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)

18. THE WHITE WOLF IV

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE WHITE WOLF IV

Jon Snow, now revealed to be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, deals with the weight of his parentage. A fifth wolf arrives home, and House Stark plans how to navigate the coming storm, while making their enemies pay for the blood that was shed.

---

Once, when Jon was maybe eight or nine, his supposed father, Lord Eddard Stark found him standing in the crypts, staring up at the stony visage of one Lyanna Stark. Jon, with his eyes on her face, had not been able to see the man he thought to be his father pause, and would never know how he so very desperately searched his face for hints of his sister, finding everything that everyone thought came from him in the boy. Things that really came from the bones that his son was standing before, having no idea of what the truth of them all was.

"Jon," He would finally say to break the never-ending silence of the crypts, voice soft and so very gentle, resting his hand on his shoulder and squeezing it once. Jon remembers this well enough, remembers his father asking him why he was visiting his Aunt Lyanna's statue. Asking, with a thread of desperation that Jon was far too young to pick up on, what drew him to this statue.

He didn't know that Ned's chest was so tight that he could hardly breathe, and would never know how his heart had ached an awful tune when Jon simply said that she'd looked lonely. The flowers he'd left earlier in the week were already close to dead at her feet. Jon had relit the candle in her hand, and they both watched the candlelight flicker against the stone for a long moment, Ned's hand still on Jon's shoulder.

In that moment, Jon was thinking about all the stories he'd heard of his Aunt Lyanna, how everyone said that she was beautiful and wild and free, how everyone in The North always seemed to still love her. How his father never seemed to love anything half as much as her. He was thinking about what it would be like to die alone of a fever, so far from home, and he felt a pang of fear unlike anything else run through him like an arrow to the heart.

Ned, though, was thinking about the truth. How she'd held his hand so tightly, how she'd begged him as she bled and died. Sometimes, he can still feel her blood, hot, red, and sticky, against his fingers like a phantom weight that will never let him truly go. Promise me, Ned, her voice whispers every time he sees her little boy, every time he smiles and Ned sees her in his face, beautiful and long gone.

"She's not alone," Ned had finally said, and Jon had looked up at him, and seen that sad look in his eyes he always seemed to get whenever he spoke about his sister or any of his family. Gesturing to the statues of Brandon and Rickard Stark, he'd crouched down in front of Jon, smiling softly. "My father and my brother–your grandfather and your uncle–look out for her, even in death. Just like they look out for you, Robb, Sansa, Arya, and the babe."

"Really?" He'd asked, smile as wide as it would ever really get. And with all the excitement of a little boy who didn't know enough of the world to see the grief and the guilt in his father's eyes, he'd looked at the three silent statues and felt excitement run up his spine. "Then ghosts are real! Robb says they're not."

"I don't know about ghosts," Ned said, grabbing Jon's hand and squeezing it, drawing his eyes back to him. "But I know that any Stark who lies in this crypt is kept safe by it, that they have achieved peace through their entombment here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Jon. Everyone who lies in these tunnels was once that Stark. And their bones and blood will now forever lie within Winterfell's walls. One day…" He'd looked away, a dark shadow coming over his eyes.

"Father?"

"It is nothing, Jon," he'd finally replied, getting to his feet and patting Jon on the shoulder, before jerking his head towards the entrance to the crypts. "Now, get on. Maester Luwin is looking for you, and Ser Rodrick wants you and Robb in the yard before dinner."

Jon had scampered away then, thoughts of his father's unfinished thought fading away before long. But had he seen how Eddard Stark looked as he watched him go, if he could sense how hard the man's heart was beating, or if he saw the silent tears…perhaps he would not have forgotten. If he had seen the man reach up to cup a stony cheek, running his gloved thumb over it, perhaps he would think that maybe, just maybe, Eddard Stark also had to tell himself that his beloved Lyanna was not truly alone.

—

Jon sighs as he stares at the stony visage of his mother's face, fingers clenching at his side as he resists the urge to touch her cheek, a strange urge that he can't quite explain. Every time he gets the time to steal away to the crypts, he stares at her face, trying to see himself in her, see what comes from her and what belongs to Rhaegar…his father.

He shakes his head and begins to turn away, but his eye catches again on her face. He smiles tightly at her, at the flickering candle he lit in her hand, the wax that drips slowly down her open palm. He opens his mouth to say something to her, some senseless apology or explanation to a grave that has no ears, but he catches himself before he does, feeling like half a fool and half a desperate little boy. He wanted her name for the whole of his life, and now all he wants is to go back to how it was. But that's not how life works, is it?

Finally, he manages to drag himself away from her and heads silently towards the solar that he knows Sansa is in. Bran is somewhere or another, and Rickon is in his lessons, so at least he has time to talk to her one on one, without any annoying little brothers around. The thought of how either of them would react to that comment makes him smile slightly and quicken his pace towards her.

She beams as he comes in, beckoning him over to the desk. "I just sent our letters out to Robb," she tells him, and he smiles wider, grabbing her hand and squeezing it once. "Hopefully we'll have a reply in a few days, and then we can start planning what to do next." Her brows knit together with a frown, and he sees some of her exhaustion creeping in. "I don't like what he said, about The Dragon Queen, though. He might not be able to stand against her alone, not without all his allies around him." Without us, she seems to want to say.

"Me neither," Jon agrees, but what can they do about it? Robb's letters had been like a sudden summer day in the middle of Winter, and though they only came the day before, both he and Sansa had been desperate to get word back to him. Even now, the thought that Robb is free but in the company of Daenerys Targaryen, Jon's own aunt, makes his mind spin in a hundred directions. "But he said he had the Bannermen."

Robb's letter to him is still in his pocket, heavy and unable to be forgotten. Robb had promised both of them that he was not a prisoner, but Jon knows Robb well enough to sense his uncertainty even when it's nothing more than words on a page. He might have the bannermen, but he doesn't have his family. Jon wants to be comforted by him having the men with him, but Jon will only be assured of his brother's safety when he is in these walls, with his family, with his House. With Jon.

Sansa nods mutely, her lips pursed, but any further comment is stopped by a knock at the door. Jon comes to stand behind her, hand resting on the back of her chair as she calls for whoever is on the other side to enter. Both he and Sansa exchange a glance when two guards enter, looking nervous and worried. Straightening in her chair, Sansa says, her voice cool but not unkind, the voice that would be expected of The Lady of Winterfell, "What is it?"

"There's a girl, m'lady, m'lord, saying she's Arya Stark," One of them says, hesitantly. His eyes widen as both Jon and Sansa freeze, their eyes both bearing deep into him. Jon feels some pity for him that he has to be at the receiving end of their gazes, but his pity is far outshined by how his heart is beginning to pound in his chest. "We told her to wait so we could send for someone who could confirm her identity. We were standing right next to her, and…"

"And when we'd turned around, she'd gone," the other fills in. They sit there for a moment in silence before he blurts out again. "She was nothing. Some winter town girl. Comes in asking for some Ser Rodrik…"

"Rodrik, yeah. And Maester Luwin."

Jon's heart might just stop again in his chest. He might just drop dead all over again, and there is no Red Witch to bring him back this time. Sansa is still as a board next to him, and he reaches down to squeeze her shoulder for strength as the soldiers exchange a worried glance and continue.

"Luwin, yeah–Don't trouble yourself over it, m'lady, m'lord. We'll find her."

"You don't have to," Sansa says, voice rough as she rises to her feet. "I know where she is. You are free to go. Be on the lookout for a wolf."

They leave with another glance between themselves, and as soon as the door is closed, Sansa is whirling towards Jon, her face carrying a dangerous hope in it, her breaths shaky and loud. She grabs his hands and squeezes them, licking her lips as their eyes meet. "She'll be in the crypts," she says, and he nods mutely, unable to speak, unable to think around the thought that Arya might just be home. "I will go find her, make sure it's really her. Wait in the Godswood. If it is her, I'll send her to you."

He sends her a look, but she does not back down from it. "I want to believe that it is her as much as you, but I cannot be sure until I see her. And what would you do, Jon, if the girl was not her? What would you do to the girl who dared to pretend to be her?" He looks away, well aware of the fact that Sansa knows damn well what she's speaking of. She knows Jon well enough to know what the answer is. She knows, maybe better than anyone, how that would break him in two. She knows what that would spiral him into.

She squeezes his hands, and kisses his cheek, her shaking breaths betraying her fear. "I will find our sister. Wait for her in The Godswood."

He nods, and they leave together, only parting as she heads to the crypts and he to the Godswood. The whole way over, the wind rustles through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, but he barely notes it, mind miles away. He barely even notices when Ghost comes slinking out of some shadow near the mouth of the Godswood and starts following him, ever his white shadow.

And so there he waits, staring at the face of The Heart Tree. He thinks of her as he last saw her, and the thought makes his heart feel torn apart. It's been years since he last saw her, since he said goodbye and gave her Needle. He thought he'd get to see her again. He never got that wish. Arya disappeared, and though he never wanted to speak it out loud, some dark part of his mind was beginning to think her dead, despite what his heart and that distant tug in the back of his mind said. And now–

He first hears the familiar sound of snow crunching under boots, and at his side, Ghost seems to tense in interest. Eyes dig into his back, a familiar feeling, the silence stretching between them. The footsteps draw to a stop, and he wants to turn, wants to see if it is really her, but he thinks that the moment he does, he will fall to his knees and weep. So she keeps staring at him, and he keeps breathing in a forcibly even pattern, staring at the weeping face of The Godswood.

"You used to be taller," she says, finally breaking the silence and oh. She sounds so grown up, so much older than the little girl he last saw, the little girl who smiled with an even littler blade in her hand. Finally, he turns to her, and there she stands, looking so much older, so different from the sister he said goodbye to, all those long and horrible years ago. There is little of the girl she was in her face, in the nervousness and the shining eyes.

But then her face breaks into a smile that is warmer than the longest day of summer, and she's running to him. He barely gets to take three steps before she's slamming into his arms, laughing as he spins her around and presses her close with a kiss to the top of her head. His heart is hammering against his chest, pounding against his ribs that are too small a cage for how large his heart has swelled, louder than a thousand war drums.

He pulls away after a long moment, his hands on her shoulder, squeezing gently. His heart is hammering so loud he almost thinks that it will just fall out of his chest before long. There are tears in her eyes and tears on his cheeks, and he just studies her face, traces it with his eyes, taking everything that is no longer familiar. She seems to be doing much the same, and he sees the exact moment she sees the scars, watching how her eyes narrow. Slowly, she reaches up to trace their shape, the leather of her gloves rough against his skin.

"What happened?" She asks, frowning when he smiles.

"The bigger ones are from a bird controlled by a skin-changer that hated my guts," he tells her, and she raises a sole brow. "The other is from me falling off the second story of a half-destroyed house." Her other brow joins the first, and he can't help but laugh, pulling her in for another hug. Her arms wrap around his waist, her head resting on his collarbone, her breath running in tandem with his. But he feels the familiar press of a sword against his stomach, so he pulls away again after a moment, and–

"You still have it," he breathes, seeing the wicked little blade he gave her all those years ago glimmering back at him. She nods, and slowly pulls it out of its sheath, the metal rasping against the leather as it goes. She hands the little blade over to him, and it's so much lighter and smaller than he remembers. He thumbs the edge of the blade, where it whickers into a point, turning it over in his hands. He smiles widely at her. "It's smaller than I recall. I don't suppose you've skewered a few people with it?"

"A few," she agrees with a cheeky smile, taking it back from him. "When father found it, he asked me what I wanted with it. Asked if I was hoping to skewer Sansa with it."

His heart pangs with the reminder that Ned Stark is not his father by blood, but he still manages to smile and keep his voice even as he adds his own two cents to her story. "When father found it, he sent me a two page letter letting me know that he was very displeased that I had given my little sister a sword at the grand age of ten and one." He remembers the letter with a wince that makes her laugh, and that, at least, is unchanged. He gives her a critical look. "Should I be worried about Sansa?"

"No," she says, sheathing her blade, before glancing shyly at the blade at his side. With a sigh, a smile, and a shake of his head, he unsheathes Longclaw, watching her eyes as they brighten. He hands it over to her, and her fingers curl over the edge of it, her eyes transfixed as she looks at it. "This is Valyrian Steel!"

"Jealous?"

She glances back at him with another sharp look that makes his smile widen even more. "No," she finally says, handing it back to him, but not before sending it one last appreciative look. He sheathes it as she continues, looking at the ground for a moment. "It's too big for me. Needle has served me well enough through the last few years." Her eyes trail back to him, and he sees something deeper in them, something he knows well enough. "Thank you, Jon. You saved me more times than you even know."

He bows his head, reaching out to cradle the side of her face. She presses into his hand, and he pulls her close again after a breath, resting his chin on the top of her head and holding her close to him, tears welling in his eyes. It's innately familiar, having her so close to him like this, feeling her breath and being with Arya. His heart aches, more than he ever thought it could, with longing and happiness and half a hundred other emotions.

After another long moment, she pulls away once again, her hands resting on his arms. She tilts her head at him and says, her brows furrowing ever so slightly, "Sansa said that there's news for me? News that you need to share with me."

He sighs heavily, shaking his head with a fond smile. He's not surprised that Sansa told Arya to expect something, because they both know that Arya would ask when given a trail to follow down. And now, Jon is in between a rock and a hard place, with no way to cleanly explain away Sansa's pointed hint. It's not that he doesn't want to tell Arya, but there is a part of him that wants to hold onto this fragile peace, this illusion of their old life being back, for just a moment longer. But looking at his little sister, and seeing the look on her face, he also thinks Sansa might have said that so their little sister got what she deserves from him. So Jon couldn't run away from the truth.

He glances at the weeping face of the Weirwood, feeling his mouth pull into a frown. Nymeria, who must have come in right behind her, seems to have found Ghost, and they're both curled up together at the base of the tree, as close as their owners are. Ghost, who still gets to be a brother, one of the wolves. Whereas, Jon…

"All my life, I wanted to know who my mother was," he begins, and she nods, eyes widening slightly. "More than anything, I wanted for Father to tell me her name, tell me the truth of who I was, so I could become a Stark in truth or something like that. The last time I saw him, I asked if she was alive. If she knew where I was going. He promised that the next time we saw one another, we would speak. And then he died and I thought I would never know. But the more I think about it, the less I think he ever planned to tell me. For him, the grief was still far too near."

"You learned her name," She surmises after a moment. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he nods. He takes a shaky breath, trying to find the words, but they won't come to him. Even now, thinking about it makes tears spring to his eyes, the tears of the angry and scared boy that comes crawling to the surface every time he thinks about the awful truth. Arya steps closer to him, taking one of his hands in hers, and squeezing tightly. "Jon?"

"My mother was Lyanna Stark," he blurts out, finally, voice no louder than a whisper so nothing but them and the gods can hear what they say. He feels her grip on his hand go slack, and the words pour out of him from there, evil and horrible and nothing like any of the few dreams he dared allow himself in his youth. "And my father…he was, in truth, Rhaegar Targaryen. Bran says that they married in secret, though if it was through coercion, force, or youthful foolishness, I do not. Gods be good, I hardly know who I am anymore!"

"You're my brother," she says firmly, reflexively, and he purses his lips, shaking his head. It's so easy for her, for Bran, for Sansa to call him brother and say nothing has changed, but everything has changed. Everything he thought he ever knew about himself is wrong. He's a halfbreed Stark and Targaryen, heir to a throne of swords, heir to Robb's kingdom, son of two of the greatest Houses of Westeros. He could be as much a child of rape as he could be a child of love or something false that takes the shape of love. "Jon."

"My name is Jaehaerys Targaryen," he continues. She pauses again at his side, her grip on his hand tightening as she interlaces their fingers together, her grey eyes, her Stark eyes, bearing into him. He once loved that he shared those eyes with her, and now? Now, he doesn't know how it makes him feel. "My mother gave me that name as she died in her birthing bed, whispering it to your father before dying. I have never been a Stark. All my life, I have been… this."

He feels her glare, and he turns to look at her, seeing the look on her face. That only gives him a half second of warning before she slams her foot onto his, glaring furiously at him as he swears. He gives her a vicious look that she doesn't back down from, saying, "What was that for?"

"You're being an idiot," she says firmly, and he scoffs, rolling his eyes. She grabs him by the collar of his shirt, forcing their eyes to meet, and surprising him in the process. Her eyes search his face, softening for a moment, before hardening again. "I don't care if you're some Targaryen Princeling, or some secret heir, or if your name is Jaehaerys. You are my brother, Jon Snow, the man who gave me a blade that has saved my life over and over again. You aren't allowed to take that from me. You aren't allowed to say otherwise." Her lip quivers, and something desperate shines in her eyes.

He stares at her, and then just starts laughing, despite it all. It seems to surprise her, his reaction, but he's just thinking of Arya as she last was; Arya who was full of spirit and energy and it's good to know that the little sister he knew still lives on, in some way. She smiles as well and releases him after a moment, regarding him with a look that makes him glance away.

"Sansa said…well. She didn't say much. But I asked how you managed to escape your vows, and she said it was your story to tell." Her grey eyes bear into him, and this is the revelation he's known will need to come to light for all of his family members someday. And that is not an easy or comforting thought. He still hasn't shown Rickon, and he's only told him the broad strokes. But Arya is not a little boy who still has a chance at some youthfulness, some purity surviving in him. And there's that look in her eyes. That look in her eyes, that much like Sansa's words, are saying much more than maybe even the truth laid bare could.

"I won't show you here," he begins, pressing his hand briefly over his stomach, to where the scar from Thorne's knife lies. He knows that had his uncle Benjen not come in, there would be more in him. Perhaps he wouldn't be here had Benjen not come in, yelling like a madman and his blade singing with him. "It's far too cold out. But…"

Again, words fail him. He closes his eyes and he's there again, Benjen is screaming, howling in tandem with the wolves, his stomach is a well of pain, and the world is burning up around him. He's seeing nothing, seeing nothing but an endless black. And then he's sleeping, and all he sees is fire and fury and the doom of his House. Snow falls and then so do blue petals of a Winter Rose, crowning him just as his father crowned his mother that fateful day, the day that spelt all their ends.

"I had brought Wildlings across The Wall, for I knew there was a greater threat that lay beyond it, a threat that trumps all blood debts and history we may have. Winter is Coming, and our enemy rides on its heels. I knew what the price would be if I left the Wildlings to die beyond The Wall. I did what honour and duty demanded. But some of the men took issue with it." Again, he presses his hand to his stomach, right over where the scar rests. How many more would there be, had…had Benjen not…

He does not meet her eyes as he continues, even when he hears her sharp inhale. "They murdered me, Arya. There was a greater scheme to it, no doubt, more men planned to take what they wanted, but Uncle Benjen came in time to stop the whole massacre. But not in time to stop a boy no older than maybe you or Bran were when I last saw either of you from putting a knife in my heart. I died in his arms." His mouth twists up into a sneer, angry and hurt and still so deeply betrayed by how it all ended. For The Watch.

Every single fucking thing he ever did was for The Watch.

He can feel her eyes scanning him, feeling the confusion radiating off of her. He swallows around the lump in his throat, remembering that first breath when he came back, how it had rattled in his chest. He knows he'll probably never stop feeling like he shouldn't be here, will never stop feeling like he's living on borrowed time. He wants to live, he does. He just doesn't quite know how to really do that anymore.

"Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman was upon The Wall, at the time," he finally continues, and oddly enough, he hears her make an odd sound. Canting his eyes towards her in confusion, she gestures for him to continue, though it does nothing to wipe the look off her face. "Priests and Priestesses of The Red God have the ability to bring back the dead. So she…did just that, I suppose. And now here I am–free of my vows, but unable to escape what's coming anyway."

He frowns at her when she stays silent. "What is it?"

"I think I met your Red Woman, once," she says, and her voice is cold beyond measure. Jon feels something very close to unease settle at the base of his spine, the air growing frigid around them. But not because he is afraid of his sister. More so…there is something deeper than he thinks he knows about that look in her eyes. It's a look he knows well enough though. A look of someone thinking of something they utterly and completely despise.

"I was…in the company of a group of outlaws called The Brotherhood Without Banners, for a time. Me and two of my friends. I saw the magic of The Red God in work there, once. They captured The Hound, and he and their leader, Beric Dondarrion fought. The Hound won, but Dondarrion had a Red Priest of his own, and the man brought him back. But soon after, The Red Woman came. They sold my friend Gendry to her. I don't know what she wanted with him, but if I ever see her again, I will make her pay for that."

A chill runs up his spine, but he forces it down as he meets her eyes. "Then you will have to get in line. Melisandre of Asshai sacrificed Stannis Baratheon's little girl to her god when ill favour came over their camp as they tried to take back Winterfell from The Boltons. Ser Davos, who was his right-hand man and quite close to the Princess on top of that, found out. She has been exiled from The North, on punishment of death. Does that appease you?"

Her lip quirks, just a bit, and she shrugs. "I suppose."

The silence hangs between them, but for the first time in his life, he doesn't really know what to do with it. He doesn't know how to bridge it, how to speak to her, a feeling he doesn't know, a feeling he has never once experienced. He's always known just what to say, just how to break the silence, and now, he's coming up dry. Clearing his throat, he asks, flatly and awkwardly, "Who was your friend?"

"Gendry," she says, and he doesn't miss how her eyes brighten at the mention of him. He keeps his thoughts to himself, though. "He…well, I was found by a man of The Night's Watch, after father died. Yoren."

"Yoren?" He repeats, genuinely surprised at the mention of the wandering crow. "Whatever happened to him?"

Her eyes darken again. "Well, it's a very long story, but Yoren was taking a bunch of men to The Wall, and dragged me along with him, in hopes of running into Robb and dropping me off with him. Or perhaps he meant to drag me all the way North and give me over to you. Whatever reason, I was disguised as a boy, and Gendry was with us. He'd been a blacksmith's apprentice in Flea Bottom, but his master turned him over to Yoren randomly that day. He met father once, though."

"Really?"

"Yes," she says, heaving an exasperated breath. "Around when he figured out who I was, he told me that. Kept on calling me m'lady as well. But, anyway, some Gold Cloaks ended up coming after our group. I thought they were there for me, but they were there for Gendry. Yoren ended up dying in the clash, and we tried to escape, but…a lot of other things happened. One thing leads to another, and we end up with The Brotherhood, and The Red Woman comes and takes Gendry away."

She kicks at the ground, looking put out and frustrated in a way that is at least familiar to Jon. He smiles a bit but frowns as he tries to figure out why The Gold Cloaks would be after some random boy. But he thinks of The Red Women, and all the words she'd said, what she'd said about Mance. There is power in a King's blood, or something like that. All the words she'd told him, the way she'd looked at him, and…

"Your friend," he finally says, "Who were his parents?"

"His mother was some tavern whore and he never knew his father," she says with a shrug. "Why?"

"The Red Woman was particular about what she did, you know," he begins, tapping his foot as he thinks. "One of the things she always seemed fixated on was The Blood of Kings. Or people who had it in them. She killed Mance Rayder, King Beyond The Wall, because she needed it for her magic. She killed The Princess for much the same reason. And she always seemed interested in me, and all that."

"Are you saying…" she begins, but then trails off, her brows knitting together as she seems to think over something. Jon sees the exact moment she comes to some realisation, her eyes widening, and a surprised laugh coming out of her. "I can't believe I didn't see it! He was much leaner, of course, but–yes, that has to be it! Cersei was going after his bastards anyway–"

"Care to share?"

"I think Gendry might have been one of Robert's bastards," she says, peeling off into a spiel of giggles. Jon smiles just a bit as she hoots in amusement, looking so much younger and freer as she does. It's a good look on her, he'd say. A very good look on her, one that makes him breathe a bit easier. "That makes so much sense, now!"

"Glad to be of help," he says, before tilting his head. "I'll ask Ser Davos if he ever heard of your friend, and if he has any clue where he might be, now, if you'd like." She nods, and he smiles, resting his hand on her shoulder. "I don't know how much Sansa told you of what's coming, but we'll need every man we can get. And I don't think it would be bad for you to have a friend, when it all comes down. Someone who isn't, well, Sansa or I."

"I like you well enough," she says, voice so much softer now. He bows his head, pulling her in for yet another hug, hand on the back of her neck, head tilted towards hers. The breeze runs through their cloaks and hair, and he can feel something like gnawing terror and worry in the back of his mind, but he lets it go before it can consume him. He is home. He has most of his family here, and that's more than he had a year ago.

A year ago, he was a lone wolf, standing alone against the cold and the end of the world. Less than a year ago, he was dying in the snow, held in familiar arms. His heart is a drum in his chest, his mind swims with half a hundred dark and bitter thoughts about who he really is, what he's always been. Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, born in The Tower of Joy, born in a pool of blood and in the middle of a war that his birth would only make messier. Protected by a single, crucial lie. Who is he? Who is he doomed to become?

But other thoughts fill his mind, as well, slowly but surely. Sansa, in the courtyard of Castle Black, rushing to him and throwing her arms around him with a great sob. Benjen, pressing their brows together and letting his hot breath run over Jon's face, eyes bearing deeply into him, picking him apart and piecing him back together. Rickon, across the field, on a wolf, his eyes locked with Jon's. Rickon, sweet and kind, wailing as he saw Jon again, holding onto him like a lifeline. Bran, coming home, Summer on his heels, alive and so very perfect.

Arya, with Needle in her hand that first night, all those years ago. Arya, only a few minutes ago, so grown and so much more than he ever dared dream of, Needle still at her side despite it all. Every hug they've ever had, and thoughts of those bleed into the last hug he had before he left this all behind. Robb. His letter is still in Jon's pocket, his promises etched into the very marrow of Jon's bones, the sinews of his aching heart. I wanted you by my side, and I'm glad to know you will be, when I come home.

He pulls her closer once again, all the breath in his lungs leaving them in a great rush. Once, a hundred lifetimes ago, his father had brought both he and Robb down to the Crypts and shown them the statues of their blood and kin. It was there that Jon first remembers hearing the old adage about lone wolves, his voice echoing in the silent crypts. And what had he said, anyway, before he left, that summer day on The Kingsroad? You may not have my name, but you are a Stark. And is that not what matters?

"Jon," she suddenly says, pulling away slightly, allowing him to watch as a hard conviction settles over her face. "There's one more thing you need to know. I did not come alone."

—

Brynden Tully, The Blackfish, is speaking to both Sansa and Arya when Jon comes in later that afternoon, Rickon's hand in his. Bran is in the corner, listening in no doubt, but also seemingly interested in other things, having already seen Arya and probably knowing half of her tale already, despite how much she has or has not told him. Rickon, however, has not seen Arya, and neither has she seen him.

She laughs brightly when she sees him, letting him barrel right into her, brushing his hair back and looking at his face in wonder, saying something to him that Jon cannot quite hear. Rickon doesn't remember much of Arya, not as the rest of them do, but he remembers enough that when Jon told him that she had come home, he'd become so excited that Maester Wolkan had eventually forgone teaching him much of anything, and found Jon so he could retrieve his little brother.

Jon, meanwhile, is doing his best to avoid the prying gaze of Brynden Tully. Luckily, Nymeria buys him some time by padding over to him and brushing her nose against his hand. He pets her, happy to see her again, though he's already hearing whispers of the sudden appearance of a whole other pack of wolves in the woods, now. Nymeria had not been with Arya when she arrived at the gates, but she'd shown up in the end, in The Godswood where they were, anyway. And now five of the six wolves are home.

Brynden Tully is still watching him.

Jon has been debating for the better part of the afternoon if he wants to tell him, and as a result, finally tell Rickon. Sansa has been gently prying on the latter for a while now, and though he knows it will always be his choice in the end, he knows Sansa has her own opinions about who he should tell. She'd said what she'd said to Arya for a reason–a pointed message to him that he can't avoid it forever. That, one way or another, the truth will spill out to the whole of the world in the end, and that if he wants to control how that happens, he has to do it himself.

Finally, he sits down, once Nymeria seems thoroughly pleased by his attention, still doing his best to avoid The Blackfish's gaze. The girls are quieter now, and even Rickon seems subdued, and one by one, he feels their eyes dart to him, waiting for one of them to break the silence between them. Though most people in this room know the truth of Eddard Stark's sole act of dishonour upon his wife, the fact that said wife's uncle is in this room and does not know the truth…is not a comforting thought.

"You are the very picture of your father, at your age," Brynden Tully eventually breathes, sounding half awestruck, half dumbfounded. Jon pauses, surprised by the statement, and before he knows what he's doing, he meets the other man's eyes. They're the same colour as Lady Catelyn's. As Sansa's. As Bran's. As Rickon's. As Robb's. As blue as the endless sky. He feels his heart clench in his chest, but it's hard to make himself break the other man's gaze now.

Finally, he does it once the silence stretches on again, to glance at Rickon, and then at Sansa. Her eyes are as kind, warm, and gentle as ever, but there's that familiar steel behind it all now, too. She dips her head at him in silent acknowledgement, and he clears his throat, turning his eyes to the crackling fire. His fingers curl into a fist. "No, I don't. And I am glad for it."

"What I am about to say does not leave this room," he says, voice like gravel. He looks first at Rickon and waits until Sansa whispers something to him and he nods at Jon, before looking at Brynden Tully. "What I am about to share you can break this continent in two. But the truth will come out, before the end, and I find myself compelled to do it myself, to tell it from my mouth so it cannot be whispered to you by worse mouths. Sansa, Arya, and Bran already know what I am about to say."

"The whole of Westeros knows me to be Eddard Stark's bastard son, fathered off of some nameless woman during Robert's Rebellion, in a rare act of dishonour from the man. The whole of Westeros has been fed a lie for the whole of my life. I was fed a lie for the whole of my life because the truth is…so much worse." He shakes his head, eyes still on the flickering flames.

"Ned Stark was not my father, not in truth. My mother–the woman whose name he never dared utter to me, who I thought I would never get to know following his death–was no common Southern Whore, nor some mysterious Southern Lady that entranced Ned Stark. My mother was Lyanna Stark." He hears The Blackfish inhale sharply. "And my father was Rhaegar Targaryen. They married in secret on the Isle of Faces. She died in her birthing bed, begging her brother to keep her newborn son safe, keep him hidden from The King who had not batted an eye at the death of Rhaegar's other two children."

My half siblings, his mind supplies, but that is an unsettling thought. To think that the only siblings he ever had in truth were a babe who was killed before his wailing mother and a little girl who was stabbed to death, over and over again. And here he lies, the one who survived, saved by a lie. A lie that is slowly unfolding, a lie that will die with Winter's turning.

"By the grace of The Seven," The Blackfish whispers, and Jon glances at him, seeing the look in his eyes and feeling his stomach twist. The man shakes his head, running a hand over his face, staring intently at Jon, as if trying to pick him apart. A glance at Rickon proves him to be confused, and that just makes Jon feel sicker. His little brother is barely old enough to understand what he's been told. These are names he hardly knows. "Fuck."

Jon's lip quirks in grim amusement. Fuck is a pretty astute way of putting it, he'd say, and it's definitely one of the things he said to himself in the hours after he learned, where he locked himself in his room and wept in his misery and grief. For one of the first times since Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell, he got himself well and truly drunk, and all it had left him with was a hangover and feeling just that much more miserable with the state of his life.

It's been well over three weeks since he learned. Three weeks of knowing the truth, knowing a secret that has the power to overturn any of the peace Robb is hopefully building with that Dragon Queen. Jon could tell Arya. He could tell Brynden Tully and his little brother Rickon. They were easy enough, when all is said and done. But telling Robb, telling him this truth will not be half as easy. The thought makes Jon feel sick, makes his stomach knot, makes his world tilt dangerously on his axis.

Robb is the only one in his family who doesn't know, now. His mother's family, that is. It is strange to think that he has an extended family on his father's side, that one of them is a Queen, and the rest are dead, having succumbed to madness and war. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. What type of Targaryen did that coin make him out to be? Who will Jaehaerys Targaryen become, when all is said and done, when the ash has settled, and the Winter is over, and spring blooms on the horizon?

And what will be left of Jon Snow, Jon Stark, when that all happens? Robb legitimised him. Arya had told him, in the Godswood, when they spoke of her Great Uncle, that he'd known of it and told her too. But that legitimisation and that heirship is born on lies, born on a fact that is not true, a relationship that does not exist. What Northman would want a Targaryen Princeling as the heir to their throne? What Northman who fought in The Rebellion would ever want him?

But he will do what honour and duty demand. What his heart tells him to do. He will do what is right, what is honest, no matter the cost to himself. He doesn't want to live in the North surrounded by lies, and if that means he is surrounded by suspicion and shame…then so be it. He rises to his feet slowly, drawing closer to the fire, staring into it, thinking of Red Gods, and House words. Fire and Blood.

"You…" The Blackfish finally breaks the silence, though it does not last long. For a moment, Jon assumes he is stuck in his confusion and bound by his racing mind, but then it sounds like the man stands, and to his surprise, he comes to stand next to Jon, resting his hand on his shoulder after a moment. Jon turns to him, swallowing tightly as he feels those eyes rake over him, studying him within an inch of his life.

"Robb Stark, my king and the man who was raised as your brother, always spoke of you with the highest regard. Arya tells me that you know of your legitimisation, and know this–I do not think Robb would ever go back on it, no matter who sired you. He loved you, and I never missed the fact that all he seemed to want was a brother back by his side. It is not my duty to forgive the lies Ned spun for you, or to even say that they need to be forgiven." He squeezes Jon's shoulder again.

"But you seem the right type of man for what Lady Sansa says comes next. Ned raised you well and as a Stark of Winterfell, not a Targaryen prince. There is no blood between me and you, Jon Snow." He tilts his head at him, brows furrowing as Jon looks away. "Fear and dishonour cannot rule us through The Winter. Those in this room still consider you their brother, do they not? Your parentage has not changed who you are as a person, and has not upended your morals and your honour. You told me–a stranger from a House that holds no love for you. Because you believed it right to do so."

Jon pulls away at that, sitting back in his chair and glaring at the crackling flames. Speaking out loud makes him feel too small for this world, makes him feel too vulnerable to let himself live around others. He closes his eyes, and it's that same dream from after he died that comes to mind, the same one from when he slept fitfully in a bed he'd slept in hundreds of times, with fresh wounds in his chest. A crown of Winter Roses. The squawking of that damnable bird.

"The Northern Lords will need to know, soon," he finally says, and he feels every eye in the room snap to him. "The ones that are here, the ones that were loyal, the ones that helped us take back our home. Both Glover men. Maege Mormont. Wyman Manderly. Hother Umber. Alys Karstark. Howland Reed already knows, but I want to gather the rest. This secret will not stay one forever. And The North has to know before anyone else does. This cannot be a surprise to them."

"Jon…" Arya says, careful and almost hesitant. He looks at her narrowly, and it is strange to see her, sitting next to Sansa, both straight-backed and with similar expressions on their faces. The Blackfish is standing behind them both, Rickon pressed to Sansa's side, silent and looking confused. Bran is still in his corner by the window, off in his own world. "Are you sure?"

"Winter is Coming," he says, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "Robb has been freed by The Dragon Queen, my own Aunt who has three full-grown Dragons. The Army of the Dead marches, and will soon be upon us. I don't want to die a liar. I don't want to die with these people who I care about, who I will do whatever it takes to keep safe, thinking I am something that I am not, something I have never been. Perhaps it is foolish–"

"It is," Arya says sharply, cutting him off. Despite it all, he smiles.

"I don't care, though," Jon says with a shrug, leaning back slightly and crossing his arms over his chest. "If I could throw this secret away, condemn it to death, I would. But that is not how this works. We have to prepare for what this is going to do to The Seven Kingdoms. If I can keep it under wraps until after The Dead are defeated, that would be ideal, but not certain." He looks at the four of them, all but Arya carrying the Tully blue eyes. Her Stark grey eyes are narrowed at him.

"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," Sansa eventually says, face cold and serious. "Our father, your real father, Jon, knew that we would need each other when Winter came. He probably expected it all to come out eventually, as much as he hoped otherwise. He raised us to never be divided, to always stay together, no matter what comes for us. You are my brother, Jon, and have been from the day I was born and will be to my very last."

Arya just nods and says nothing. Rickon also stays silent, and so does The Blackfish, but that is forgotten as Bran speaks up from where he sits at the window. "We will be the ones who determine the battle of our time. The dead will be here within…perhaps a year and a half, at most." He turns to look at Jon, a smile on his face. A real and so very genuine smile, the smile of Jon's little brother. "We will all be needed, in the end."

"So, then what?" Jon asks as Sansa gets up to bring Bran closer to the fire. "The Dragon Queen will not suffer threats to her throne. Robb is in her hand now, and as much as she says he is not her prisoner, that still is yet to be determined. We need a plan. I cannot do this alone."

"There are a couple of options," The Blackfish cuts in, eyes glimmering with a dangerous look. A familiar look. It's the look soldiers get when they're planning their war, when they're gearing up for blood and death to come crashing down. "Marriage is, of course, quite the appealing one. But I don't know about you, but I think it would be best to avoid contributing to Targaryen Madness." Jon nods, making a face at the thought.

"You can also rescind your claim in front of any and every lord you can find, and get yourself legally disinherited from The Iron Throne. But should this Dragon Queen fail to produce an heir off of whatever groom she weds, that will pose a problem. So, if you do not marry her and do not get truly disinherited, the best option I see is vying to be Prince of Dragonstone. You are, after all, her closest living relative. You would be Prince of Dragonstone anyway if she is Queen."

The Blackfish's words hang in the air, and Jon feels all the breath leave his lungs as he mulls it over. It is not a bad idea, he supposes, and could become a piece of whatever treaties are drawn between Robb and this Dragon Queen, but it still makes his skin itch. In his youth, he never once allowed himself to think that he could be a king, an heir, a prince or anything like that. He knew what he was doing when he condemned himself to his cold and endless exile on The Wall, but now he is free of those oaths. Now he is torn between two dynasties, two rulers, two thrones.

A brother who has named his heir and bestowed upon him a name that his mother once carried. A Queen who might just do something similar, but using the name that same mother whispered in a pool of her own blood to her big brother as she died. But all he feels like is the name that his uncle gave him, a name for the man who helped raise his uncle, the name of the man whose death sparked this whole war in the first place. All he knows how to be, at the very least, is Jon.

So, he says nothing in reply, and The Blackfish bows his head in acknowledgement to his silence. It hangs in the air, hangs between them all. Secrets and silence and fears none of them dare to name fill the room, press against his lungs, sucking all the life from him. He doesn't know how to be Jon Stark, Prince of Winterfell. He certainly has no idea how to be Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.

But he knows how to be Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, a bastard with no birthright and no mother. He knows how to be a brother. He knows how to be a wolf. He knows how to fight and how to survive. He knows how to stand against Winter and the storm that rides on its tail. He does not have to be a Prince or an heir–not now, not yet. All he has to be is The Black Bastard of The Wall, The White Wolf. The man who men hated fighting in The Watch. The man who came back from the dead.

He looks around at the room, at the family he has near him. Brynden Tully, the veteran of half a hundred battles, the mythic Blackfish. Sansa, who rules Winterfell as well as her mother ever did, with her hair that has been kissed by fire and her eyes like chips of ice. Arya, with her sharp smile and sharper blade, his gift to her. Bran, The Three-Eyed Raven, the keeper of all the history of man, a greenseer more powerful than anyone else alive. And Rickon. Young, wild, and fearless Rickon, who still has a chance at what no one else in this room got. A chance to be a boy. A chance to not know battle. A chance that Jon is willing to fight for.

The Starks of Winterfell. Wolves and a Trout. All of them, standing against The Cold, waiting for The King to come home.

—

Come the next morning, they assemble the lords he'd spoken about the day prior into the solar, along with Ser Davos and Lord Yohn Royce. Though he knows one Petyr Baelish will hear about this meeting before the end, they'd gotten all the food delivered beforehand, and Tormund is standing guard at the door with Sigor. Jon hopes that, and Brienne who is stationed at the mouth of the hall, will be enough to deter any birds who try fluttering in. Eyes will be drawn to this meeting, and whispers will spread before long, but if he can eliminate any chance of their enemies learning the nature of it, he will consider it a job well done.

He and Sansa are sat side by side at the head of the table, Arya to their left and Bran to their right. Rickon is in his lessons, again, and though Jon is not sure his little brother fully grasps the weight of the secret he was told, he's smart enough to know that Jon is being deathly serious when he tells him to say nothing of it to anyone. He's smarter than Jon thinks anyone is giving him credit for, with all of his older siblings not fully able to get rid of the image of the little boy he once was.

The Lords of The North, or what few are actually here in Winterfell, settle around. Maege Mormont is furthest from Jon and Sansa, with Alys to her right, and the Glover men to her left. The Blackfish is next to Arya, and across from Howland Reed and his daughter, Meera, who sits beside Ser Davos. Wyman Manderly, Hother Umber, and Yohn Royce are between Alys and The Blackfish, with the Lord of White Harbour looking the closest to not being nervous. Though, Jon isn't quite sure that the man ever really shows his nerves when they come.

Jon rakes his eyes over the assembled company, taking a long sip of his drink as he does. He knows his trouble must show on his face, with the glances that are being thrown towards him, but no one comments on it. He glances at Sansa, and when she nods, sets his drink down on the table loudly, rising to his feet as he does. "My Lords," he greets, fingers curling into a fist on the table. "I thank you for your presence here."

Sansa and he had agreed that this was his secret to spin, his story to tell. He'll have to get used to telling it, and he at least mostly trusts the people in this room–the people who helped buy back his home. The Northern Lords who remembered their oaths from the onset, and The Valeman who rode for his cause. The Valeman who has little love for the whisperer crawling around The Vale. He taps his fingers against the table, trying to figure out how to say what he needs to say. He glances once at Howland Reed and sees the man nod, his green eyes kind. It gives Jon some strength, and he clears his throat, drawing the attention back to him.

"About a month ago, my brother Bran came back to us. We have discussed the powers of The Three-Eyed Raven, and discussed how that relates to the enemy that lies beyond The Wall." This gets nods from the men, and he feels his skin prickle at the weight of all the eyes on him. "But we did not tell you of one of his visions. A vision that contained a secret that Lord Howland Reed came to Winterfell also carrying. A secret that Eddard Stark took to his grave. A secret that cannot leave this room."

He bows his head. Howland had shown him the maiden cloak and bride's cloak a few days after the revelation, and even now, he can see them in his mind's eye, the glimmering beads, the snarling wolf, the rearing dragon. He's afraid, more afraid than he thinks he's ever been, as afraid as he was when he stood on that boat and met the eyes of The Night King and saw the horror he could bring upon Westeros for himself. Inhaling deeply, he begins to speak.

"My father was not Eddard Stark. My father, indeed, was not a Stark at all. It was my mother who was The Stark, the mother who I take after." His lip curls in silent amusement at that. All his life, people had been saying he looked like his father, and now that he knows the truth, he can find some humour and much relief in the fact that he most certainly does not take after his father in appearance. He wonders what the man who raised him would have done had he taken after Rhaegar, instead of Lyanna.

He can hear the whispers, hear them begin to draw all the pieces together. He continues on. "My mother was the Lady Lyanna Stark, and my father was Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. They married in secret upon The Isle of Faces, though whether it was coercion from my father or foolhardy notions of love that drove my mother there, I do not know. It was not a fever that took her. It was a birth that took her– my birth. My father found her there, in the Tower of Joy, and it was there she told him my true name. Howland Reed still carries some of the treasures he found there."

He nods to the man, swallowing tightly as the two cloaks are procured. While fragile, they still glitter as they would have on that fateful day, over two decades ago. Gasps fill the room, and he breathes deeply, glaring at the undeniable evidence like it is the whole of his problems. Which, it might just be.

"Jaehaerys Targaryen is my name, my real name, the one she whispered as she died," he presses on, not giving any of them a chance to continue speaking. "I know Lady Mormont and Lord Glover have passed on the stories of my legitimisation from our King, and how he named me Jon Stark, his heir apparent. But make no mistake, my lords. I have no intention of usurping the throne from Robb's true siblings and true heirs. Nor do I have any intention of taking The Iron Throne for myself. Winter is Coming, and that is my chief concern."

The room is silent as the grave following his proclamation, and he swallows tightly, raising his eyes to meet the wide-eyed stares of the Lords and Ladies that are assembled around him. He waits with a bated breath for someone to speak, and right as he begins to feel worry crawl up his spine that he has shocked them all into utter silence, Alys Karstark rises to her feet, her eyes hard as they meet Jon's.

"You took me in, you and your sister when I was most desperate. You saved me from the machinations of my Uncles, and a fate that I was not content to become mine. It was you who handed me off at my wedding, because we are still kinsmen, Lord Stark, whether that be through our fathers or our mothers." Her lips curl into a gentle smile. "You have chosen the road of Honour, as you have since the day I came upon your tent. You said something to me then, as well, in the sight of many of the men who are here right now."

"We are neither our fathers nor our brothers," she says, and that gets a few appraising looks from the other Lords towards Jon. "I meant what I said to you when The Lords of The North assembled in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Our Houses were once one, and I care little if you are some secret Targaryen heir. You were raised in The North, by a Northman, and you are shadowed by living proof of your Stark heritage. The North rode for Lady Lyanna, once. My father rode for her. So, I will honour that and follow her son. Let The South come, let them try their schemes against us."

She sits down at that, smiling with some smugness as the rest of the room sends her some appreciative glances. But the rest of the Lords are far older than she or any of the other Starks are, and he can see them still trying to digest it, running over the timeline that they have all been fed. It is Robett Glover who swears first in realisation of how much it all lines up, running a hand over his face, but it is Maege Mormont who speaks.

"My brother made you his steward," she says, tapping her fingers against the table. "He gave you the sword of our house, for he knew that you deserved to carry it, bastard or otherwise. He trusted in you, and saw what you could become, long before anyone else, I'd say. My brother and I had no love lost for one another, but it was the man who considered you a brother who I followed. Our King considered you a brother and all of Eddard Stark's children still seem to, do they not?" She glances at the rest of them, sitting close to Jon, and smiles a crooked smile when they nod in assent.

"Then that is answer enough!" She says boldly, though whatever else she'd been planning to say is cut off by–

"Enough!" The raven squawks in the background, and everyone turns to the bird, sitting on the windowsill. "Corn!" Jon rolls his eyes, but his heart clenches as it continues to squawk out whatever words it had been hearing. "King! Snow! Corn! Throne! "

Maege Mormont rolls her eyes. "That bird is not right," she mutters, which gets a few scattered laughs. She continues on after a moment, but not before the raven calls for corn one more time. "My conjecture remains, and as does Lady Karstark's. One of my daughters is with your brother, our king. One of my daughters rode with you and was named for your mother, for the woman who The North bled for. I don't give a damn about Targaryens or Dragons, but I do care about the fact that Lady Lyanna lives on, still, through her son."

And oh, is that a strange and heart-wrenching thought, to think that he is all that is left of his mother, the only person in the world who can carry on her blood and her legacy. He is not the Last Targaryen, the last of The Mad King's blood, not by any chance, but he is all that remains of Lyanna Stark, The Winter Rose. Longclaw grows heavy at his side, and he clears his throat again, saying, "My Lady if you would like the sword back–"

"Keep the sword, you fool," she says sharply, which gets Sansa and Arya both snickering slightly. He sends them a sharp look. "My brother gave you it for a reason, and I have no use of it. And I'd like our commander to have a sword that can actually kill the fuckers we're trying to defeat on hand, not some poorly made steel." More sounds of assent rise up, and Jon looks around the room, feeling something maybe like hope grow slowly in his chest.

The Lords look troubled, yes, but they're not staring at Jon like he is an enemy like he is a danger. Instead, there is a hard-wrought resolve in all their eyes. Even Yohn Royce, who looks the most nervous of them all, nods when Jon meets their eyes, and that is enough for him. Jon breathes deeply, and unbuckles his scabbard, resting Longclaw on the table, even as Maege Mormont gives him a sharp look. "I offer the sword for a reason, my lady. For it is not just secrets that Bran brought South with him."

Meera Reed takes the hint at that moment, grabbing the parcel from where she'd set it down near her, and handing it over to Jon. He sets it down next to where Longclaw sits, unsheathing his own blade before pulling the blankets back from the other sword and allowing the room to see the two swords of Valyrian Steel, glimmering in the light. Someone else swears, and a glance towards the Glovers proves it to be, yet again, Robett Glover. He rises to his feet slowly, staring at the swords.

"You are full of surprises today, my Lord," he says, smiling in slight awe as he scoffs. "I followed you and your sister because I believed in you, and know that I still do. Lady Karstark is right in what she says, truly. You chose honour where others would choose to keep this secret and chose hard truths over a lie that would spell disaster if it was not in our hand. That sword, it is…"

"Dark Sister, yes," Jon agrees, running his finger over the flat of the blade. "Wielded by Visenya Targaryen and many more until being lost in the aftermath of The Blackfyre rebellion. And now, it returns to the hands of a Targaryen. Longclaw has served me well, but it is not a blade that comes from my house, and I do not wish to steal it from–"

"Our King has no Valyrian Steel blade, no?" Wyman Manderly cuts him off. All eyes turn to where he still sits, with Robett Glover glancing briefly back at Jon. "Maege has made it clear that your blade is yours to keep. And Dark Sister has no owner, not now, and our King has no blade. When he comes home, why not give it to him? It may not be Aegon The Conqueror's blade, but that does not mean its history is no less deep."

"But what of The Dragon Queen?" Sansa cuts in then. "I do not disagree that Robb should have Valyrian Steel, but it is the blade of her House. She might want to distribute it herself."

"We will cross that bridge when we get to it," Jon says tiredly, resheathing Longclaw and putting it back at his side. He will not admit it, but he'd been disinclined to part from the blade that has seen him through so much, and he is glad that he gets to keep it, at least for now. He throws the cloth back over Dark Sister, glad to have it hidden from view. "If Robb brings The Dragon Queen Northwards, there will be many Lords and Knights who will need to be outfitted with the proper weaponry. While I have gotten no reply from him, I did ask after The Dragonglass, and hope that he will be successful in his endeavour to get it for us."

Robett Glover nods and, still standing, meets Jon's eyes. "I will follow you whether you are Jon Snow, Jon Stark, or even Jaehaerys Targaryen. Names matter little when the cold comes for us all. If we cannot have a dragon in this counsel, a dragon who is far more a wolf, then we are bound to fall. This doom is shared by all of us, Wildling, Northman, and Valeman. I have no love for House Targaryen, but I like you, and I follow you. Your parentage does not change that, and will not change that. If Robb Stark, The Young Wolf, my king names you a Stark and his heir, as far as I am concerned, you are."

That gets almost a roar of assent from the lords, and when Jon glances at his siblings, they all look at him with a glimmer in their eyes that makes his heartbeat settle in his chest. They'd stayed quiet for a reason, letting Jon take control of this, but that silent support, that silent respect and agreement is enough to make him certain of what he's done, firm in his conviction. The Lords of The North are looking at him with pride and fire in their eyes, and he knows he has them. Davos nods at him, and he knows he's won what matters most.

And then he looks at Yohn Royce, the outlier in this strange court. He looks guarded, staring at Jon, but not apprehensive or cold. More…calculating, in a strange way. When he slowly rises to his feet, the room goes quiet again, and Jon feels some fear crawl back into him. He, despite what power Littlefinger has, is the true force behind The Vale's support. Jon took a gamble, telling him and inviting him to this council, but he'd rather do this than have him feel spurned by what would clearly be an intentional choice to not invite him.

"I remember Ned Stark quite well," He begins, voice soft and almost grieved. "The quiet wolf who my Lord Arryn was fostering, a boy who spoke so brightly of his family, a boy who never loved anything half as much as them. The boy who was best friends with a man who would become a King." The man swallows tightly, looking away.

What would Robert had done to me, if he knew? Jon thinks, though he knows well enough what the answer to that is.

"He was the man who raised you. He was the one who gave you every tool that you have used to get yourself to where you stand today. He lied to his best friend, to the whole world, for years, to protect you, no matter what cost he had to pay to do so. I admit to feeling fear at this truth, fear for what it might bring upon these already war-torn lands. But I respected Ned Stark. And I want to do right by him, and by Lady Lyanna, who I rode for, right behind those boys I had once known and The Lord I was sworn to."

"You have The Vale, Jon…Jon Stark. From this day until the last, I will ride behind you, the son of Lyanna Stark, the boy Eddard Stark raised as his own." He dips his head at Jon. "The White Wolf, they call you. We will need all the wolves we can get when Winter casts its shadow over these lands."

And that is that. Jon curls his fingers into a fist on the table, breathing deeply, trying to calm his racing heart and mind with the assurances that he did what he set out to do. He still has the men. They are not calling for his head. And all of his once siblings have held to that relation, so what's saying that Robb won't as well? And if someone tries something, if some fool gets ideas that are bigger than they gave any right to, he will have the support of The North. They will stand behind him, no matter what happens, and that is enough for him.

—

She knocks on the door as he's getting dressed, and he only realises that his shirt is only half laced up when she comes to a stop and stares at his chest, at the red wound over his heart. Pursing his lips, he turns away and finishes lacing it up, pulling on a jerkin and some gloves, before moving to put on some bracers for his arms. But she stops him then, resting a hand over his, and he looks at her slowly, their twin grey eyes meeting and her mouth pulling down into a frown as she studies his face so very carefully.

"Do they still hurt?" Arya asks him, her voice no louder than a whisper, and he just shrugs, looking away from her. But in the corner of his eye, he can see the look that flashes across her face. The same hurt and pain that was in Sansa's eyes when he showed her those scars, the same remorse that filled her eyes as she traced them with her fingers. Even now, they're still red and angry and awful to look at. Maybe they don't hurt like they did in those first few weeks, still raw and aching, but the memories certainly do still hurt. He'll never forget what the stab from Olly's knife felt like. He doesn't want to.

She seems to consider something for a moment, and before he can ask, her arms are snaking around his waist and she's resting her head on his shoulder blades, holding him tightly. "I wish I'd been there. I'd have made them pay for it," she whispers, and he squeezes her arm gently, bowing his head. Sansa had said she'd seen some of it, through Lady's eyes, and it's still such an awful thought or think his little sister, his baby sister, had to see him like that; dead and motionless. And Benjen had to live it, and Jon will never escape the guilt from that.

But had it been Arya…he doesn't even want to know what she would have done. What would either of them have done, had they been the one who came upon The Murder? What would any of the people he was raised with do to avenge him, had they been given the chance, had they been there in place of Benjen? He closes his eyes, breathing deeply, dispelling the thoughts of his blood on their hands from his mind, banishing them to the darkest corners of it. Arya, as if sensing his thoughts, hugs him just that much tighter.

"Benjen made them pay," he finally says, and she pries herself off of him, coming to stand before him, her eyes carefully taking in his face. There's no hiding or avoiding those scars, and he can live with them well enough because he just has to. But the scar over his heart and in his gut are an entirely different story. Every time he sees them, he is reminded that he should be dead. "He took revenge for me. Killed Thorne, Marsh, Yarwyck and Olly–the lot of them. They're dead. I'm not."

"You're not," she agrees, a smile on her lips, and a twinkle in her eyes. Their eyes rove over the room, this room that he lived in for so many years, a room that she'd come to bother him in since she was but a toddler. The little girl he knew is gone, that much he can tell. He saw her in the training yard the day before, fighting Lady Brienne, dangerous and swift with that blade of hers. "Our enemies are, though. Frey, Bolton, and the men who betrayed us. All ended by our House."

She's looking at him very very intently, and though it takes him a moment, he feels his stomach drop out of him when he realises just what she said. Arya had come from The South, or so she'd said from what few stories that they managed to pry out of her in the past few days, running into The Blackfish at some point during her journey. They'd learned of the fate of House Frey a few days after Bran came with his news, and so he does the maths–the time it took that news to reach them, how long it would have taken Arya to get from The Twins to Winterfell, and while it isn't perfect…

"You…" he starts to say, but his words fail him. When he meets her eyes, there is an unfamiliar look in her eyes, a look that makes his stomach twist in something near to discomfort. But he pushes that discomfort down because this is Arya. He cannot allow himself to shun her, despite…despite…

"I did," she agrees flatly, pulling away from him with a look that makes his heart swell with shame. Her voice hardens though, utter vitriol dripping from her mouth, "I was there, Jon. I was travelling with The Hound to The Twins, where Mother and Robb were, and we came upon it right as the massacre began. I freed Grey Wind, but I couldn't save Mother and I couldn't free Robb either. The Freys betrayed us. The North Remembers, and they didn't kill every wolf still running wild and free."

He takes a deep, measured breath. He and Sansa had talked about it, about the words attributed to the assassin, the northern adages spoken by them. The North Remembers is a common enough phrase, but the mention of The Winds of Winter is a little different. It has certainly become a popular descriptor for the weather, now that Winter is here, through the whole of Westeros, but the first time he heard it was in a very particular context, one that makes his stomach twist as he thinks about it.

He remembers Old Nan telling him and Robb a story about the first Long Night, once, and how the Winds of Winter blew cold and sharp, freezing bodies and hearts. At least in The North, speaking of those winds is a reminder of the first Long Night and the House that rose up in the aftermath. He and Sansa had fixated on that, trying to figure out who this assassin was with their northern adages and phrases that are so innately tied to their House in The North could possibly be. They certainly didn't hire them. Then who did? They'd wondered.

And to think that the assassin was one of their own blood. To think there was no hiring, just debts and blood and grief. "How did you do it?"

She hesitates, stepping back from him a little more. There is a strange expression on her face, and for the first time in his life, he feels the threads of connection between them, normally so easy and loose, be pulled taught, almost to a breaking point. She licks her lips and looks away for just a moment, before gesturing for him to sit, which he does, on the end of his bed. She takes the chair at his desk, interlacing her fingers and staring at the floor for a moment before she begins.

"The Hound and I encountered Brienne of Tarth, this you know," she begins, and he nods. When Brienne had learned of Arya's arrival, she'd sought her out, and it had been quite the thing to hear the full story of the time Brienne encountered her and the man she was travelling with. "But what I did not tell you was where I went after I left The Hound to die. Nor did I tell you who else was travelling with Yoren and me on the way to The Wall."

She takes a deep breath and begins. "One of the men that Yoren pulled from the cells went by the name of Jaqen H'ghar. He was a strange man, but when the Gold Cloaks attacked he asked me to free him from the chains Yoren had him in, and I did so, in an attempt to save our hides. It mattered little in the end. Our company was brought to Harrenhall, where The Mountain was holding court." Jon inhales sharply, and she sends him a look. "Let me finish. There, Jaqen found me and offered me three names. Three people he would kill, for I had saved three lives in the fight."

"He helped us escape Harrenhall, eventually. Tywin Lannister was there, at Harrenhal, and the people who kept dropping dead were becoming a somewhat worrying issue." She snorts, and he smiles a bit too, though his mind is spinning from her tale, from the knowledge of how much danger she was in, alone and separated from the rest of them. "Jaqen knew who I was, what I was by that point. He knew that if Tywin figured out what he had just in his reach, this would all turn sideways. So he helped us escape, and gave me a coin, telling me that if I ever needed to see him again, I could give it to any ship of Braavos, and tell them two words, and that I would be granted passage."

"What were the words?" He asks before he can stop himself.

She sends him another exasperated look but replies all the same. "Valar Morghulis. It's Valyrian, meaning All men must die. After The Hound died, and all that, I found a ship to Braavos and said those words. They brought me to a place in Braavos called The House of Black and White. The home of The Faceless Men."

Jon freezes, all the pieces slamming together. Sighing heavily and resisting the urge to swear, he runs a hand over his face, and motions for her to continue as she seems to hesitate.

"Jaquen was one of them, and I became one of them, too, for only a time, though. I trained with them, learned their ways, and was given a name. She was an actress, and a younger girl in the company wanted her dead, out of petty jealousy. I could not do it, and I paid for it in turn. One of the other faceless men, who I only ever knew as The Waif, tried to kill me. I escaped her the first time and ran into a Black Brother I had actually met at the play–"

Again, she hesitates, and he frowns up at her. A Black Brother? In Braavos? He racks his mind for anyone who could have been in Braavos around when this probably happened, and he comes up blank for a long moment before he really realises. His jaw drops open. "You met Sam?!"

She makes a sheepish face, snorting as he sighs heavily and rests his head in his hands with a drawn-out groan. He's still yet to hear from Sam about much of anything, but he'd sent a letter to him as well, right after they'd taken back Winterfell, informing him of where he was, what was going on in The North, what had happened on The Wall, and the sorts. He wants to worry about the lack of reply, but he has to trust in Sam.

"I did," she finally agrees, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat, one of utter confusion and some, admitted, fury. Samwell Tarly when I see you again, he thinks darkly, but he can't stay angry at him for too long. "He helped me get patched up. I killed The Waif, and then headed home. Landed in White Harbour, and went to The Twins."

"I killed Walder Frey first," she says, and though he can sense something more to it, some hint of a lie, he doesn't have the energy to pry into it. "Slit his throat like he slit mother's throat, and took his face. The rest of the Freys I used poison on, giving them wine and letting it all devolve." She sends a nervous look towards him, like she is afraid of rejection from him. Like the thought of his little sister doing what she did will turn his heart fully against her.

Jon will admit it terrifies him, knowing this, knowing that Arya can do that, that she has done that. But if he hates her for being a killer, for having the blood of their betrayers on her hands, he'd have to also hate Sansa, have to hate himself. War has made killers of them all. Nearly a decade of constant war and death and pain has reshaped all of them to their very core. He's not the boy who gave her that little blade all those years ago. She's not the girl who smiled when he said, stick 'em with the pointy end.

"You're not mad?" she says, sounding almost surprised by it. There's a nervousness in her voice, a nervousness that is also new, like she's afraid of rejection, of being pushed away because she doesn't fit into the image of her that has survived even when he let himself think that maybe she had not. "You don't hate–"

He doesn't let her finish. "I could never hate you, Arya." His voice is sharper than he intends, and she seems surprised by it. Wincing, he looks away and stands up just so he can cross the room and kneel before her. "I did not hate Sansa when she killed her abuser by feeding him to his dogs. I did not hate Benjen when he killed my betrayers with a vengeance and a fury. Do you hate me for taking my revenge through blood? Did you hate Robb for his bloody quest for vengeance?"

She shakes her head, and he smiles up at her. "It is as you said: The North Remembers, little sister." That makes her smile, and though some part of his mind whispers that it is a lie, reminds him that he will never be her brother in truth, the warmth that blooms in his chest at the familiarity of it all is just enough to let him ignore those maddening whispers. "We are not the type to sit idly by while blood is spilt. The North rose up for my mother's supposed abduction, no questions asked."

"They fought for our uncle and grandfather, murdered by…my other Grandfather." He makes a face at that realisation but shakes his head and continues. "Not for Robert Baratheon and his quest to destroy House Targaryen but because our blood had been shed, and The North does not let that go unanswered, even if the murderer is a King." Her hands reach for his, and they interlace them, eyes locking onto one another. Their eyes are the same Stark grey, the colour of a naked blade, the colour of trampled snow, the colour of stone. "We know no king, but the King in The North, whose name is Stark."

She tilts her chin up at the reminder, a smile breaking across her face. She squeezes his hands, and he squeezes back once, before dropping her hands and pulling her in for another brutally tight hug. She hangs onto him, just as tight, fingers holding a minute tremble in them. He pulls her just that much closer, heart hammering, head spinning with half a hundred thoughts, but all he manages to say is, "I'm just glad you're safe, Arya. That you are finally home."

"I'm glad to be home," she whispers after a moment, and he can hear the shake in her words, the hint of her emotions. He pulls her as close as he can, hand cradling the back of her head, heart once again like a drum against his ribs. Having her here, having her home feels like a dream, feels like something that will be ripped from him again, but the beat of his heart is proving that this is all so very real. Realer than he thinks he even knows.

And this is their home, this is Winterfell. Stark or Targaryen, this is his home, this is the place he bled for. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he's in that press of bodies, unable to breathe, unable to see Winterfell in the distance. He opens his eyes, and he's in his room, the room that has always been his. He is home, with his little sister in his arms, and the battle is won. And though the war is not over, it is enough for him, at least right now, that he is home.

Arya and he pull apart after a moment, and she waits patiently as he finally finishes getting dressed, handing Longclaw to him before he can grab it. Their eyes meet, and he takes it from her with a smile, fastening it around his waist, and then pulling on his cloak over his shoulders. She appraises it then, her brow raising when she sees the snarling wolf that Sansa put upon the leather bands.

Smiling, he says, "Sansa made this for me before we left The Wall for Winterfell. She made it like the ones that father used to wear." Arya nods, oddly quiet, and he frowns, knocking his shoulder against hers. "Hey. Just because Sansa and I are closer now doesn't mean that she's replacing you or anything like that. You're still always going to be my sister, and there's basically nothing that can change that."

"Basically nothing?" She repeats back to him with a confused look.

He smiles slightly, opening the door to his room and beginning to walk down the hall, Arya at his side. "Well, if you, I don't know, suddenly decide that Cersei Lannister is a terrific Queen and that you want to follow her, that might cause some issues. Conflict of interests, and the like."

"Don't worry," she tells him, a sharper edge in her voice. "I have little intention of supporting Cersei's claim to The Iron Throne–whatever claim that is. Honestly, I'm wondering why anyone is letting her sit on it. Last I heard, she blew up The Sept of Baelor. If I was the citizens of King's Landing, I would rather not have another mad ruler on that throne."

"Perhaps they wanted to go back to something familiar after years of Baratheons," he says, and she snorts a laugh. Shaking his head, he smiles sharply. "But in all honesty, Sansa thinks it's just fear. She, as you said, blew up The Sept of Baelor. Anyone with sense would be able to tell she's a little unstable after that, and figure it's probably best to bite their tongues and suffer her rule, scheming only in the shadows so that they don't lose their head."

That makes her expression darken. "Joffrey took father's head on the steps of The Sept," she says, and he nods mutely, good mood quickly fading away. "I'd have torn it down brick by brick if I could."

He nods in assent, saying nothing as they cross over the walkway that father would always watch him and Robb train on. The memory of it makes him smile, and he draws to a stop for a moment, Arya at his side. After a breath, she loops her arm through his and leans on him, the both of them staring over the courtyard, lost in their memories. From here, he can see the five direwolves as they pad in through the front gate like anyone else in this castle does, having no doubt just come back from a hunting trip together, maybe with that pack of wolves Nymeria brought along with her.

It's funny, sometimes, watching the inhabitants of Winterfell interact with the wolves, all of them so nonplussed by their presence. The Wolves are, by and large, quite genial to anyone who they meet, unless they have some sense of them that they dislike. But there is no one new in the castle today, and the wolves know most everyone in the whole of Winterfell, especially the ones who are milling around the courtyard right now.

Ghost and Nymeria come up to him and Arya after a few minutes, and in the distance, Jon can hear Tormund speaking loudly to one of them–Lady, most likely. He saw Sansa's wolf head that way, and the thought of those two is just as funny as the thought of Sansa and Tormund always is. He pets Ghost as he sits down next to him, resting his head on the railing and joining Arya and Jon in their stare across the courtyard.

He feels Arya tense against his side, and he follows her gaze to see Littelfinger crossing the courtyard in lockstep with Sansa. Her eyes flick to them briefly, and Jon smiles at her, and she nods back, before turning back to the man. His green eyes also dart briefly to Jon and Arya, a lecherous smile crossing his face. Jon goes tense as well, and neither of them speaks until he is out of sight.

"I saw him at Harrenhal," she tells him softly. "Now, I wonder if he recognised me and just wasn't saying anything because he couldn't quite figure out how to make it work to his advantage. I don't like his presence here."

"Neither do I, or Sansa, for that matter," Jon replies, keeping his voice low. Though he thinks the wolves will dissuade anyone from eavesdropping, he knows better than to be too hopeful in that regard. Littlefinger has birds and whisperers everywhere. Many people probably do. He pulls Arya slightly closer. "But we have to suffer his presence if we want The Vale. Lord Royce has no love for him, but he can't get rid of him without concrete proof of anything."

Arya bites her lower lip between her teeth, and he knows that look on her face well enough. With a loud exhale, he asks, "What are you thinking?"

"What if I find a way to get him out of here?" She asks, glancing up at him. He just raises a brow and shrugs, as if to say, that's your choice. She nods, squaring her jaw and staring out across the courtyard. "I'll talk to Sansa about it later. Maybe even Bran. He could have seen something or might be able to see something. Littlefinger's been central to so much of this, too much for me to think that he's just another man using the opportunities he's been given."

Jon nods, but says nothing, hearing the footsteps. Someone crosses behind him, and though he makes no move to see who it is, it doesn't matter. There are only a few people in this castle he can fully trust, and they're the ones who know his deepest, darkest secret. They're the ones who he shares blood with, the ones he's fought with, the ones with Northern blood and true sympathies. He does not trust Petyr Baelish. He knows better than to do so.

Arya pries herself off of him after a while, and he smiles at her in goodbye, pressing a kiss to her cheek before letting her go. He watches her leave, Nymeria on her heels, before turning back to Ghost, who is still sitting silently beside him, head on the railing. His eyes, red as blood, red as the leaves of a Weirwood tree, seem to be scanning the people milling around, and Jon does exactly the same thing, burying his gloved hand in Ghost's fur, taking comfort in the familiar feeling.

Arya had confessed much to him. He'd shown her his deepest scars. She'll probably tell Sansa soon, now that Jon's pried it out of her, and so that he can't take the liberty of doing it himself. And he's glad for it. They can't be divided, caught up on secrets, and unable to trust one another. They've all done things that aren't quite good. They've all killed people. But they're not some Southern Lords and Ladies, who sit in their gilded halls, covered in perfumes and silk. Their perfume is blood and their silk is leather and fur.

They are The Wolves of Winterfell. Robb Stark is The King in the North, The King of Winter. Sons and daughters of wolves, survivors of a war, the hope of a generation. Bran had given Arya the Valyrian Steel knife that had been used in an attempt to kill him the day prior. They're quite the dangerous lot, are they not? With their wolves and their cold convictions, and the blood that already lies on their hands. And when Robb comes home when the King comes back to take his throne, who knows what they will become, then?

—

Baelish ends up finding him in the one place that Jon thought would be free of scheming Southern Lords: The Crypts of Winterfell.

He's staring up at Eddard Stark's statue, a statue that he sees far too much of himself in to be comforted by it, a testament to the man who raised him like he was his own. Standing before Lyanna's statue is difficult in its own way, but standing before this statue makes his heart hammer like a war drum in his chest, anger mixing with age-old wounds. It was his death that broke the realm, his death that shattered their family into thousands of pieces that they are still trying to gather.

"I delivered his bones myself," he says, heedless of the look that Jon sends him as he continues his approach. Jon curls his fingers into a fist at his side, breathing evenly and deeply. "I presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister. It seems like a lifetime ago." He's beside Jon now, staring up at the stony visage of the man who raised Jon like a father, the man who probably would have done just about anything to keep him safe, to keep the last shreds of his little sister from harm. Promise me, Ned. For not the first time, Jon wonders what would have happened if he had been alive when the knives came. Wonders what he would have done.

When Jon says nothing in reply, the man continues. "Your father and I had our differences, but he loved Cat very much. So did I. She wasn't fond of you, was she?" His eyes turn to him as he asks that, and Jon's jaw simply clenches, though he supposes that is answer enough. Baelish looks back at the statue. "Well, it appears she vastly underestimated you. Lord Commander. Head of The Northern Armies. Last and best hope against the coming storm."

Jon smiles slightly, thinking of all the times he has been in here. These are crypts for The Starks and the Starks alone. "You don't belong down here," he tells the man, his smile growing almost mocking as he sees him blanch beside him, clearly surprised by the cold words. Jon wonders what notions he has of him, what he thinks he knows of Jon, what myth he has created from his own biases and what whispers he's heard.

But then he smiles, voice easy and light, "Forgive me. We haven't ever talked properly. I wanted to remedy that." He tilts his head at Jon as if looking for a reply, looking for Jon to become warmer because he has a sweet smile and a smooth voice. But Jon has never been that type of person. He has never been a man swayed by sweet smiles and soft voices. The first woman he loved…

"I have nothing to say to you," he mutters, turning to leave, but something makes him pause, a movement out of the corner of his eye. He pauses, and breathes deeply, eyes locking on another statue of some Stark Lord, a direwolf at their feet and an Iron Sword in hand. You don't belong down here. No more than Robert Baratheon did. Robert who loved my mother. A chill runs up Jon's spine at the reminder.

Baelish tilts his head at Jon, and just barely out of the corner of his eyes, he can see how the man they call Littlefinger's eyes glimmer in the low light. His voice takes on a cooler tone. "Not even, 'Thank you'? If it weren't for me, you'd have been slaughtered on that battlefield."

"Ah, yes," Jon says, lip curling into an open sneer, "You and your perfectly timed arrival."

"You have many enemies, my lord, but I swear to you, I'm not one of them." His eyes are like jewels caught in a light, and the smile that stretches across his face makes Jon's stomach churn, and that's even before he continues. "I love Sansa," Jon inhales sharply, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, "As I loved her mother."

He's whirling on Baelish before the man can blink, slamming him against the wall of the crypts with a snarl, hand pressing tight against his neck. The man gasps and splutters, looking at Jon with naked fear in his eyes, and that is even before Jon says, from between gritted teeth, "Touch my sister and I'll kill you myself." Baelish's eyes widen, and Jon drops him after a moment, brushing his hand against his shirt with a scoff. "For all your bravado, Lord Baelish, you are just another man."

"You could never have Lady Catelyn," he says, smiling mockingly at the man who is wheezing for breath before him, and it only grows as the man glances up at him with his green eyes. For a split second, Jon has the distinct impression he's not seeing Jon Snow. Perhaps he is seeing Eddard Stark. Or perhaps the man is seeing a young Brandon Stark, once again standing before him with a bloody blade and with his pride in tatters at his feet. "My uncle Brandon proved that once. My father proved it again. And so now you go after what you think you can have–Lady Catelyn's daughter, the one who looks like her."

"You don't love her. You love the idea of her," Jon spits at him. He's stopped gasping now, but he's looking at Jon with open terror and apprehension. "The idea that you can get what you think was stolen from you. Finally, get one up on Brandon who slashed you in two and Ned who stole your beloved from you, the man she truly loved. But you will never have a Stark for a bride, not while I live and breathe." He pulls away, and after a long moment in which he just glares at the man, shakes his head and says, "Farewell, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger's eyes follow him as he leaves, but he does not care not one bit. Let him see Jon and also see Brandon and Ned, see all the men who have spurned him, who have taken what he wanted from him. Sansa seems to know what she is doing with him, but the man is more of a fool than Jon could have ever expected if he thinks him safe enough to say he loves Jon's little sister. Say that as they stand in their home, surrounded by their blood and kin, in a Keep that he will never be welcomed in.

He's still breathing heavily when he nearly runs into Arya, who is followed by Nymeria and looks like she must have just come from training in the yard. She frowns as she sees the look on his face, falling into lockstep with him, and waiting until he gives an explanation. Which he does by simply muttering, "Baelish" under his breath. Her expression pinches and she nods but says nothing more as they make their way to their mutual destination.

Sansa pauses as they come in, also frowning at Jon when he sees his expression. She glances once at Arya, and Jon sees her face pinch as well, so then Sansa looks back to him with a flat and expectant gaze. Sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the desk from her, he runs a hand over his face and gives her the same explanation that he gave Arya. Baelish, he supposes, says enough on its own.

Sansa's lips purse, but she herself doesn't add anything to his comment, simply nodding and looking displeased but not surprised. She pulls out some papers from a stack and hands them to Jon and Arya both. "I had Maester Wolkan copy this. It is a proclamation from Cersei Lannister, dated about a week and a half ago, though I do not think she was in a hurry to get it to us. Indeed, I only got this because Lord Cerywn had one arrive at his keep and sent it forward. That letter was quite delayed, as well."

Both Jon and Arya read over the letter, and he sighs as he finishes, throwing it back onto the desk with a scoff. "What is she hoping will happen? Some dumb fuck will try to poison us or run us through with a knife, and then inevitably get eaten by our wolves for trying? Is she truly that dumb?"

"Cersei thinks she is the smartest woman alive," Sansa says, sitting back in her chair. Both Arya and Jon scoff, and Sansa's lip quirks upward for a brief moment before settling back down. Her fingers tap a rhythm against the arm of her chair as she continues. "She is, of course, not. But she is still dangerous, especially with her influence. And people will be looking for money, with Winter here."

"They won't touch us," Arya says sharply, throwing her own copy back onto the desk as well, and propping a foot up on the opposite knee. Jon's eyes are drawn, briefly, to Needle and the knife that both glimmer at her sides, and he exchanges a glance with Sansa that he knows their little sister does not miss. She continues on, anyway. "She should be worried about herself. She's on my list."

"Your list?" Sansa repeats, though Jon has a sneaking suspicion as to what it is, and so does Sansa, as it would seem from that look in her eyes. Arya had told Sansa of her dealings with The Freys soon after she'd told Jon, and he and her had spoken about it for many long hours, coming to the same conclusions, the same ones he told Arya.

"The list of people I am going to kill," Arya replies evenly, and though Jon was expecting it, it still makes his heart clench in his chest. War has made Arya so very hardened and dangerous, and while he's grateful for it in all the ways it has allowed her to survive and let her come home, he still wishes that it didn't have to be this way. That she didn't have to become this hard-eyed young woman who holds two weapons with so much blood on them on either hip.

"And who exactly is on this list?" Jon asks, arching a brow at her. "Hopefully neither of us."

Arya smiles sweetly at him, and he rolls his eyes, which makes Sansa laugh lightly. "Of course not," she says finally, running her thumb over Needle's hilt. "The Freys were on it. But now the two biggest names are Cersei Lannister and The Mountain." Her eyes are hard as steel, as cold as the ice that makes The Wall, full of hatred and pain and grief that does not belong in a girl of her age. Jon's heart is screaming in his chest, and he takes a measured breath, exchanging another glance with Sansa.

He wants to tell her that she cannot take on The Mountain, that he will kill her, and that she should not die for her revenge. But their eyes meet, and she looks at him like she already knows what he's going to say, so he keeps his mouth shut and thinks better of it. For the whole of his life, every time someone has told any of his siblings, especially Arya, that they would be unable to do anything, they always seemed to take it as a challenge to do just that. He doesn't want to encourage his sister to her death.

So he just tilts his head at her, and says, "Well, I fear for Cersei Lannister, then." That makes Arya beam and though Sansa looks somewhat unimpressed by it, she seems resigned to it in her own way. Perhaps they cannot stop Arya from getting the revenge she needs, but that doesn't mean that they can't help her. The North Remembers, after all. And it is those three words that have allowed them all to live on, that have helped The North survive a Thousand Winters and hundreds of wars.

The North Remembers. When one of Jon's Grandfathers killed the other, The North rode out in Force. The North Remembers. Nearly two hundred years ago, Cregan Stark rode South for a Queen who was already dead because of an oath his father had sworn, an oath he would not forget. The North Remembers. When Jon's father stole away with his mother, The North rode. The North Remembers. When Eddard Stark's head was cleaved from his shoulders, they rode to death and to the end.

The North Remembers. All of his siblings and he were raised on stories from Old Nan, stories of heroes and villains long since passed into legend, and it is those stories that have helped him through the cold. They were raised on stories that have been passed on from generation to generation, unforgotten and unbroken. The North Remembers. Arya Stark has a list of names, and she's already running through it, and Jon thinks that Cersei Lannister will never be able to find a force in this world that can stop her when it comes down to it.

---

notes!

-idk what it is about jon chapters but they just get so long so fast w me. i cant stfu about him, apparently.

-there is something so fascinating to me about thinking about younger jon looking up at the statue of a woman he thinks to be his aunt, standing before her bones, and having ZERO idea that shes really his mom. something about it is so tragic and then i get sad and wish lyanna got to meet her baby boy...

-r+l=j is such a wild ass secret, but like,,there's no way its staying private anymore. not only because jons honour and sense of duty is bound to compel him to tell Dany in the end, but also because once enough people know, even the most innocuous whisper can be overheard, and pieces can be put together. that's why jon starts telling the chief people who need to know-because that way he can control the narrative somewhat, and so they hear it from HIS mouth. does this make sense? probably not.

-brynden tully, certified cool uncle even to children he is not even related to. but honestly, i really liked having him kinda tell jon 'this doesn't change anything for me, because you are still the man that my king loves and cares deeply for'. jury is still out on how much jon will digest this message, but we are maybe halfway through his character arc, so there's still time (and hope) for him.

-jon writing to sam, that night: so were you just not gonna mention running into my sister or what

next up, sansa and arya have some sisterly bonding time!