulfilled his oath in truth. His Watch has ended, and now he is free to do as he pleases. I am a Stark, and always will be a Stark, no matter what man has taken my maidenhead and made me his plaything."

"If you say so," she says, her voice sharpening. "In any case, you don't just want my allegiance, you want my men." They exchange a glance. "Do not pretend otherwise. You would not have come here for empty oaths. You hope to reclaim Winterfell, I gather. You cannot do it without The North behind you."

"Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell, My Lasdt, and so long as we let him, I at least feel like I am betraying my brother, our king. House Bolton sold The North to House Lannister–The very same house that cleaved my father's head from his neck while his daughter watched. The very same house that killed Lady Catelyn Stark in cold blood. The House that has put our king in chains. It is our duty to answer for that blood." She says nothing. "What you have to understand, My Lady–"

"I understand that I am responsible for Bear Island and all who live here, so long as my sisters and mothers are away. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for a war that has taken them from me?" Jon glances back at Sansa. With Lord Glover, and to some extent, The Manderlys, the imprisonment and the blood that ran was a cause for anger. But Bear Island isn't a mainland keep. It does not have the numbers, nor the same reach. Lady Lyanna guards a very different sort of place.

But then, to Jon's surprise, Davos steps forward. "Please, my lady. I understand how you feel." Lady Lyanna tilts her head at him, curious.

"I don't know you. Ser…"

"Davos, my lady," he tells her. "Of House Seaworth." When she leans over to her Maester once more, he cuts her off with an almost smile playing about his lips. "You needn't ask your Maester about my House, it's rather…new."

She settles back in her chair, looking at him imperiously, but with interest all the same. "Alright, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how I feel?"

"You never thought you'd find yourself in this position. Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age. I never thought I'd be in my position. I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler. And now I found myself addressing the lady of a great house in time of war. But I'm here because this isn't someone else's war. It's our war. Everyone here in this room, everyone who lives and breathes in The Seven Kingdoms."

She tilts her head at him again, looking a little more wary, now, the same light twinkling in her eyes as the one that shined in Lord Robbet Glover's when Jon told him of what he'd seen. "Go on, Ser Davos."

"Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that man his steward. He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. Because Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war isn't between a few squabbling houses. It's between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming."

"Is this true?" She asks Jon.

He nods, and steps forward. "Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost. When I tried to bring The Free Folk South of The Wall, I gave my life for it. Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman brought me back, but I was dead long enough to know that I do not want to damn the whole of Westeros to that fate. I do not ask you to believe me. But I ask that you help."

Davos picks up from there. "As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, the North is divided. And a divided North won't stand a chance against the Night King. You want to protect your people, my lady. I understand. But there's no hiding from this. We have to fight and we need to do it together, under the one banner that has ever united the North." He looks at Jon and Sansa. "They may be a Snow and a Bolton, but they are the only free children left of House Stark. Their banner must be the one that is united under."

For a moment, she just stares at them. Her Maester moves in to whisper something, but she waves him away as she looks at Jon and Sansa. "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for thousands of years. We will not break faith today." She looks at Jon. "I believe you. The wind is cold, and we have felt it from here. If you say Winter is Coming, then it is."

"Thank you, my lady. How many fighting men can we expect?" Jon asks, fighting to keep the grin off his face. He'd known that if they could convince the Mormonts, they'd be in for it. They have never been likely to break an oath.

"Sixty-two," she says, after asking another one of the men at the high table. When Jon echoes it back at her, incredulous, she smiles. "We are not a large house, but we're a proud one. And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of 10 mainlanders. I recognise that sword, Lord Snow. You have surely seen my uncle fight. Do you believe me?" He nods, and she grins.

Davos, with a smile on his face, has the last word. "If they're half as ferocious as their lady, The Boltons are doomed." Lyanna Mormont smiles.

—

Jon sighs as he looks over the map, Sansa looking no less pleased than he does. With them on the edge of The Wolf's Wood, near distance from Torrhen's Square, tensions are higher than anyone would like. A storm is on the horizon, and what men they have are miserable and desperate to get on with. Jon looks again over the assembled men. The Old Bear's raven squawks out Corn!, as it is wrought to do.

A collection of men from House Flint, all hailing from different places, some having sworn allegiance to Stannis when he came by, now no more than survivors and escapees. They make up some three hundred swords. Then there are The Hornwoods and The Liddles, with the first having come south when Marlon Manderly whispered into their ears and the latter being stragglers who had found them about a month ago. They make up some two hundred men.

The Manderlys, Glovers, and Mormonts have all delivered their men, and all together, are just under eight hundred men strong. There are some fifty men who found them in The Gift, survivors of Stannis's force, who have attached themselves to Lady Melisandre like moths to a flame. Then there is Hother Umber.

He had been hard to convince, but he had three hundred men behind him, stolen from under his brother's nose. Convincing him of the presence of The Free Folk had seemed nigh impossible, but like nearly every other person in the room, he is a Northman. He knows what good arguments and petty rivalries will do for them when the cold arrives at their door at last. In the end, he had promised his swords to Jon and Sansa.

They have less than four thousand men. Less than the strength of an unreinforced Bolton Army, and with what whispers have come out of Winterfell as they have moved from shadow to shadow, courting in secret, from castle to castle, Jon knows it is less than half of what Bolton has. And with The Ryswells too loyal and Houses Tallhart and Cerywn both having given no reply…

But the men have been following both him and Sansa without complaint. Many have chafed at Sansa's presence, but Jon will not let her be torn from his side. She knows Ramsay well, better than anyone else in this room, and that is an advantage. Even if he does not like the picture that she paints. Not for the first time, the words of the letter ring in the back of his mind. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. They are his ever-present nightmare, now.

Today's complaint is about strategy. Jon is no green boy, of course, but the fact that most of his combat has been from the perspective of a seven-hundred-foot wall does shine. They all know Rickon will be the bait, and that Ramsay will rely on some of Jon's more reckless habits to get him in a position that they do not want. But Jon…he has to believe he can save Rickon, no matter what any of them say otherwise. The damn raven repeating everyone's words between cries for corn is doing nothing to improve the mood.

One of Glover's men and Torren Liddle are nearly nose to nose, arguing about something or another when a voice calls from the doorway. "My lords, my lady," a soldier calls, and Jon turns to him along with the rest of the men, motioning for him to continue. "Banners spotted in the distance. Karstark Banners. But they have raised a white flag, and scouts report that the head of the army is led by a woman."

Suddenly, Marlon Manderly's words from when they'd treated with him at Deepwood Motte come back to him, words that they'd forgotten amidst all the other information he'd given them. What I know is that The Lady Alys Karstark, her brother's rightful heir, has disappeared into the North with her loyal men. Could this mystery rider be Alys Karstark, having ridden out of her exile to find what remains free of House Stark?

"Bring her here, so we may find what she wants," Jon says after a pregnant pause, turning away and massaging the headache that is forming between his brows. They all wait in awkward silence for a time, but eventually, the tent flaps open to reveal a tall girl with dark hair and a sharp face and even sharper eyes. They examine the gathered lords briefly, before she looks to Jon and Sansa.

"Jon Snow," she says, her voice carrying well as she tosses her braid over her shoulder, "And Sansa Stark. My house and yours are bound in blood and honour. Hear me, kinsman. My uncle Cregan is hard upon my trail, House Bolton backing him. You cannot allow me to be taken back to Karhold, nor allow him to gain the men who follow me. The rightful heir."

Heir! The raven calls. She gives it a dubious look.

"So you are Alys Karstark," he says. "I have heard whispers of a succession crisis within the ranks of House Karstark, but did not look for it to appear at our doorstep."

She smiles slightly. "I was not sure if you would remember me. I was six the last time you saw me, close to two decades ago, now."

"You came to Winterfell with your father," Jon says, wincing slightly as he recalls what fate befell the man, and at whose hands. "Though, I do not recall what for."

At that, The Lady Karstark blushes, and Jon realises what it might have been for at last. His suspicions are confirmed, when she speaks, saying, "So I could meet your brother. Oh, there was certainly some other pretext, but that was the real reason. I was almost of age with Robb, and my father thought we might make a match. There was a feast. I danced with you and your brother both. He was very courteous and said that I danced beautifully. You were sullen. My father said that was to be expected in a bastard."

Sansa poorly disguises her laugh with a cough. Alys turns her eyes to her, glimmering slightly. "And you were but a toddler in your mother's arms, Princess. But you have grown beautiful since then." When Jon says, only half lying, that he remembers, she continues, looking at him critically. "You are still a little sullen, but I will forgive you that if you save me from my uncle."

"Your uncle, The Lord Arnolf Karstark?" The raven caws again, being ignored by everyone.

Her lip curls and Jon remembers, suddenly, that the Karstarks were once Wolves of Winterfell as well. The wolf blood runs through her too, in its own way. "He is no lord," She begins, voice sharp and cold. "My brother Harry is the rightful lord, and by law, I am his heir. A daughter comes before an uncle. Uncle Arnolf is only Castellan. He's my great-uncle, actually, my father's uncle. Cregan is his son. I suppose that makes him a cousin, but we always called him uncle. Now they mean to make me call him husband."

Her hand curls into a fist, and Jon hears Sansa inhale sharply at that. "Before the war, I was betrothed to Daryn Hornwood. We were only waiting till I flowered to be wed, but the Kingslayer killed Daryn in the Whispering Wood. My father wrote that he would find some southern lord to wed me, but he never did. Your brother Robb cut off his head for killing Lannisters." Her mouth twists, eyes narrowing in bitter accusation. "I thought the whole reason they marched south was to kill some Lannisters."

"It was not as simple as that, my lady," he says, doing his best to placate. She looks at him with a single raised brow. "Lord Karstark slew two of Robb's prisoners. Unarmed boys, squires in a cell. I do not seek to diminish what he lost, but it was not the right course."

To her credit, Alys looks far from surprised. She works her jaw for a moment, before sighing. "My father might have never bellowed like The Greatjon–" she glances at Hother Umber at that "–but he was no less dangerous in his wroth. He is dead now, though. Robb Stark is a prisoner, and not here. But the three of us are here, a Stark, a Karstark, and a Snow, and still living. Is there a blood feud between us, Lord Snow? Lady Stark?"

Jon glances briefly at Sansa, who nods slightly. Turning back to her, he says, "I do not find a reason for there to be. We are neither our fathers nor our brothers. And my men tell me you have brought a host."

"I have," she says. "You are my last hope, my lord, Princess. I knew not where to turn beyond the last free children of Eddard Stark. We rallied around his name and the spilling of his blood, once. My uncle has thrown in with the men who sold The North in hopes of glory, and in hopes that he can find a way for my brother and all the men The Lannisters hold to die. Betraying their fellowmen, and making me The Lady of Karhold. Leaving me ripe for the wedding and the bedding."

Tears spring to her eyes, but she wipes them away furiously. Her eyes leak, but her voice does not waver once. "Cregan Karstark has already buried two wives, and as soon as he gets a child by me, I will not be needed. I do not intend to be a prize horse, sold to the highest bidder who seeks to steal what is mine. I know my brother is unlikely to return. I know that even if he is freed, his heart will have been shattered by his captivity. I am the heir to Karhold." She looks at them imploringly. "So, I beg of you. Will you help me?"

Jon and Sansa exchange a glance. She steps forward, and takes Alys's hand in hers, looking as stern as a King of Winter, but as kind as ever. "I know what you fear, my lady," she says softly. "I ran from my nightmare, and I ride now to Winterfell in the hopes that I can see him destroyed by mine own hands. We will do what we can. You need to be married before your uncle can see himself as the groom."

"I do," She agrees. She does not look afraid.

—

Sigorn, Magnar pf The Thenns becomes the groom, and they marry them scant two weeks before they march upon Winterfell, with the added eight hundred men that follow her. She had given them a gift, truly, and now they are no longer as dwarfed, at least. They have half the men. It's more than they had a few weeks prior.

Jon, as her closest male relative, is the one to present her. Sansa, who has spoken at length in private with Alys, watches with a smile from the side, and Jon is glad that she at least has someone marginally like her in this council of bloodthirsty and vengeful lords. The snow falls gently around them as they wait on the edge of the clearing. Smiling, she leans into him. "Snow during a wedding means a cold marriage. My lady mother always said so."

"I would not be so worried, my lady," he whispers back. "Tormund speaks well to Sigorn. And he seems very palatable to even me, considering I did kill his father when they marched upon The Wall."

"It is strange times indeed," she says, shuddering and looking up at the falling snow as she slips her arm through hers. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but if I am to be buried by snow, I would like to do so as a woman wed." She nods towards the wolves. "They might be the only creatures around who do not mind the cold. Yours looks half ready to disappear into it."

"Don't encourage him," he says with a laugh. "And soon, my lady."

They both look at Melisandre. Some of the men who followed him from The Wall were what remains of Stannis's forces. Some hold to her fiery god. It had been hard to dissuade her influence, so he, Alys, and Signorn, all Northerners who have only ever held to the Old Gods, have bitten their tongues and born it. What remains of Stannis's forces are a fickle type. At long last, though, she calls them forward. "Let them come forth, those who would be joined."

At this point, she steps away for Signorn to take her place. He'd been the most obvious choice, in the end. Close to both he and Alys's age, the now Magnar of The Thenns leads a sizable portion of those who came beyond The Wall, but he is not so hardened that he could not be persuaded. Everyone here is just trying to survive Winter, he thinks, before reminding himself, And Tormund speaks for him.

Tormund, meanwhile, is looming on the other side of the Godswood, looking quite ready to get to the party. He turns to Alys Karstark, who holds her head high. "My lady. Are you ready?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

He looks at her curiously. "Are you not afraid?"

She smiles and looks towards her husband-to-be. "Let him be afraid of me," she says, her voice like steel. She reminds him of Arya, in more ways than one, and he misses his little sister with an ache that is not likely to ever disappear, not until he maybe sees her again. The snow falls softly around her, in her hair, in the fur of her maiden cloak. It looks like she has a crown, he thinks with a smile. "House Karstark traces our blood back to House Stark. I need not be afraid."

Squeezing her hand, he whispers one last thing, "Winter's beauty."

The Magnar looks at her with wide eyes, looking nigh afraid, but Jon cannot say what for. The Lady Melisandre? The three full-grown direwolves that Sansa is stopping from playing in the snow by sheer force of will, and her? Alys herself? Jon hopes it is the latter, hopes that she is more right than she knows.

Melisandre's voice carries over the Godswood, and he is happy that she was willing to abide by the customs of The Old Gods, despite her own beliefs. "Who brings this woman to be wed?" The Weirwood tree is small and secluded, likely long since forgotten. But only in The North would you find one still wild, and he has never been so grateful for it.

"I do," he replies. "Now comes Alys of House Karstark, a woman grown and flowered, a woman of noble blood and birth."

"Who comes forth to claim this woman?" Melisandre asks.

"Me," Sigorn says. "Magnar of Thenn."

"Who gives her?"

"Jon Snow, of House Stark," he says. "Her kin by the blood of our forefathers." He gives her hand one last squeeze and steps over towards his sister and their wolves. Alys stands alone, the snow flurrying around her, but she doesn't look touched in the slightest by the cold.

Signorn, at that time, steps forward and takes Alys's hand in his, and at last, they bow before the Weirwood tree, the face weeping over them. Jon grabs Sansa's hand and squeezes gently. And after a few moments, they both rise.

Like most other things, Heraldry ends with The Wall. The Thenns have no heraldry, but under Sansa's sharp eye and needle, she'd fashioned a sigil for The Magnar, which had only seemed to make him more flustered around her. The bride's cloak that he fashions around Alys's shoulder shows a bronze disk on a field of white, surrounded by flames. The Karstark sunburst could be seen within it, for those who cared to know, but Sansa had done well with the distinction.

He had all but ripped the maiden cloak from her shoulders, but is noticeably tender when he puts her bride cloak on. For a moment, the two stare at one another, smiles on their lips, cheeks and ears flushed from both the cold and so much more, the snow falling in dizzying swirls around them. Then, at long last, he sweeps her into his arms and kisses her.

Later that night, once the bride and groom have gotten themselves a little tipsy and have been carted off for the bedding, Sansa finds Jon. He's in his tent, pouring over maps, Ghost and Nymeria curled at his feet. He does not look up when she comes in, having heard Lady from outside, and knowing that only she would dare to enter without announcing herself.

"Jon," she says, drawing his attention to her. She stands on the other side of the table, her hair falling around her shoulders, and her eyes wide and her face troubled. He looks at her curiously, offering his hand, which she takes and squeezes with a deep breath. He searches her face as the silence reigns, but she breaks it before he can ask if she's alright. "I need to ask something of you."

"Yes?" He asks, squeezing her hand gently when she seems to drift. Her eyes snap back to him, and he straightens when he sees the tears, circling around the table in an instant, to hold her close to him in a hug. She lays her head on his shoulder for a moment, encircling his waist with her arms. He pulls back after a moment, his hands holding her arms.

"I do not ask this of you lightly," she whispers, glancing at the entrance to the tent. "But if…if we do not win, if we fail, I do not intend to fall back into his arms. I have no intentions of surviving the battle if it goes sideways, and I…there is no sword I would rather die on than yours." He feels his jaw drop, and he tries to pull away, his sword growing heavy at his side.

She takes his face between her hands, stopping him from moving. Her eyes are filled with tears, and he slowly reaches up to wrap his hands around her wrists, brushing a kiss against the palm of one of her hands. "Please, Jon," she whispers. "I do not ask this of you lightly. I ask because I do not know that I could do it myself, nor that I could bear to die alone. I have no intention of being his whore, or letting him fulfil his oath to you. If I am to die, let it be on my own terms, and on a friendly sword."

"I cannot…" he whispers, reaching out to pull her close to him. She cries against his shoulder, and he feels himself start to cry too, holding his little sister close to his chest. He can barely fathom it, but he can hardly find a way to deny her. He loves her, truly, and would do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to keep her from those who would hurt her. He holds her tighter. "You demand much of me, Sansa. But I will…I will try. And if we should both fail, I will relay these orders to Davos and Tormund as well." If I am to die, let it be on my own terms, and on a friendly sword.

She pulls back, her face streaked with tears as she holds his face, thumb tracing the scars on the side of his face. "I know, at the least, that our deaths will ignite The North. Arya is still out there, you and I both know it. She can avenge us, and maybe even free Robb. We are, as far as anyone knows, the last free children of our father, but we are not the last. Our House might still survive us."

"I cannot imagine Arya would be pleased to have the responsibility of House Stark fall on her shoulders," Jon tries to joke with a tired laugh. Sansa matches his tired laugh, resting her head on his shoulder as he hugs her close. "She'd probably find a way to skewer our ghosts with that sword of hers."

Sansa laughs, the sound like a diving bird. He inhales shakily, the weight of her promise settling over him. He cannot deny her wish. Cannot do anything that would put his sister in the hands of a man who he seeks to kill, a man who will break her apart if given the chance. A man who would break both of them and take pleasure in it. Ramsay Bolton is no true Lord of Winterfell.

Suddenly, he remembers another promise. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Stannis's offer," he whispers, and she stiffens against him, pulling away after a moment. Her eyes search his face, sharp as a spike of ice. He smiles wanly, looking away. "I thought of you, you know? Of you and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon." His voice breaks on the last name.

"Why did you deny him?" She asks, reaching up again, but this time to brush a hair away from his face. I'm the Lord of Winterfell!

"I could not bring myself to betray my house, my king. It infuriated Stannis, that I made it clear that had I not been a man of the Night's Watch, he would not be anything close to my king. I did what duty and honour demanded, but he was never going to be my king. He suggested that I usurp Robb, make Lady Catelyn's terrors come true. He decries usurpers to his throne and tries to make me one in the same breath. He said that you were all slated to die, or dead already. I could…I could not do it. Not while I knew in my bones that you all still lived. I told him that if he wanted Winterfell, to get it from you or Arya."

"Oh, Jon," she whispers, smiling sadly up at him. "You are too honourable for your own good."

"I know," he says, a voice ringing in the back of his mind like a bell. You know nothing, Jon Snow. "And right after, The Wolves arrived. It was like a sign from the gods, in a way. I…I have always wanted to be a Stark. But I could not take it from a Southern King who demands blood taxes and lets people spit on my gods. A man who didn't even have the decency to acknowledge the first man who died from him. Not once did he mention what our father did for him."

She sighs sadly. "The Spilling of Northern Blood has started more wars in the past decades than anything else. And yet, Robert Baratheon made himself the one true victim in his rebellion, because his love was stolen from him. Nevermind our father, who saw his sister kidnapped, and his father and brother murdered. Then Stannis makes it all about his stolen throne, and not once acknowledges the true blood feud that The North has with The South." She snorts. "I'd say it runs in the family. They all forget, and we are all that is left to remember."

"We won't be forever," he says, and she looks at him. "I have to believe it. I have to believe that we will get our home back, that we can save Rickon."

She sighs, but says nothing more on the matter, pulling away to examine the maps. "I want to go home," she whispers, tracing Winterfell on the map. He stands next to her, his arms crossed across his chest as he looks at the maps. Her fingers curl into a fist. "But we both know we don't have the men. I hate to say it, but there's only one option left for us if we want our home."

Both of their eyes drift to Moat Cailin. "I cannot make this decision for you," he says lowly, worrying his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "He is yours to decide what to do with. I do not trust the man, but I…I should not be the one to decide what to do with him. The blood lies between you and him. But whatever you do…it must be soon."

She nods. "Then, I will sing a song to a bird, and hope for a reply."

—

The day before it all comes to a head, they meet Ramsay.

Sansa had described him in careful detail, mentioning his gaze that could always make a man's skin crawl, and his slick voice. But even now, sitting on his horse across from the bastard, Sansa at his side, it's still surprising. For a moment, the two sides say nothing, and as much as Jon wishes for Ghost right now, bringing a two-hundred-pound direwolf (or three) to this parlay would not be appropriate. That, at least, he knows.

"My beloved wife," Ramsay says at last, a smile on his face. Jon feels all trace of anything save for cold contempt washes from his face and be expelled from within him. Sansa says nothing, but Jon sees her breathe deeply from his side. "I've missed you terribly." Then he looks to Jon, and nods at him. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely."

"Now," he continues, nodding towards Jon again, "Dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house." Jon hears the men behind him shift, a cold breeze blowing between them all, making the banners flap in the silent wind. Jon just glares, and after a moment, Ramsay laughs lightly.

"Come, bastard, You don't have the men. You don't have the horses. And you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your horse. Kneel." He tilts his head, and as if they're all sharing one big secret, smiles. "I am a man of mercy." Jon squares his jaw. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister.

"You're right," he says, at last, surprising Ramsay. "There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't have to die for a cause that isn't between them. Only one of us." Longclaw grows heavy at his side as he flexes his long-since burned hand on the reigns of his horse. "Let's end this the old way–you, against me. No banners, no soldiers. You and me."

But Ramsay just laughs. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in The North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. I know that my army will beat yours. I have eight thousand men. You have... what, half that? Not even?"

Jon catches a glimpse of Sigorn and Alys, side by side on two dark brown horses. One of Ramsay's men, who shares some similarities to Alys, is glaring daggers at her, but she seems unaffected, her head held high like a true Northern Woman. Jon narrows his eyes back at Ramsay. "Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you would not fight for them?"

Ramsay tilts his head after a moment, face stretching into a smile. "He's good. Very good." He looks between Jon and Sansa. "Tell me: will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?" They both say nothing. Ramsay's grin grows a little sharper, but murmurs grow on all sides. "Now, if you want to save your little–"

"–You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," Sansa cuts in, silencing everyone. Jon glances at her, just in time to see her raise her chin, a cold light in her eyes as she says, "Sleep well." And before anyone can do anything, she rides away, leaving them all to watch as she disappears over the horizon, the man holding her sigil the only one to follow her.

Jon looks back at Ramsay and sees a lecherous grin on his face. "She's a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed," He says, laughing slightly when Jon's face dips closer to fury. His eyes rove over Jon's men, a cruel light glimmering within. "And you're all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven't fed them in seven days. They're ravenous! I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough."

"Or perhaps my sister will feed you to her wolf, first," Jon says. "You said you were hunting my brother's wolf, but I gather you never found him. You are still yet to see a Direwolf in person, aren't you? What do they say about the wolves of the heirs of House Stark in The North?"

Ramsay looks at Jon oddly. "They say that they're the size of horses and half-wild." Jon nods, hearing his men shift behind him. "Not trained. Can you control your wolf, bastard?"

"Better than you can control a hungry dog," he tells him.

Ramsay purses his lips, looking at Jon cooly. "Well, we shall see. In the morning then, bastard." He turns to leave but is stopped when one of his men, the man with the resemblance to The Lady Alys Karstark, pulls forward, lips pulled into a sneer.

"Alys," he spits. Alys draws forward, her husband a breath behind. "You take a Wildling to husband, and betray your house?"

"The only traitor I see here is you, uncle. You seek to make yourself a kinslayer with no cause and turn against our rightful liege lords. I know that the blood runs thick between House Stark and House Karstark, but, Winter is Coming. And I intend to be on the side that can bear against the cold, and the side of my family. You are not the heir to Karhold, uncle." She lifts her head. "I am. And Sigorn is my lawfully wedded husband. I wish you could see your folly, but I know you cannot."

"Bitch traitor," he spits.

"I am not a bitch to be sold and bred," she tells him. "House Karstark will stand once again behind House Stark, as we have since Karlon Stark made our house. That is my choice, and thus, the choice of what remains of our House in The North. I love my brother, and I will grieve bitterly for him, but I know he will not survive The Winter. So I will do what I can as his heir until the time comes. Too bad you will not see it come."

And so ends the parlay.

Jon sleeps little that night, mind filled with dreams of fire consuming Winterfell and blood running from the point of Longclaw. He glimpses Rickon's face in his dreams and sees a shadow in the shape of a wolf. When he wakes up gasping, Ghost lifts his head from where he is curled up at the foot of Jon's bed, rising slowly and nuzzling close to him.

"Hey, boy," he whispers, burying his hands in his wolf's fur, scratching at his ear. Ghost licks his hand and then his face, making Jon laugh softly, grateful for Ghost. Sansa has both the girls with her, so it's almost like how it was for so many years, Jon and Ghost with the watch in the dark of the night, the other's only companion who understood them completely.

He remembers Rickon as he last saw him, nearly dwarfed by his wolf. Robb had complained a handful of times about their wild little brother, before it all fell apart, and how he was nigh impossible to get a hand on, never mind keep him happy. He'd been four, or so when everyone he knew seemed to leave. First his father and sisters and his older brother, then his mother, and then his other older brother. Sansa had said that Theon had not killed the boys. It doesn't make Jon feel that much better.

Dawn comes, and before Jon knows it, he is astride a horse, staring out across the fields of Winterfell, breath caught in his throat as he looks at all the men Ramsay has. At the burned and flayed men who mark distances on the field. He sees Ramsay across the way, and a figure at his side. It takes Jon too long a moment to recognise Rickon.

And before he can do anything, Ramsay is raising a gleaming knife into the air. Jon feels his voice catch in his throat in panic, horror dawning over him, but Ramsay does not kill Rickon, as he expected. Instead, he seems to cut his bonds, leaning down to whisper something in his ear, pointing towards Jon. He pushes Rickon slightly, and Jon's little brother takes a few hesitant steps forward.

Ramsay motions him on. Rickon begins to run, and Jon stares in confusion, at least until he sees Ramsay motion for something. At least until he sees the bow in Ramsay's hand. "No," he whispers, and all thought spills from him as Ramsay draws his bow. He kicks his horse into gear, and the ground becomes a blur under his feet.

The first arrow flies, landing just behind Rickon, who looks back in horror. Jon's mind flashes with images that are not his own. Rickon starts to run faster. A scream lodges in Jon's throat, and he forces the horse to go just that much faster. The second arrow does much the same. The distance is closing. He can sense something, in the back of his mind. He sees himself, for a moment, through other eyes, but does not think of it, focused on Rickon and Rickon alone.

He's close enough he can see the horror in Rickon's eyes, the tears on his cheeks. Jon stretches his hand out, just in time to see the arrow hurtling straight towards Rickon. He screams, forcing himself closer. Rickon is sobbing, running as fast as he can.

But right before the arrow can slam into Rickon's back, something else does.

Jon pulls up short, staring at his little brother and the wolves that now surround him. Shaggydog, the biggest of them all, is a looming black shadow, standing protectively over Rickon, Ghost right beside him. The girls are closer to Jon, and he feels his heart leap into his throat when he sees Rickon scramble towards him, his arm bloody.

Jon looks at Ramsay, knocking his bow across the way. "Go," he says to Rickon, but when his brother does not move, he grabs him by the collar of his shirt, and says, "Take the wolves, and run! I will find you. Sansa is in the camp. Go!"

The arrow hurtles towards them, but Rickon is behind him. It slams instead into Shaggydog's shoulder, and the other wolves howl with him, Rickon joining in with his own wail. Pursing his lips, Jon grabs Rickon by the back of his shirt, whistling Nymeria over. She pads over, and lets Jon place a sobbing Rickon on her back, begging to run the second Jon says run. She was always a smart one.

Jon stares at Ramsay. Another bolt has flown, but it missed this time. His heart hammers in his chest as Ramsay draws another arrow, as it flies, as he feels pain erupt through him. But it is not his own. He looks back to where his wolf runs alongside Shaggydog, and the arrows in both of them now. He tries to kill my brother, and now he harms my wolf.

Jon looks to Ramsay and spurs his horse forward at long last.

His horse is killed beneath him not a moment later, and he collapses into the mud, groaning as he rises. His ribs scream at him, and he feels his heart sink as he feels the thunder of horse hooves under his feet, as he looks towards where the cavalry approaches him. There is no time or place left for fear within him. There is only the battle ahead.

Jeor Mormont's voice rings in his ear as he unbuckles his sword belt, and draws Longclaw, leaving the scabbard and belt in the dirt. If I am to die, let me die as a Stark. Let them say that Eddard Stark fathered four sons instead of three. Let me die here, defending my home. Sansa's voice flits past his ears, and he tightens his hold on Longclaw. If I am to die, let it be on my own terms, and on a friendly sword.

The Cavalry thunders closer. There is nothing in his mind save for blood.

The Cavalry is upon him, but to his surprise, his own men come crashing in behind him. He pauses for just a moment in horror before all his instincts flare to life, and he kills the first man who rushes towards him. Arrows rain down around him, and he finds himself nothing more than a sword, another fighter in the mêlée.

Someone's sword bites his arm. He barely feels it. Horses and men die all around him, and screams fill the air. He kills a man as he begs for mercy. Longclaw is slick with blood. Tens of men come to challenge him, and all of them die at the end of a Bastard's Valyrian Steel Sword. Jon thinks of the training yard in Castle Black from all those years ago and the friends who were once his rivals. Lord Snow.

A wall of bodies is forming. Jon stabs a man straight up through the chest and nearly screams, blood pouring down his face, but cannot say whose it is. Everywhere he looks there are corpses and men fighting, but all he can hear is the thunder of his heart in his chest. Someone slams his sword onto Jon's.

They force him to his back, and he snarls, blocking their attacks as best he can. But his panic, however much there might have been without him even realising, is short-lived as a sword slams through the man's chest, and a familiar face and strong hands haul him to his feet. Tormund holds him steady, voice rough as he says, "Hey!"

Jon pants for breath, leaning on his friend for a moment. Tormund pats his shoulder and turns to where the Free Folk are running towards them, the giant Wun Wun at the head of the charge. Jon feels himself smile, despite it all. But his joy is short-lived as he sees the approaching foot soldiers, armed with shields and spears. Swearing, he turns back to the frey.

But he is too late. The men are being encircled, blocked by the pile of corpses on one side, and a wall of shields and spears on the other. Tormund hauls him back, closer to the centre, away from any soldiers who are looking for a way to get some glory out of the day. Jon looks back at where Ramsay is, perfectly intact and separated from the battle. Then the spears drop, and slowly begin to press closer.

Men fall dead. Jon's heart is hammering in his chest, breaths coming in choppily, Longclaw held in a white knuckle grip. Then it only gets worse, as Jon turns to see men climbing over the wall of corpses, led by a man whom Jon remembers seeing at the parlay yesterday. On Ramsay's side. Jon rushes forward and kills the first man who comes too close to him and his sword.

He meets the eyes of Ramsay's man, Mors Umber, he believes. For a moment, Bastard stares at Lord, Lord stares at Bastard. The betrayed stares at the Traitor. Jon feels his jaw tick, grip on Longclaw flexing. A wash of sudden calm comes over him, and he feels like a wolf with his eyes finally on his prey. Umber's lip curls, and he takes a half step forward before being slammed to the ground by a fleeing man. Jon watches him disappear under a rush of bodies and feels horror wash over him.

He has only a moment to realise what is about to happen before he's following Umber to the ground, surrounded by corpses and blood, by death and destruction. He tries to get up, but only gets further trampled to the ground, no one paying any mind to the bodies on the floor as they do their best to avoid the pinching claws of Ramsay Bolton's foot soldiers. It is only by some miracle that he keeps a grip on Longclaw, only the memory of Jeor Mormont's voice in the back of his mind that keeps him holding onto it, stubborn to the last moment.

He told me not to lose it again, Jon thinks wildly. He wonders what the Old Bear would say if he could see him now, trapped under the crush of his own men, barely able to breathe, barely able to move. Everyone is shouting, the battlefield alight with roars of fear and desperation. He wonders, mainly, what his father would think of him if he could see him now. What any of the men he has failed could say if they saw just how far he has fallen without them?

The sun flickers above his head, in and out of sight. He gasps for breaths and tries to escape, tries to fight against the men rushing over his already aching body, but none of them pay any mind. He feels a ragged scream tear from his throat, his lungs closing as panic sets in and draws nearer with each moment. Memories of the darkness, the vast emptiness of the other side are what fill his mind now, as he lies on his back, covered in grime, and stares at the sun as it flickers in his vision.

Winterfell lies in the distance, just out of reach. The home of his youth, the walls that hold so much good in his mind, still. Winterfell is all of his family, all of the people he lost. It's strange, to not have any snow falling around them. He's never stopped imaging Winterfell as it was on that day at the end of The Long Summer, with the snow falling gently around them and melting in Robb's hair. Next time I see you, you'll be all in black.

He'd told Sansa he was tired of fighting, tired of losing to hopeless battles. And still, he'd followed her here, had he not? Followed her to the end of the world, followed her home, The Direwolf banner of House Stark snapping in the wind as they made the long journey south, the long journey home. This is not Ramsay's, not by a happenstance. It never was his. It never will be his.

Jon's ears are ringing. He can hear every gasping breath he takes in the back of his mind, can feel just how hard it is to take them with every moment. He tries to force himself upwards and gets just an inch. It's more than he had a moment ago. The sun is in his eyes, casting the world in so many shadows while it alone stays unblemished and uncovered. The sky is an endless blue, the colour of Robb's eyes. Of Sansa's eyes.

He'd wanted to protect her. He still does, but it is no longer at the expense of his life. As he struggles to breathe again and feels death clamp its bony hands around his throat, he finds something in him again. He did not expect to survive this, did not expect to live to see his home again. And maybe he wasn't even planning to. If I am to die… But as he chokes on air, and forces himself upwards with a desperate noise, he thinks he wants to live again.

He wants to go home. He wants to see Winterfell with the snow on its roofs and the fires that roar in The Great Hall. He wants to see the Stark Banner fly in the wind over their home, the castle that has always belonged to them. He wants to live, he does not want to go back to that endless black that found him after the knives in the dark came into him.

His mind flashes with a hundred images as he forces himself upwards. His father, the last time he saw him, that endless grief in his eyes. Robb, with snow in his hair and his mouth curling into a smile. Sansa, that first day in the courtyard of Castle Black, and the distance they closed. Arya, all those years ago, Needle gleaming in her hands. Bran, the first time he went to an execution, the look in his eyes when he finally faced death. And Rickon. Rickon.

Wild and young and too good for this deathly world. He'd looked at Jon like he was the sun and the stars, and the way his eyes had flashed with something bigger than both of them right before Shaggydog had barreled into him and saved his life. Running away, a blur on his sister's wolf's back, hair like flame. He is the true innocent left of them all, or that's what Jon needs to believe.

He drags himself up through the press of bodies, the eye in a storm of bloody and beaten men. Longclaw is in his hand. Bears have claws, and so do wolves. He gasps in deep breaths, looking to the sky like it is the first he's ever seen of it. Every breath he takes feels like a gift, like something he finally wants again. They'd killed him, and only now is he alive.

He remembers a promise made. If I am to die, let it be on my own terms, and on a friendly sword. The war is not over, the battle is not lost, not yet. He will not kill his sister, not yet, not until it is truly the final hour, the darkest of nights. The Hour of The Wolf is their hour, and yet, it has not come to call, not yet. He still lives. She still lives. They must both survive this.

And then, like a ray of sun in the darkest night, he hears horns blowing in the distance.

Gasping for one more breath, he looks towards where the sound came from and feels his heart soar in his chest when he sees a crescent moon with a falcon flying towards it, on a field of blue, the colour of the evening sky. The Knights of The Vale, he thinks, heart hammering in his chest as they draw closer with each moment, as he sees the panic rising in the expressions of The Bolton Soldiers. Sansa did it. They came for her.

For a single wild and traitorous moment, he thinks it's over. They cut through the unprepared soldiers like a knife through water, throwing the already chaotic field into even further turmoil as the pursuers find themselves pursued. At long last, the crush of bodies around him lets up and people finally take notice of their Lord and Commander pushing through the crowd, towards where he can spy Tormund.

A man in bronze armour draws up to him, his eyes sharp and grey as they analyse Jon. There is a little blood and gore on this valeman's armour, and Jon knows that he must be quite a sight, covered in blood, most of which he is pretty sure is not his own. "You are Lord Snow?" The man asks him, hands tightening on his reigns as The Knights of the Vale guard him and Jon while they speak. He must be some sort of commander, then, Jon thinks, glancing around. Or the commander.

"Aye, I am," he says, voice rough and breathless. The valeman nods and squares his shoulders under Jon's gaze. "My sister–"

"Asked me to ensure your survival, Lord Snow," the man says, and if his voice drips at the bastard surname, Jon does not notice it, as a horse is drawn up for him. He gets up on it without another thought, gritting his teeth against the pain that claws through him at the movement, meeting the valeman's eyes. The man meets his eyes. "I am Yohn Royce. Your sister also told me to tell you to not lose yourself."

Jon looks towards where Ramsay watches the battle from the crest of a hill, squaring his jaw and promising little. Tormund rushes to his side at that moment, and Jon knows that it is contempt he sees on The Valeman–Royce's–face when he spies the man. But even then, Jon orders a horse for Tormund and kicks his horse into gear after Ramsay when he sees him turn tail. He hears Wun Wun's thunderous footsteps behind him, rattling the ground. Tens of men follow their commander.

Winterfell looms on the horizon, a testament to a hundred lives, a hundred dreams. I am Jon Snow of Winterfell, he thinks as his horse runs like the wind under him, eyes locked on the towers that the flayed man of House Bolton flies from. And they are in my home. I will rip them out, root and stem, condemn their House to the darkest of the Hells. I will take back my home. Our home.

Winterfell is his family's, belongs to them. All he'd been able to focus on when he got Ramsay's letter was the titles he gave himself, the titles that only belonged to him because of what he did to Sansa. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The corners of his vision darken, and he spurs his horse on even faster, heedless of anything beyond the target in his eyes, the thoughts of what he will do to Ramsay when he gets his hands on him.

Blood for blood, he thinks. His mind is ablaze, higher thought replaced by baseline instincts. You may not have my name, but you have my blood. 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 comes to a stop at the closed gates of Winterfell. He imagined he'd come back someday, but never like this, never to gates closed to him, never with blood covering most of him, not with his head pounding and an anger so deep it's almost terrifying filling his body. It's a dark hole in his heart. This gate is nothing. He remembers the carnage of the gate that Grenn held. It had held and had almost cost Grenn his life. That was wrought iron. This is wood. They have a giant.

He does not have to say anything to Wun Wun, he just simply has to look at that Giant, and feel that silent understanding pass between them. Tormund draws up next to him, half of his face utterly drenched in blood, the origins of which Jon does not think he wants to know, at least not yet. Later, he repeats in his head like a mantra, like a prayer. Later, once we have Winterfell. Once it is in our hands again. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

Wun Wun slams into the door. Jon can hear the distant sounds of battle behind him, shouting men and the screams of the dying. None of it registers. All he can see is the arrows that pierce The Giant's flesh, the wood he breaks under his hands like it is nothing. Tormund told him that he'd slammed a man of The Night's Watch who dared fire upon them when they came to guard his body into a wall so hard that the blood had to be scrubbed from the stone.

Jon feels a dark spark of something unfamiliar and wholly terrifying but completely welcome open in his heart and swallow him whole as the first gate breaks open and as they rush towards the second one that Wun Wun has already gotten to work on. The Bolton men had not raised the drawbridge in their wild flee back to Winterfell, and they thunder over the moat, unhindered, as all the arrows go to the giant who breaks through the gate with an unstoppable fury.

And finally, at long last he rushes into the courtyard of his youth. A hundred memories press at the edge of his vision. Of Robb and Theon, training as boys under Ser Rodrick's sharp gaze. Of their father, watching from above. Of the wolves, playing in piles of snow. Of the King, riding in like he owned the whole place. Of Robb, with snow in his hair and a smile on his face that Jon would kill to see again. And in the centre of it stands Ramsay Bolton, a bow at his side and horror in his eyes.

This is Jon's home. He has passed through those gates a hundred and half times. Winterfell would never hinder him, never deny him, a Stark in all but name. Jon draws short, and before he knows it, he is on his own two feet, Longclaw in his hand, bloody and heavy. He looks to Wun Wun, on his knees and groaning, and reaches out–

Only to flinch back as an arrow takes The Last Giant in the eye. Jon feels his heart leap into his throat, and everything halts to a stop as he watches Wun Wun breathe his last and fall to the ground, dead. An eerie silence falls over the Courtyard, and hundreds of eyes are on him as he slowly looks at Ramsay, who is lowering his bow with a look in his eyes that makes Jon's blood boil.

"You suggested one-on-one combat," Ramsay says, a manic light in his eyes. Jon forces his breath to even as the courtyard halts to a standstill, most of Ramsay's men dead and dying in the mud, Jon's men standing tall, bows and swords drawn. He can see Tormund in the corner of his eye, bloody and horrible, and probably looking no better than he does. Ramsay shrugs, smiling slightly, eyes carving into Jon. "I've reconsidered. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."

Jon moves like the wind, fast and silent and deadly. Longclaw escapes his grasp at last as he rushes forward to take a shield in hand, raising it to his defence just in time for an arrow to embed itself into it. For a moment, Jon is frozen where he stands, heart hammering in his chest, rage darkening the corners of his eyes. But then he takes a step forward, and then another, and Ramsay is aiming–

Another arrow slams into the shield. Jon grits his teeth, body aching and wounded. The arrow was inches from his face, but he does not fear death, not like he did in that press of bodies. But he is not blind to it anymore. If I am to die, let me die a Stark, in the home they stole from me. He keeps walking, Ramsay drawing closer and getting more panicked with each breath that passes between them.

One more arrow. Jon is focused on Ramsay and only Ramsay, his mind ablaze with a hundred memories, a hundred images. Ramsay's eyes are wide and Jon is almost there. Ramsay knocks and starts to draw, but Jon has finally crossed the distance, and slams the shield into Ramsay without a thought, throwing it aside and getting down to straddle the man, his shirt clenched in his bloody hand.

Punch. Jon's mind burns. Sansa, in the courtyard of Castle Black, terrified and gaunt, holding onto him like he was the only safe harbour left to her. Punch. Her back, bruised and cut and bleeding, his hands splaying flat as he was forced to stitch his little sister back together. Punch. Sansa's voice, a song in the dark, spinning a tale of pain and grief. Punch. Punch. Punch. One more, just one more, until the images are burned away.

Rickon's wide and terrified eyes as he ran to Jon. The letter. He punches harder, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, drown out his thoughts, burn everything out of him. Ramsay's pale blue eyes meet his, and he sees a delight in them that makes him hit harder. His hand aches. Nothing hurts as much as seeing The Bolton banner fly over Winterfell did. Nothing Jon can do to him will take the wounds back, will erase the lashings in his heart. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother.

This man's father betrayed Robb. Jon is going to beat him to death. He's going to kill Ramsay Bolton. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see. The courtyard is filling with men, voices rising in the distance, but all Jon Snow knows is the feeling of his fist connecting with Ramsay Bolton's face, over and over again. It is nothing. It is everything and more. He deserves to die. He deserves to feel more than an inch of the pain he caused. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister.

He feels eyes on him, a familiar weighty gaze, and pauses at last. His chest heaves up and down as he gasps for breaths that won't come, tears blurring in his vision. Ramsay's face is unrecognisable. Jon's hand is broken. His shoulders shake and he finally looks towards the eyes and sees Sansa standing there, her hair red as blood, untouched by the dirt and grime of the battle. Lady is at her side.

Jon glances back at Ramsay. Some of the men are looking at him like they don't recognise him, like a stranger has taken the place of their Lord. He looks back at Ramsay. All he can see is blood, blood that drips from his glove. He slowly rises to his feet, wondering when he became a man like that, when he started to be that angry bastard boy he was when he left these walls. He looks at Sansa again, and finally leaves Ramsay.

Davos and Tormund draw close to him as he slowly limps to his sister and her wolf. "Davos," he says, turning to look at the man, keeping his voice low. The man nods at him, and he glances between the Knight and Tormund. "My brother–Rickon. I sent him back to the camp with the wolves. Bring him here, please. Can I trust you to do so?"

"Aye," He says, eyes roving over him for a moment before he turns and goes to find a horse. Jon thinks it's the same one he was given, the one he pressed hard in pursuit of getting here. He watches them go for a moment, turning to a man who approaches, still feeling Sansa's eyes on him, well aware that she is waiting.

"Take him to The Kennels," he says, grabbing the man by the arm. He looks at him with wide eyes, pausing as he sees the look in Jon's eyes before nodding sharply and turning away, shouting orders. Finally, Jon breathes deeply and turns to Sansa, who crosses the last of the distance, hesitating right before she gets to him. The eyes are all on them. Jon knows propriety would say that they'd save the emotions for later, but he's never really been one for propriety.

He hugs her with one arm, breathing deeply for a moment. When they pull away, her eyes are bright with tears that shine in the corner of her eyes, and she cradles his face between her hands, smiling wanly. "We're home," she whispers, and he has to smile, hardly believing it. Both of them look around the courtyard, at the Bolton Banners that hang all over like a taunt. His jaw ticks.

Her thumb runs over his cheek, and he looks back at her, pulling her in for another hug. "We're home," he echoes, and they stay there for a moment, snow finally starting to fall slowly around them. For the first time since Winterfell was stolen from them by Theon Greyjoy, there are not only Starks in Winterfell, but they are once more the Lords of their Home. House Stark has returned, at last, to its seat.

"You need to clean your face," she says, and they pull away a little as the Knight of the Vale from before draws closer to them, Longclaw in his hand. Jon feels himself wince, remembering Jeor Mormont's words from all those years ago. He looks to the shield he abandoned as he slammed into Ramsay, and feels his heart hammer in his chest as he recognises the bear sigil on it.

"My lord," he says, handing Jon his sword back, before bowing slightly to Sansa. "Princess."

With a glance at Jon, she takes a step closer to the man. "Jon, this is Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, and commander of The Knights of the Vale. You two met on the field?" Jon nods, hand flexing on the pommel of Longclaw. Royce's eyes rove over him for a moment, as if taking stock of him. Then, he smiles, ever so slightly.

"You are the very picture of your father at your age, Lord Snow," he says. Jon suddenly remembers his father's youth spent in the Eyrie. It's no small chance that the man before him knew his father well. Perhaps he even knew his mother…but Jon does not try and ask. "If I may steal your sister away for a time, to coordinate some things?"

He glances at her, and she nods, smiling gently at him. "Secure the keep, Jon. I will return shortly. I must treat with Lord Baelish." Jon feels his jaw tick at that, and he exchanges a glance with Royce, a sort of understanding passing between him and the man, who nods at him. So, Jon nods, and Sansa goes with Lord Royce, Lady, a shadow at her back.

He goes through the motions, ordering men around, trying to pretend exhaustion isn't clawing up his throat. Servants bustle around, and when they see him, they look away in fear. He feels his heart clench in his chest. He does not ever intend to be another Ramsay. Now that Winterfell is back in its rightful hands, there will be no unnecessary bloodshed here again, not while he has a say in it. The Starks of Winterfell have returned. The North can breathe a sigh of relief.

But he recognises so few of them. There's no Old Nan, crowing at the children from somewhere. Mikken isn't in his forge, with an easy smile. Ser Rodrick isn't yelling at Jon to get his ass in gear and stop standing around. Jory isn't crossing across the yard, sword swinging at his side. The girls' Septa isn't rushing after the pair of them. Lord Poole isn't ordering men around, eyes glimmering kindly. Hodor's gentle voice isn't in the back of his mind. This is his home, but everyone who made it is gone.

His father isn't watching him from above. Jon looks towards where the crypts are. Lady Catelyn isn't here. Half of his siblings are lost to him. He feels his heart strain in his chest, and he glares at the banners that still fall, turning with half the mind to tear them down himself, only to be stopped by an older woman approaching him. He only vaguely recognises her, but she seems to very much recognise him. He hesitates as she stops in front of him and bows slightly, looking as hesitant as him.

"M'lord," she says, voice warbly and afraid. He tilts his head at her, nodding for her to continue when she doesn't. With a nervous glance around the courtyard, she lowers her voice and looks away from him as she says, "Some Stark Banners were saved, m'lord. Kept them in the crypts, where the Leech Lord had no interest. I could gather a few men and have them put out–"

"Yes," Jon breathes, before pausing, looking at her wide eyes. He clears his throat. "Sorry. Yes, please do." He glances around, and squares his shoulders and jaws, raising his voice so all can hear. "I want every Bolton sigil torn down and burned before nightfall! Winterfell is in the hands of House Stark once more!" He raises Longclaw into the air, and many of the soldiers follow him with a cry, before getting on with their task. He turns to look at the woman again and smiles kindly at her.

"Thank you," he whispers.

—

Sansa's eyes rove over him once more as she crosses the mess that has become the courtyard, her hair pinned back and her cheeks flush. Lady still follows her steps, and when Sansa pauses at his side, Lady buts against him, looking for pets. He pets her absentmindedly, swallowing tightly as he feels Sansa's eyes scan carefully over him, as he sees her mouth curl into a frown from the corner of his vision.

"Where is he?" She asks, her voice rough. Jon is resisting the urge to lean against his sword, to let any of his exhaustion show. He closes his eyes briefly as his vision sways, but they fly open and to her when she grabs him by the elbow to steady him. Her blue eyes bear into him as she takes a step closer, seemingly heedless of how messy and bloody he is. "Jon. Where is he?"

"The men put him in the kennels," he replies, and her face goes blank for a moment, something cold washing over her, over him. She purses her lips and nods, glancing in the direction of the kennels. She reaches out slowly to cradle his broken hand, and he can't help but inhale sharply as she holds it gently. Still, he continues, voice rough and exhausted, "He's yours to do what you see fit to."

"Thank you, Jon," she says. They stare at one another for a moment, his mangled hand in hers. He's covered in mud, sweat, blood, and who knows what else, while she might be the cleanest person around, even after their earlier hug. Half his face is covered in blood that isn't all his, still, even though he'd wiped some of it off earlier. Her expression tightens further as she reaches up to brush a hair back from his face. "You need to see a Maester."

He shakes his head, heedless of how that makes her expression darken. "No," he says. "Not yet. Ser Davos and Tormund–I told them to find Rickon and the wolves. I sent him back to the camp after The Wolves saved him. I have to be here when they bring him back. I promised I'd be waiting for him." His vision sways again, and he groans, leaning properly on his sword now.

"You need to see a Maester, Jon," she presses, but she's cut off by a single blast of the horn. He glances at her and sees her, torn between what she knows is coming and her own vengeance.

"Go," he tells her gently. "Deal with Bolton. I'll bring him to the Maester with me, promise. Meet us there."

"I'll hold you to it," she says, turning to leave. But both of their eyes snap towards the remains of the ruined gate as someone cries riders approaching, and he feels all the air in his lungs leave his chest when he catches the sight of two familiar figures on horseback, three wolves dogging their steps. He hears Sansa laugh in something almost like disbelief, and she drops his hand as they dismount. He glances at her, and she nods once more, before leaving him alone for this reunion.

He hears Rickon before he sees him. He must have been on Tormund's horse because the man seems to be fighting with an armful of little boy, whose voice carries across the courtyard as he shrieks and wails and protests. Glancing only once more towards Sansa, Jon walks over slowly, limping with every step he takes. She is very much right, in that regard. He needs to see a Maester, and soon.

"Let go of me!" Rickon is screeching, writhing in Tormund's arms, even as he and Ser Davos try to calm him down, reassure him that everything is alright. Jon catches sight of his wide and terrified eyes, of his tear-stained cheeks, and quickens his pace as much as he possibly can. Rickon seems to be beating a first against Tormund's chest.

Davos notices him first, opening his mouth to say something, but Jon pretty much ignores him, shoving Longclaw in his general direction as he approaches Tormund and his little brother. Tormund's eyes meet his, and they exchange a nod that has the man releasing Rickon with a stern but kind look. Rickon stares at the man, crouched in front of him, face half covered in blood, for a long moment, before finally following his gaze.

Rickon bursts into tears the second he sees Jon, stumbling forward into his waiting arms with enough force to almost knock Jon down. He, instead, crouches down much like Tormund had, cradling the back of Rickon's head, pressing him close. His brother doesn't seem to care one bit about all the shit Jon is covered with, doesn't even flinch when Jon readjusts and stands up slowly, holding him in his arms.

He didn't use to be this big, Jon thinks inanely. Rickon is clinging to every bit of Jon he can get a hold of, and when Jon meets Davos and Tormund's eyes, they exchange a look between themselves, and then both look at Jon with stern, resolute expressions. Saying nothing, they wave him along, a silent promise hanging in the air that they have it from here. The wolves, of course, follow.

Jon stops as soon as they're out of the courtyard, setting Rickon down in a hallway so he can crouch down and get a better look at him. He knows his tears are cutting through the blood and gore on his face, but save for a few specks of dirt, Rickon's cheeks are largely filled with just tears. Jon makes a face, reaching up with his uninjured hand to brush the tears away.

"Jon?" Rickon blubbers and Jon feels his heart stutter in his chest. Not trusting his voice, he nods, but whatever reservations he has about crying clearly don't exist in his brother. He starts wailing all over again, throwing himself forward into Jon's arms all over again. He feels it a bit more this time, forcing himself to take deep breaths as his chest explodes in pain.

Somewhere, in the distance, someone starts screaming. Rickon looks around wildly, but Jon stops him with a hand on his jaw, and a fierce look that has Rickon looking at him in worry. "You're home now," he tells his little brother, voice no louder than a whisper. Rickon is shaking in his hold, so he holds him tighter, strengthens his voice, pours every ounce of strength and resolve that he has left into this moment, "Nothing will hurt you here, never again. We have taken our home back. The people who stole it from us are dead. Do you understand?"

Rickon nods, and Jon finds the strength to smile tightly. His baby brother lets him bundle him up in his arms, saying nothing as Jon continues the long trek up to the Maester's tower, which is swimming with healers and Maesters from other bannermen and the sick and dying. Jon feels his exhaustion creep closer with every step, but blessedly, everyone moves for him when they see and recognise him.

The main Maester, whose name he is yet to catch, sweeps in the second he sees them, leading Jon forward to a private room. Jon hands Rickon off to him the second the door shuts, smiling reassuringly at his little brother as he's set down and led to a chair. He doesn't know about Rickon, but he certainly recognises what once was Maester Luwin's main private study room. It was, after all, one of Father's favourite places to send Robb and him for a time out.

He sags heavily against the wall as The Maester speaks to Rickon, getting a smile out of the boy in a few moments. Jon tries to smile at that, but his head is spinning and his body is aching everywhere. Pressing his uninjured hand to his bruised and slashed stomach, he cradles his mangled hand close to his chest, leaning his head against the wall and panting heavily for breath. The Maester and Rickon's voices swim around him, and he feels Ghost press against him, almost keeping him upright.

Odd, he thinks, I didn't realise they'd come in with us.

He nearly falls forward, saved only by Ghost pressing him back to the wall. He can almost hear Rickon's worried voice, and can almost feel a sort of guilt that Rickon has to see him like this through the utter haze of exhaustion that is crashing over him, never mind the pain. He does hear, however, when The Maester gently calls, "My lord?"

He peels his eyes open and tries to stand upright, only to fall forward, straight into the man. Rickon shouts something, and so does the Maester, and before Jon knows it, the door is opening quickly, and two sets of strong arms are dragging him over to a cot that has been procured from somewhere. He hears a familiar pattern of steps through the haze and peels his eyes open just in time to see Sansa sweep in, Lady on her heels, shutting the door behind her.

She embraces Rickon gently and speaks to him in a tone too low for Jon to hear as the Maester busies himself around the room, sending worried glances back at Jon every so often. Jon runs his hand over his face, loosening the glove on his good hand with his teeth and throwing it down at his side. The movement makes his body ache, and he groans loudly, which makes Sansa send him a worried look.

Rickon's hand in hers, she comes over to his side, letting Rickon sit next to him on the cot as she crouches next to him. She gently pulls his shoulder up, and he follows, propping himself up on his elbows, allowing her to remove the binding that is holding his hair back. He collapses back onto the cot with a tired sigh.

"Sansa," he finally says, looking her dead in the eyes, and doing his best to ignore Rickon at his side. The wolves are guarding the side of the door, silent as ever. He's home. And yet, "I don't want Rickon to see. Take him to the other Maester, and have them check you, as well. And the wolves, Shaggy and Ghost took arrows. Is he dead?" She nods, and he chuckles tiredly. "Good. I think I'm going to be here for a little while. But, I don't want him to…"

"I'm right here!" Rickon protests, pressing closer to Jon like that will make it impossible for him to be dragged away from him. "You said I was home! I want to stay with you, and I'm not going to leave you alone too. I'm not a baby! I can see whatever it is you don't want me to see, I promise!"

"I know you're not," Jon tells him with a tired smile, reaching up to brush a hair away from his little brother's face. His brother may insist otherwise, but he is just a child. A baby, no, but a child, certainly. Too young to see…to see what happened to his big brother while he was out of reach. "But I don't want you to see this, Rickon. Go with Sansa, and listen to her. You'll have Lady and Shaggy with you, okay? I won't be alone. And I'm sure Maester…"

"Wolkan, my lord," The Maester replies as he approaches, setting a few things down on a nearby table. Jon nods at the man, clearing his throat before continuing.

"Maester Wolkan will let you back as soon as I'm a little less bloody and I have a new shirt on. I just need you to be patient, and listen to your sister," he says, and the Maester nods, resting a hand on Rickon's shoulder. He and Sansa lock eyes for a long moment, and Jon makes a mental note to see if he's another man who should be punished for serving the Boltons. But when Sansa nods at the man, and he sees the look in his eyes, he thinks he probably won't have to. "Okay? Can you do that for me?"

Rickon looks wildly between them all, tears rolling down his face again, tears that Jon wipes away as best as he can. Sansa does a better job of it, letting him throw himself into her arms and he looks at them all like he's been betrayed by them all. Jon feels his heart pang. "But I just got you back."

"And I'm not going anywhere, either, Rickon," Jon tells him. "You aren't losing me."

"Your brother is right, my lord," Wolkan interjects kindly. "I will take good care of him, I promise you. And you will be the first person I let back in, you and Lady Stark, if it pleases Lord…Snow?" Jon nods, and the man nods as well. Again, he and Sansa exchange a long look. "But now, I have to help your brother. Lady Stark, would you…?"

Sansa scoops Rickon up into her arms without another word, whistling softly and calling Lady and Shaggydog's names as she sweeps out of the door. The pair of them follow without a noise, but Sansa does glance back once, meeting Jon's eyes from across the way. Blue meets Grey, and he squares his jaw and nods, just before she disappears from sight again via the closing door.

Now alone with the Maester, Jon feels the last of his shabbily built defences crumble, and the full weight of his exhaustion and injuries crash over him. Despite that, the Maester still makes him sit up, just so he can take some Milk of the Poppy, and they can start on getting Jon out of his blood-soaked and mud-covered clothes.

Getting out of his jerkin is easy enough. The glove on the hand he punched into Ramsay's face over and over again they end up cutting away, and neither Jon nor the Maester can hide their wince as they see the mess of dripping blood and blooming bruises that his knuckles have become. They avoid his shirt for as long as possible, with Wolkan focusing on getting his face clean and the nasty slash on his brow at least in the beginning stages of being tended to.

But when they do get the shirt and bracers finally off, the Maester pauses for a long moment at the sight of the two ugly red scars. One over his heart, the other over his ribs. Next to them, the long slash at his side and all the vaguely boot-shaped bruises seem almost like nothing. Jon drags his eyes to the man and sees a burgeoning understanding begin to bloom between them.

This had been what he hadn't wanted Rickon to see. Not the bruises, not the cut, not even the scars around his eyes that had been hidden by all the blood on it. No, it was the two wounds from The Wall, the scar over his heart where a boy around his age had shoved a knife into Jon's heart. He doesn't need to know that Jon failed as he did. He doesn't need to see something that awful.

At some point or another, he ends up dozing off or, more likely, passing out from pain and exhaustion. Which it is, he cannot recall. When he wakes up the first time, he's in the same room, candles burning low around him, the Maester at his desk. He blinks at the man, mind sleep-addled enough that he can barely register he's crossing the room until he's at Jon's side, propping him up and making him sip something. Milk of the Poppy, he thinks, before he falls back asleep.

When he wakes up, he's in his old room.

He blinks at the ceiling once or twice, barely noticing the weight at the end of the bed, never mind the weight pressed close against his side. But then he tries to move, and feels the pull of bandages, and everything comes back to him, right when the presence at his side starts squirming. Closing his eyes, he pulls Rickon closer with a grin, heedless of his protests.

At some point, though, Rickon does weasel his way out of Jon's grip to leer over him, smiling crookedly down at him when Jon peels his eyes open. Feeling another set of eyes on him, he glances towards the door to see Sansa standing in it, her eyes shining as he smiles. Pushing Rickon away gently, he sits up and opens his arms to her.

He does not know how long the three of them sit in his old bed together, the wolves curling close around them. He doesn't even know for how long he slept, how he got here, or if Rickon and the wolves's wounds have been tended to. What he does know, though, is that with the three of them here, with the four wolves, it means half of their family, half of their pack, is now home. He holds them both close, feeling Sansa's hand intertwine with the one he'd mangled.

It's covered in bandages. Under his shirt, (which he is almost certain is borrowed), he can feel bandages that have been carefully wrapped around him. He can feel one at the edge of his brow. His entire body was beaten black and blue out there, but it was worth it in the end, because they have come home. The Starks of Winterfell have returned, at last, to the home that was stolen from them.

And really, all that means is that when they turn to look for the rest of their pack, when they howl into the night, when Winter comes crashing down, their family will once again have somewhere to come home to. There will be a Stark in Winterfell, there will be the blood of a hundred generations in these halls, and they will all have a home to come back to. Robb and Arya and Bran will know where to go, when they manage to find a way to come home. They have a home again.

---

anyway, notes:
-what a MONSTER of a chapter. there is a two-page diagram about the strength of the north at the start of this chapter on my doc, and when i say I've been cooking this chapter up for a while, I'm not joking. i kinda just had to, you know? this is the longest chapter yet, and i just had so much to say. however, in classing TheTenthSunrise fashion, i wrote this pretty much backwards. because of course.

-the north is loyal. i don't know what d&d were smoking w that particular s6 plotline but i am gleefully rewriting it for them. the north loves their starks hates their boltons and while they're not sending everyone, they're still sending ppl. please note that many lords are still sitting pretty w robb in casterly rock (or in the case of most of the mormonts + galbart, conveniently missing) and the ones who are here are not the lords paramount. its quite a collection

-are the wolves convenient? yes, but shut up, I'm letting the little one live. rickon is a baby and i will do my very best to not leave him forgotten. no promises, but, you know how it is.

-jon lmao. boy has gotten his ass beat, and would like to lay in bed forever and see no one ever again save for his siblings. unfortunately, i do not think the north will take "I'm tired and want to sleep" as an excuse, nor would sansa. and unfortunately for jon, shes willing to drag his ass out of bed if it comes to it, LMAO

next up, sansa, jon, and rickon solidify their hold on the north...