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)

23. THE YOUNG WOLF III

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: THE YOUNG WOLF III

The King in the North returns home to Winterfell, reuniting with his siblings and their wolves. The Dragon Queen is welcomed in, and senses things are being hidden from her. Word arrives from The Stark at the Wall.

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He doesn't think as he spurs his horse onwards towards the shape of a man that looms on the horizon, doesn't think as he leaves it all behind in favour of the home that stands ahead. The wolves lop on after him, howling with glee and excitement into the crisp winter air, and Robb feels half wild, his horse a blur under him as he hurtles towards his home, tears already rising in the back of his throat, making his vision blur and split.

He slows down as he gets closer, not looking at the man who stares at him with those grey eyes he knows all too well, knows like he knows the stone and the snow of the home that is almost in his reach again, after what feels like lifetimes. He gets off his horse, heart hammering in his chest, his back to the man who stands there, and he allows himself one last deep breath for courage before he turns and–

And there he is. Jon.

Everything Robb has dreamed of and more still. He can feel the tears rising in his eyes and already pouring over, feel how his breath leaves his lungs as he pulls his horse up closer to where he stands. The wolves come over to Jon who laughs and smiles and rubs between Ghost's ears. And Robb thinks he's dreaming even when the world doesn't fade to ashes as he starts walking towards the dream that is Jon. The Gods are kind and cruel alike, but today, just for now, they seem so very kind.

"You're all in black." It's lame to say, such a menial thing to say, but it's all that comes out as he tries to say Jon's name. He wanted to say hello, say he missed him, say his name and everything he deserves but it's all he can say. It's all caught up in the memories of a day a lifetime ago, swallowed by the storm and the long and bloody years. Snow falls around them, melts in their hair, making Jon look otherworldly against the black of his hair and his clothes and all that.

Jon smiles.

Smiles one of his real smiles, one of the ones Robb knows he gives only to a select few. It feels impossible, all of it, looking at Jon standing there, looking just like the memory in his mind, and nothing like it all the same. The years exist between them, are there in the set of his brows, in the scars around his eyes. This isn't all the man he knew, but still, it's so obviously Jon in a hundred ways that make Robb ache deep within him.

"Well, you said I would be," Jon replies, and for all he knows, the sound of his voice could be another arrow in the heart. Robb remembers how that feels, what an arrow wound feels like, and now he's just wondering if he's dreamed it all up, if he's dead to the world in truth. This can't be real, there's no way he's really here, standing so close to Jon, the closest they've been since they said goodbye in Winterfell's courtyards at the end of The Long Summer. Farewell, Snow. And you, Stark. "And it's always been my colour."

And that's Robb's last straw as he makes a choked and pained noise and throws himself forward, sobbing even before he pulls Jon as close as he can. Jon makes a strangled noise himself, and they're both weeping in one another's arms, impossibility made real, tangible in their damned hands. He holds Jon, his brother, his best friend, his Jon, as tight as humanly possible, never wanting to let go, never daring to even think about it.

At some point, he realises he's halfway to hyperventilation against Jon's shoulder, and that the sound that's been swirling at the back of his mind is the sound of Jon doing his best to gently shush him, holding him close, cradling his head. And he thinks of another day at the end of the Long Summer, a day just like this one, where his mother held him close as he wept at the news of the first thing they took from him. I'm gonna kill them all, he'd said. And now…

When Jon pulls away, he lets him and his brother is still smiling when he presses their brows together. His grey eyes rove over him, his hands gripping his shoulders tightly as he laughs breathlessly and says, "Gods, but you look like shit, Robb."

Robb laughs wetly, raking his eyes over Jon's face as Jon reaches up to run his gloved thumb over the scar he knows is on his cheek. His eyes catch on the new pieces of Jon's face and appearance–a black beard and scars around his eyes that Robb doesn't know he wants to know the origin of are new things, but they look right on his face, all the same. They're both so much older and…and…

There's a smile on Jon's mouth, that real smile and perfect smile, and there's tears in his eyes as well, but he's alive and he's here in his arms and he's smiling which is more than enough for Robb. He'd thought, once, that the next time he'd saw Jon, he'd be a dour-faced ranger who smiled even less than he already did, which is to say, almost never. But here Jon is, still in black and with a damn fine sword at his side, but he's smiling and looking at Robb just like he's looking at him.

"Gods, I've missed you," he breathes, looking away as tears come to his eyes. His eyes trace Jon's face, the years he has gained. "Fuck, sorry. I just–"

"I know," Jon says, and he looks back at him, meets his Stark Grey eyes, and he's never felt more at home. He glances back behind Robb, and he knows that the rest of his company must be nearby, knows that he needs to pick himself up and get his act together, but he just wants to stay here, keep hugging Jon and counting his every breath. Damn them all. Robb will not rip himself from Jon, not now, not so soon after he got him back, propriety and appearances be damned.

But when he hears the horses draw closer, he forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly, rubbing his face as he does his best to rid himself of his tears and as much evidence of them as possible. Without words and in perfect sync, they mount their horses again, and Robb tilts his head back as the snow falls gently around them and The Dragon Queen and all her entourage draw up to them.

Robb glances at Jon as Daenerys comes closer on her silver horse, noting the look in his eyes with a frown. It only deepens as he sees Lord Howland Reed, just behind her, sending a weighty look towards his brother. Robb narrows his eyes at Jon ever so slightly as he greets her, a strange tension in his voice as he speaks, one he barely manages to catch. "Your Grace. The North welcomes you to Winterfell."

"Thank you," she says with a warm smile. Behind her, in the crowd, Theon looks to be trying to become one with the shadows, and Robb hopes that Jon doesn't do what he tried to do the first time he saw the Ironborn. "The North is very beautiful. Your brother has spoken much of you…Lord Snow." She hesitates for a moment like she isn't fully certain of the correct titles, relaxing when it proves to be correct.

"We should get going," Jon says, rather brusquely, glancing around. "Or Sansa will have my head."

Robb laughs at the comment, following after Jon without a word as he spurns his horse forward, handing the banner he'd been holding off to one of Howland's men. He and Jon take the front, but before Robb knows it, The Dragon Queen is pulling to his left, while Dacey and The Greatjon box Jon in from the other side. The Greatjon laughs when he gets a better look at Jon, causing Robb's brother to send him a semi-alarmed look, which he replies to with a smirk.

"Gods, if I didn't know better, I'd think it was a young Ned Stark who I rode beside again!" The Greatjon bellows, and Robb snickers as Jon hangs his head, clearly fighting some expression. The Greatjon's brows furrow after a pause, eyes on the side of Jon's face. "Though I do not recall my lord having such scars on his face. Certainly, there is some story to that?"

Jon's expression is pinched, and Robb cannot help but snicker at it, which makes Jon send him a venomous look. Clearing his throat, his brother says in a prim and strained voice, "I met the wrong end of a bird."

"And what did you do to the bird?" Robb asks, laughing again when Jon sends him an even more vicious look. To his left, he thinks he hears Daenerys laugh to herself, and Robb watches as Jon's eyes track to her briefly, that same strange expression coming over his face, though he says nothing of it. Fighting off his smirk again, Robb keeps moving forward as they all lapse into silence, with only the sound of the horses and the wolves filling the air.

But the silence does not last as they enter Winter Town. All around him, he can see Stark banners flapping in the morning breeze, making his heart settle in his chest. And everywhere he looks, he sees the common folk, looking at him with a terrible sort of hope in their faces. He can hear them as they whisper his name, whisper The Young Wolf with wide eyes, and some even seem close to tears as they say The King. If he wasn't surrounded by so many eyes, he thinks he'd be crying all over again himself.

He is, at long last, finally within reach of his home. Winterfell looms ahead, the stone and the snow unchanged, a titan before him, waiting to enfold him into its waiting arms. He can see all the scars of the years he's spent away–traces of battle and the burning and more still–but it's still standing, and that is more than he used to dare hope for. It stands there as it always has, the direwolf snarling in the wind above its towers and torrents, silent and grander than anything else. Winterfell, heart of The North. Winterfell, seat of House Stark. Winterfell, his home.

He glances at Jon as they approach the first gate, and sees a knowing grin on his brother's face, his grey eyes sparkling. Robb had been a mess of tears from the second he'd had Jon in his arms, but beyond the first gate and the moat and the inner gate, he knows what awaits him, what other dreams he will find plucked from his mind and made real. Rickon and Bran and Arya and Sansa, and all that has ever mattered to him. Home is just within reach, almost in the palm of his hand.

He, Jon, and the wolves draw ahead as the gates creak open, as they cross over the moat and through the inner gate. The Greatjon and Dacey know to keep their distance, and The Dragon Queen seems content to follow their lead, leaving him to pass through that final gate and into the waiting arms of his home at long last with nothing but his brother and his wolves for company.

And there they are, standing tall and proud. Sansa is smiling so brightly, Arya at her side, their arms interlinked. Bran is sitting on a chair and Rickon stands so tall before them, and Robb thinks all the air has been stolen from his lungs in its entirety. He must be dreaming, but if he is, it's the sweetest dream he's ever had. Sweeter than any fruit, any kiss, any foolish lapse of judgement made by intoxication and so many other things.

In the very back of his mind, he hears his father's voice, unchanged despite it all. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

He gets off his horse, a stablehand coming to take his horse away in a breath. The rest of the company files in behind them, but his eyes are only on the four of them standing so tall and proud. Somehow, he knows it's real. He knows it's real because the ground is solid and it doesn't collapse under him and the snow is falling in dizzying circles and he can feel the air in his lungs. He survived–Gods be good, he survived.

It's Sansa, beautiful, perfect and so grown, Sansa who meets him first. He doesn't even think as she throws herself into his arms, picking her up slightly and spinning her just a bit, his heart a bird with wings in his chest. He kisses her cheek and then her brows and then the top of her head, never wanting to let go, even as he settles back onto her own feet, her cloak fluttering around her feet as it settles. She holds his face between her hands, tracing the scar on his jaw and the curve of his cheek.

He remembers the last words he said to her with startling and horrid clarity. He'd screamed her name in that throne room, Joffrey and all the court looking on, and then the three words that bind their house together. Winter is Coming! He'd sobbed at her, and she'd looked like Winter itself as she stood there, tall and proud as ever. And as his eyes rove over her now, he sees so much of that strong little girl who did not weep even as her brother (her hero, her king, the man who was supposed to be her saviour) was bent low by false kings.

I wanted to be the one who brought you home, he'd whispered to her in his misery. She brought herself home, in the end. They all did, but it was she and Jon who made sure that they had a home to come back to, a kingdom to hold, who kept the tattered remains of their family stitched together with all their stubbornness and foolishness and everything that makes them both so very Northern and Stark alike.

"You're home," she manages to whisper before Robb feels something collide with his side. He knows who it is even before Sansa takes a step back, eyes twinkling and a smile on her face. He laughs as Rickon looks up at him with wide and wild eyes, and though he knows his brother is already three and ten, he hauls him up into his arms and holds him close, kissing his cheek and wondering at how his baby brother got so very big.

"Look at you!" He says as he sets Rickon down, ruffling his hair. Jon comes to his side then, and Rickon presses to him then, causing Robb and him to both laugh. "Oh, I see. I'm not nearly as interesting as Jon, am I?"

"I'd say." He turns to the sound of the voice and sees Arya standing there and oh is that a change. She is lithe and dangerous in all the ways that matter, a thin blade at one hip and a knife he recognises all too well on the other, her hair bound back in a Northern fashion. But it is her eyes and her smile that give her away–she is grinning, a slightly crooked thing, and her eyes dance with unrestrained glee. He barely has to open his arms before she's slamming into him.

"Hey," he whispers, curling over her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, swallowing tightly around the lump in his throat. He remembers the last he saw of her, through Grey Wind's eyes, at The Red Wedding, and all the questions press at the back of his mind like a noose around his throat, stealing all the air from his lungs all over again. But his tongue will not form the words, so he just holds her tighter, inhaling deeply and evenly until she finally makes the move to pull away.

Which leaves only…

"Bran," he breathes as he crosses the distance to the last of his siblings, who has been sitting patiently. Without even a second thought to it, Robb gets down on one knee before his little brother, reaching up to bring his brow forward so he can kiss his brow with a shaking exhale. Bran smiles wanly at him, a thousand things going unsaid between them all. Robb can feel the tears rising again, and he swallows them back forcibly, studying Bran's face with the blue eyes he shares with all his siblings, save for Arya and Jon with their steel grey eyes. "You're so grown."

"I am," Bran agrees, his voice soft. Robb feels something butt against his back, and he turns to see Grey Wind with a slight laugh and a smile. Bran smiles as well as he reaches forward to scratch under Grey Wind's chin, much to the wolf's clear pleasure. Robb stands then, smiling down at Bran before finally turning around to face the company he has been ignoring thus far. Only to see…

Theon Greyjoy stands stock still in the middle of the courtyard, which isn't in and of itself a shocking sight. Robb can see Jon and Arya, tense and still at the front of the assembled crowd, Rickon peering out from behind their protective shield. When Robb glances at Bran, his brother's eyes are bearing keenly into Theon Greyjoy, the man who took this very castle from them all, the man who betrayed the whole of them. The man whom Sansa is staring at with an expression that Robb cannot quantify or even fully understand.

Theon's bow is strung across his back, a quiver full of arrows at his side. But gone is the finery and the brocades and the long hair. His eyes are the same, though, and Robb does not miss the glance that is sent his way by Theon, the unsaid request. He nods, not knowing what else to do, and it is only then that Theon moves forward like a ghost through the silent courtyard. Silently, with nothing but the wind to make a sound for him, he stops a few feet before them all, and slowly bends one knee.

His voice rings true. "I took this keep from you. I betrayed you all. But I come to you know to honour the oaths I have broken, to try and repent for what I have done, in whatever way I can." His eyes, which had been trained on the ground, slowly come up to look at them, to look at Sansa. Her words ring in the back of his mind, and he knows that the only reason he does not lie dead in this courtyard by any of their hands is because of her. Because of what he did for her. "I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa…if you will have me."

And just as it seemed to be so much today, the world is silent. Robb traces his eyes over the assembled crowd, made of Northern Lords, Unsullied Captains, Dothraki leaders, and Southerners alike, all of their eyes honed in on the turncloak who kneels in the mud before the Lady of Winterfell, sister to the king.

Robb's bannermen have stayed off when it comes to Theon, biting their tongues and understanding all that must be done. Winter is Coming, and what good is executing a man who knows Winterfell as well as Theon does when the battle will be fought in these very walls? So they have bit their tongues, giving no further courtesies to him, but that is to be expected, Robb supposes. The North Remembers. Theon betrayed them all. But when it comes to Sansa, he knows there is a much stranger tune.

"You will be welcome so long as I draw breath behind these walls," she says, her voice carrying in the courtyard. Robb glimpses The Dragon Queen from the corner of her eye, Tyrion now beside her as they patiently wait to finally be acknowledged. Forgive me, Robb thinks, But this will always take precedence. Sansa offers a hand to Theon and he takes it, standing slowly, hand never leaving hers. And for a moment, they stare at one another, and then–

Robb bows his head as they wrench each other into a hug, barely hearing the noise his sister makes over the sudden gust of wind that breaks through the courtyard. He raises his eyes as they draw apart, Theon nodding at him and Sansa both, lips pressed together. He looks close to tears, and Robb is far from surprised when he immediately turns to disappear somewhere else, finally leaving him and his siblings to their last greeting.

Daenerys comes forward in a near instant, smiling kindly at Sansa, who gives her a warm but strained smile of her own. Jon draws up on Robb's other side as Daenerys begins to speak, Tyrion glancing between the three of them as if he can hardly fathom how he ended up here. "Winterfell is beautiful, Lady Stark–far more than any story has done justice to. My Hand has spoken well of you."

"Has he?" Sansa asks with an arched brow, and Robb hears Jon cough beside him, poorly concealing a laugh. She turns that gaze towards Tyrion Lannister after a beat, her mouth curving up with a wolfish grin that Robb has never seen on her face before as she says, "Lord Tyrion."

He nods at her. "Lady Sansa." His head tilts slightly, before continuing, "I believe the last time we spoke was at Joffrey's Wedding. Miserable affair."

"It had its moments." Jon coughs again, louder this time, and Robb sends him a shrewd look that has him smirking in an all too familiar way. Sansa also sends him a much harsher look that reminds Robb, much to his burgeoning terror, of his mother. Oh, dear, he thinks as Jon pales slightly. But she says nothing of it, instead addressing The Dragon Queen again. "It would be best to get inside before the snows begin to fall in truth. Lord Royce and my brother have prepared lodging and accommodations for your army, though only Lord Royce can aid at the moment."

It is at that moment that three shadows in the shape of dragons fly low over Winterfell. Daenerys seems to smirk at the surprised noises that rise from the Northmen, and Robb feels something sour in his stomach. Fire and Blood, his mind supplies as he watches Sansa's face harden, but when he looks at The Dragon Queen again, she seems perfectly pleasant.

Daenerys nods at her, and glances once at Jon, before turning around and calling out to Grey Worm and the three Dothraki who Robb believes are her Bloodriders–though he is still not entirely certain as to what a Bloodrider is–in Valyrian first and then Dothraki. Immediately, the four men kick into gear, and Sansa calls someone over herself, who goes to tend to the rest of Daenerys's entourage. The Northern Lords take the hint and finally head towards the rest of their peers, all having waited very patiently.

Robb takes a moment to watch Dacey all but sprint into her mother's waiting arms and watch The Greatjon immediately start talking up a storm to Howland–and laugh at the utterly absurd height difference–before he turns back to the company at hand. A Maester comes up and briefly starts talking to Jon in a long voice, before the man goes and tends to Rickon and Bran both.

His eyes are then drawn, for just a moment, to the last group that has just pulled in, consisting of The Brotherhood, the Rangers from Castle Black, and of course, Sandor Clegane–who had, upon meeting Robb on Dragonstone, had promptly started hissing at him about Arya apparently robbing him while he lay dying. He glances at Sansa and sees a strange expression on her face, as if she has seen a ghost. They dismount, and Sansa speaks in a notably even tone–

"I did not know you travelled with The Hound, Your Grace."

"He is a newer addition to my company," Daenerys says with a slight smile and a not-so-subtle glance at Tyrion which seems to question why The Lady of Winterfell is so interested in the younger Clegane brother. But Tyrion offers no answers, and so Daenerys just says, "He was sent by your uncle on The Wall to help transport the wight that your brother used as proof of our enemy. He and The Brotherhood Without Banners."

Sansa nods at that. The courtyard continues to clear, and that is when Sandor Clegane, Thoros of Myr, Beric Dondarrion, with the two black brothers who'd been at the council meeting from earlier, finally come over. Jon immediately breaks off to greet the Black Brothers, a smile on his face, but Robb's eyes are more on the brewing situation before him. All he has heard of Clegane's connection to either of his sisters comes from the man himself, after all.

"Ser," Sansa says, a strange tone in her voice as he comes to a stop next to them, glancing between her and Robb and then briefly at Jon, who still stands a bit away. He frowns at the last one, doubtless seeing old dead Ned Stark in Robb's brother's face. But he is saved from any greeting as, from right behind where Robb and Jon stand, another voice rings out, confusion dripping from her every word.

"You're supposed to be dead." They all turn to look at Arya, who is standing there with a single raised brow. She sends a very intentional look towards where Beric stands, a peculiar look on his face. Hadn't he also said he'd run into Arya, at some point? "And what in the world are you doing with the fucking brotherhood?"

"Arya," Sansa sighs but is cut off from further lectures by The Hound's rough laugh.

"Aye, I was supposed to be, pup. Real nice of you to rob me blind and leave me behind before I did." Sansa turns to her properly then, brows furrowed, and a glance at Daenerys and Tyrion both shows them to seem very confused. Beric Dondarrion appears to be fighting a smile. Clegane all but glares at Robb. But he says no more of it, stalking away.

Arya glances at Sansa, and when she silently nods, peels away from their group, heading after The Hound, who Robb wishes good fortune upon. He could see the determined look in his little sister's eyes well enough, after all, and any man would need some luck when facing that expression. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr (who had stood silently off to the side, drinking his wine), leave after a moment as well, though the Red Priest's eyes linger for a long moment on Jon. When Robb glances at his brother, he is obviously doing his best to avoid the man's gaze.

However, they cannot quite leave, not yet, not as one more visitor comes from the woodwork. He is a slight man with a pointed beard, green eyes, and a shifty grin that Robb swears he has seen before, though he cannot recall where. Jon, who has just come over, has a very dark expression on his face, and Sansa's only face is washed over with a cold mask that has Robb hurtling back to a day in a different castle, hundreds of miles south, a day with him on his knees and his sister before him, tall and proud and Winter itself–

"Lord Baelish." It is Tyrion who speaks, looking genuinely surprised, and Robb feels his heart skip a beat as the pieces click together. Littlefinger. The man who returned my father's bones. The man they say loved my mother. He sends an incredulous look towards Jon, who just purses his lips and seems to silently beg to keep his questions for later. Robb nods at him. "Have you finally found a King to follow?"

"I have," He says, a lecherous smile on his face. At his side, Robb can feel how tense Sansa is, and he grits his teeth together, saying nothing. Tyrion seems very interested in his presence, but the man they call Littlefinger seems perfectly at ease, sending a glance towards Daenerys, who is regarding him with narrowed eyes. "As have you, it would seem–though it is a Queen you now serve. We are both humble servants to better rulers, now." He glances at Sansa, and Robb feels a foreign anger curl up in him.

"Indeed," Tyrion says, voice notably guarded.

Littlefinger stares at him for a moment, eyes dancing with a light that Robb does not like, before he finally just bows at Robb and Daenerys both. "Your Graces."

And just like that, he is gone with a sweep of his coat. Tyrion immediately turns to Sansa and Jon, questions doubtless on his lips, but Sansa presses forward without a word, a cold expression on her face as she does. Tyrion meets Robb's eyes, and Robb just presses his lips together and follows after his sister, The Dragon Queen and her Hand following after a breath.

The second they get into the hall, Robb is almost immediately swept into another frame of mind. It is strange to sit in his father's seat, to see Jon sitting up here as well, smiling and laughing with Arya and a flame-haired man who Robb is certain he will be introduced to soon enough. Sansa and Daenerys seem to be making polite conversation. Even Theon has been roped into some scheme by some of The Northern Lords, who hoot and holler as he hides his face in his hands and shakes it slightly, not before sending Robb an imploring look. Robb just sends him a flat look in reply.

The Unsullied and The Dothraki are brought into the feast as well with ease, and Robb glimpses what appears to be some sort of contest between some Dothraki with long braids and what are doubtless Wildlings. He looks at Jon, glancing intentionally at it when he catches his brother's eyes. When Jon sees the scene, he just shrugs, and mouths, What of it? Robb rolls his eyes and sighs.

The only man, indeed, who seems to not be enjoying the festivities is one Jorah Mormont. He seems to be surrounded by The Mormont women, face in his hands as he appears to do his best impression of a shadow. Maege Mormont appears to be yelling at him, and though Robb has no love for the man, he does suppose that getting yelled at by your Aunt is a rather unpleasant situation…not that he is going to make any moves to stop it. It is decidedly not his business now, and Maege doesn't look like she's about to start hacking him to pieces quite yet, so he's not truly concerned.

The revelry reminds him of the last feast they had here, and when Robb meets Jon's eyes again, he knows the same thought is eating at his brother. He smiles wanly, grey eyes roving over the crowd. He seems to nod at someone, and Robb follows his gaze to see Howland Reed slip out the room. Robb frowns at him, his frown deepening as Jon stands up and comes over to him, whispering in his ear.

"Call the hall to attention. They will want to hear you speak. And we prepared something for you, as well," Jon says, a smile stretching across his face as he glances at Sansa. When Robb looks at her, she is poorly hiding a smile behind a cup of wine, and he narrows his eyes in suspicion at the both of them. Jon claps him on the shoulder, before going to the side of the room and meeting Howland Reed. Robb stands slowly, slamming his cup down until the room is silenced and looking at him.

Clearing his throat, and having not really prepared for this moment, he begins to speak. "My Lords, My Ladies, Men of The North, and Friends of Winterfell alike–I welcome you to this hall, as my father did for many of you before." A cheer goes up at the mention of his father, and Robb hides his pained grimace with a sip of his wine. "It has been almost seven years since I was here. Since I sat in this very room and called The Banners of The North to War–for my father. For my sisters." And he glances then at the both of them.

They both smile at him, and it is strange to see them so genial with one another, but he would have it no other way. At the foot of the dias that holds the high table, Nymeria and Lady are curled up together, the other wolves close to them, watching the hall with their bright and keen eyes.

"The road has been long and hard. Many of us here in this room stood in The Twins as Walder Frey and Roose Bolton betrayed us." Many men shout in fury at the mention, spitting on the floor, their hard eyes alight with flames and pain both. "But House Bolton is gone. My brother and my sister destroyed them." Another round of cheers. "Ands House Frey has been reduced to nothing but old Walder's daughters!" That gets a round of dark laughter, and he smiles grimly behind another sip of wine. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Arya, staring intently at him, but he files it away for later.

"Our betrayers are dead! Winter is here! I have come home, after all these long years, come to the home that my sister and my brother wrenched from the hands of those who betrayed us for nothing more than a pretty title. House Bolton will never come again, and House Stark will do as we have always done–remain, and rule The North." That gets another very loud roar of approval, but it is silenced when Jon clears his throat.

People whisper at the sight of him, at the bastard son who looks so much like the lord whom they fought for from that very first day. But Jon is not their father. And when he begins to speak, his voice carries well as their father's always did when he wanted it to, but there is a harsher edge to it that never existed in Ned Stark's voice.

"I remember when the war broke out. I remember when news came to Castle Black of how they had murdered my father, how they held my sisters captive, and how the whole of my world had been turned upside down with only a few words. I remember when I heard of The Red Wedding. I remember when I heard of Renly Baratheon's death by a shadow. I remember how I laughed at the news of Joffrey. I remember how Stannis Baratheon came upon The Wall and demanded I bend my knee to him. I remember all of The War of The Five Kings."

Men shout their assent, voices like a storm in the room. Jon's lip curls and Robb sees that his hands rest upon a box. He glances intentionally at it, but Jon just grins in a strange and disarming way, his eyes glimmering as he keeps on going.

"There were five kings, aye. Joffrey Baratheon, the bastard born of incest. Stannis Baratheon, the second son who had been scorned. Renly Baratheon, gilded and Southern, but too big a fool to hold the Throne he claimed himself to be the better heir to. Balon Greyjoy, who seized the first opportunity he could to grasp at the straws that had already been taken from him once. And…Robb Stark, my brother, was named by his men, named for vengeance and cold Northern justice. The Young Wolf, they called him."

Another outcry rises, this time centred from where The Greatjon sits. Robb smiles truly then, remembering that he was the first to call him that, the first to ever call him King. He has stood proudly beside Robb through it all, and Robb does not know any man he would rather have fighting beside him. Jon's fingers trace the edges of the box, voice taking on a deep and almost angry note.

"They tried to kill him. They bent his back and broke our House over and over again, but now he stands as the sole survivor of the war, the last of the five kings to live! Renly was the first to fall. Joffrey Baratheon died at his wedding. Stannis was swallowed by the North. Balon Greyjoy was consumed by a storm. And what of their heirs? Tommen Baratheon, who threw himself from a window, and Myrcella Baratheon, dead in the south. Now Cersei steals the Iron Throne. Shireen Baratheon…she was taken by The Red God."

Jon glances at another man, well-worn and with grief in his eyes. Robb does not ask, not here, not now, but he will eventually. He glimpses Thoros in the crowd, eyes bright and aware, staring down Jon in a way that makes Robb worry slightly for his brother.

"Euron Greyjoy stole the Salt Throne from Yara Greyjoy! Now they fight, a King and a Queen. And Daenerys Targaryen comes to these lands, to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister, and to bring it back into the hands of her House." Jon's lip curls into an all too familiar grin–wolfish and wild and one that has always made Robb think of races through the wolfswood and wind in his hair. "But none of them are one of the Five Kings! None of them can say that they are. Only one man survived that war, and he is the man who stands before us now, returned to his home after so many long years!"

Somehow, the roar that comes after that is the loudest yet. But Jon quells it quickly, slowly opening the box as he speaks. "The Freys betrayed my brother in their hall. They stole his crown and murdered his mother and his wife and the son he never got to know. They put him in chains and lauded their victory. Perhaps Walder even put the crown on for himself, and let himself feel like a king for a day." The box is open, but its contents are not revealed. "But he was no King. He was a miserable old man who got what was coming to him. But he did leave our king without a crown."

And then Jon pulls out the contents of the box. The Lords of The North exclaim their surprise as they see what he holds in his hand, and Robb feels the breath be knocked from his lungs as he sees it. In Jon's outstretched hands, there sits a circular crown, with nine spikes like swords around it. On the band, runes of the first men dance across the metal, and it seems to glimmer in the light. When Robb meets his brother's eyes, there is a hard and stubborn look in them.

He does not know how he and Jon end up standing before the table. He does not know how he ends up on one knee before him, never mind how he keeps breathing when the crown is rested upon his head. But it is, and the room is alight with noise and light and happiness, and Jon is pulling him up, voice and words silencing the room one last time as his hand grips Robb's forearm.

"I did not ride with you that first day, as much as I wanted to. I was bound by black oaths and what bare scrapings of honour were left to The Wall. But I am not that boy anymore; I am free of my oaths, a free and reborn man who stands in this hall before you. You are my brother. They call you The Young Wolf, and I, The White Wolf." He and Robb both look at all their siblings, sitting and smiling at the high table, and he just knows that all of them had a role in the making of this crown. "All of us are wolves of Winterfell, of the blood of Eddard Stark, the blood of Winterfell. The magic of The Old Gods is in our veins."

And then Jon takes a step back and draws his sword. People gasp as they see the naked Valyrian steel, and Robb feels his own heart hammer wildly in his chest as Jon levies it at him for just a moment before finally sinking to one knee, and saying, with all the earnestness that only love can buy, "You are my king, from this here day until the day my blood once more soaks the earth under me and life slips from my hand as I am embraced by the grey hands of death. But today, I live. Today, I fight ever beside you: The King in The North! The King of Winter!"

And the room is then in another storm. Swords are drawn, and The Dothraki and Unsullied alike look shocked at the display, at how every Northman chants those words, those titles. Robb glances at Daenerys and the crown that rests upon her own brows. Her Valyrian eyes are hard, regarding him warily, and he knows, without even having to ask, that the scales have been finally shifted.

They had sex, that much is true. And Robb knows Sansa might just throttle him the moment she learns, but looking at Daenerys in this moment, he knows some truths. That mutual lapse of judgment did not win Daenerys Targaryen The North, and with this crown resting upon his head and his people behind him, he knows that any conquest has just been made that harder. She can beat the North, yes, but she cannot hold it. For she is not a Stark. She does not wear the crown of The Kings of Winter. She is of The House Targaryen, a House that has no friends in these halls.

And she must see it. See the impossibility before her, see the King he has always been. He stands slowly, draws his blade, and raises it to the air, a smile stretching across his face. His eyes meet Theon's for a moment, all their oaths hanging in the air between them. But Theon's blade is out again, naked in its promise. Winter is here. And Robb is home.

—

It's getting pretty damn close to the hour of the bat by the time Robb manages to get out of all his duties and the company of the numerous people who have stuck around even after the feast pretty much ended to talk to him. It's not that he doesn't appreciate his lords or the fact that so many of them want to say hello to him and hug him and welcome him home, but he's exhausted and he really just wants to go to bed.

It's Sansa and Jon who end up saving him with polite but pointed words. And just like that, he's leaving the hall, his arm in Sansa's, Jon at his other side, looking slightly tipsy but no worse off for it. They walk in silence through the familiar halls, taking the way back to his room he knows all too well. His mind is almost spinning from the ecstasy of finally being home and how familiar everything around him is. It feels almost impossible that he's really here, but he is. He really truly is home.

He pauses in the doorway to the room, looking around it with misty eyes. Sansa draws a bit closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder as he takes it all in, taking in how familiar it all is. Her arms hold him tighter as she says, her voice thick with emotion, "When we took this back, I was startled by how untouched it was. I don't know why Ramsay didn't touch it, but he didn't. There was still a half-written letter to Jon on the desk." She smiles up at him, and he cannot disguise how much his breath shakes as he inhales and detangles himself from her.

He steps forward, slowly lifting his crown from his brow as he goes over to said desk. He rests it on it, staring out at the window and the familiar sight and all the papers on it. It looks like Sansa took the liberty of organising and dusting them all, but still, he finds the half-written letter with ease, smiling as he sees the thoughts that he'd been so ready to give to his brother. They're both in the doorway still, but Grey Wind has followed him in, sniffing around the space.

He pulls off his cloak, sets it over his chair, and then turns to his bed before finally doing exactly what he's wanted to do since he got through these gates and falls face-first into his bed at long last. He hears Sansa and Jon both laugh and walk forward, getting rid of their cloaks as well, their own wolves curling up with Grey Wind before the flames. Jon gets to lighting it as Sansa comes to sit next to him in his bed, running her fingers through his curls as he takes in the familiarity of home.

"I'll get the servants to bring you a bath, and see if Bran and Arya want to come and be with you. If you do not mind of course, though, I think all of us would like to be together tonight," She says, and he looks up at her and nods with a shaking smile. She smiles at him too, looking sad but so strong, and she leans forward to kiss his cheek, whispering, "We'll be back soon."

And soon enough, they are back, right after the servants bring away the water he'd bathed in. He'd nearly fallen asleep in it but managed to stay awake through sheer force of will. He does not want to be remembered as The King who drowned himself in a bathtub on his first night home. Sansa comes in first, Arya with her, Nymeria and Lady following just behind them. They're both in sleep clothes and lighter cloaks, and he smiles at them both from where he's sitting at his desk, doing his best to dry his curls.

Arya comes around to hug him first, her head resting against his shoulder, her arms hanging loosely around his neck and before his chest. He grabs her hands and presses a kiss to them, laughing as she makes a noise of protest. Sansa, who had been tending the fire and giving the wolves some bones to gnaw on, comes over then, and he grabs her hand as well and squeezes it tightly, fighting back tears.

But when Jon comes in with Bran, Rickon clinging to him all the same, he knows he'll be fighting a losing battle. Rickon, who had gone to bed an hour or so ago but had been woken so he didn't miss this crucial part of today, comes over to Robb instantly, and he untangles himself from Arya's grasp so he can pick him up and hold his baby brother close.

They all end up on the bed, him in the centre with Rickon in his lap. Sansa is to his left, Arya curled close to her, and he has so many questions to ask about what's changed, but he thinks he knows the answer. They've changed. They're not the kids they were the last time they were all together. At his right is Jon and Bran, and it's frightening to think that his little brother is now the age he was when all of this came crashing down…the same age he was the last time he was with anyone in this room.

The tears spill out of him then, accompanied by a semi-hysterical laugh. Sansa presses close to him then, her hand in his hair and tears in her eyes as well. Rickon buries himself closer and somehow, they all end up curled close together, hair of red and black alike mixing, hands held close and tears in all of their eyes–save for Rickon, who just seems so happy to see all of them together. And at the base of his fire, all the wolves are much the same–a pile of white and grey and black that really lacks much of a shape.

"Fuck," he whispers as he covers his face with his hands and leans back. Sansa hisses at him and reminds him of their young and impressionable brother, but he just laughs, feeling half-mad, which makes Sansa lightly hit the back of his head. Jon and Arya laugh at that, and he sobs wetly, saying, "I missed you all so much. I never thought I'd–I never thought I'd ever get to go home again. That we'd ever all be together again."

"The Lone Wolf dies," Bran says, sounding so grown and so different from that little boy Robb knew.

They all know how this ends, and thoughts of their father consume them all as they whisper in tandem, "But the pack survives." They all draw a little closer at that, and he can feel his heart straining in his chest, memories of how they were all made orphans came to be. His mother's scream echoes in the back of his mind, and the thought of The Red Wedding makes another thought come to his mind. His eyes dart to Arya, who smiles innocently at him.

"Why were you at The Twins?" He asks.

"You're welcome, by the way, for freeing Grey Wind," she says, and he huffs an incredulous laugh. Behind him, Jon and Bran are both snickering and whispering, but he ignores them, focusing on his sisters and their twin smiles. Arya's face grows a little more serious after a beat, though, and she says, "I was with The Hound. He was planning to ransom me to you and Mother. That did…that did not work out." She glances away, her grip on Sansa's hand tightening.

"You saved Grey Wind," he says, glancing at his wolf, who seems to be off in his own world in that amalgamous pile of undefined fur over there. "And you survived and stayed free. And you made it home, in the end. With The Blackfish, what's more!"

And oh, had that been a hard reunion. He'd hugged Brynded tightly when he approached him during the feast, having been preoccupied with something else when he arrived, grateful for someone so familiar to be back with him. There, Brynden had told him of meeting Arya on the road, and while he knows that there is a very long conversation to be had between them, it had been nice to just talk with him for a moment and not think about the horror that now lies between them. The chasm in the shape of his mother that has been carved out.

Sansa murmurs something to Arya, something he cannot quite catch, but he does not miss the expression Arya gives her. It's hard to place, and Sansa's shrug is strangely detached, but when Arya looks at him, there is something serious in her eyes that makes his interest immediately pique. On the other side, he hears Jon shift slightly, and he's starting to get the sense this is something everything but he knows.

"Did the Dragon Queen tell you about the assassin who murdered The Freys?" She asks. He nods, a pit growing in his stomach as her expression tightens minutely, and her voice gets just that much harder and sharper around the edges. "Did she tell you what the assassin said?" Again he nods, not trusting his voice, and she inhales deeply, her grey eyes scanning him for a very long moment. Though, for what, he cannot say.

"It was me," she finally says, her voice flat. Robb freezes, and she continues on, her words a little quicker, traces of nerves around her eyes. "I'll tell you more as to how, later, when it's not so late and it's the time for it, but I did it. I slit Walder Frey's throat like he slit our mother's, and poisoned the rest of the Freys as well. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe, I said…though I don't think The Frey girls recalled that half as much as my other words."

The North Remembers. Winter came for House Frey.

He barks out a laugh, feeling half mad and strangely delighted by it. He knows he should be horrified at it, but all he can feel is this rush of vindication and so much dark glee that it was one of his House who did the deed, who avenged their poor mother. He looks at Arya, a wild smile on his face, and she meets it with one of his own. "Arya," he breathes.

"You're not…"

"Mad?" He finishes for her, before laughing again. Jon seems to be laughing slightly as well, though he is far quieter than Robb is. As always. "No, I could never dare to be. Only the gods know how many times I dreamt of killing Frey, killing The Lannisters, murdering Roose where he stood. It is good to know that you did it, to know that Walder fucking Frey died by a Stark blade. To know that he was killed as he killed our mother, right before my eyes."

His voice breaks on that, and he's glad that Rickon seems to be dozing into sleep because he knows it's about to turn towards the hard shit. The things that none of them really want to talk about, probably, but the things that still need saying. The wounds and the grievances and all the years. Of course, he does not expect to know everything right here, right now, but there are some things that need asking, that need knowing.

And so, he looks to Jon. His brother's grey eyes glimmer in the firelight, and Robb thinks Jon knows exactly what he's about to ask even before he does. Which is far from surprising. Jon has always known things like that, and always had a sense for it. But it's darkening his eyes, and Robb can see the turmoil drawing closer, so he asks something else instead, reaching up to tap at the scars on his face. "You never really explained these. An angry bird is not an adequate explanation."

Jon huffs a laugh at that, rolling his eyes but indulging him anyway. "An angry skinchanger known as Orell gave me those. The circumstances as to why would require either being a lot more drunk or having a lot more rest, so I'll save that for later, but he was angry, angry at me, and he was bonded to an eagle, so…" Jon mimes a bird coming down and claws down his face. Robb winces, and Jon gestures to the other scar on the other side. "And this is because I fell off a building while being chased by a White Walker."

Robb blinks at him. "What?"

And all of them laugh at that, and he has to join in, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Jon, so easy and so happy. He reminds himself that he does need to ask about The White Walkers and everything with Bran, never mind everything around skinchanging, but right now, he wants to be here and now. He doesn't want to tie that into all of this, because they all know what still needs to be spoken of.

It's Bran who gets the courage, pressing a little closer to Jon, who holds him close. "I miss him," he says, and it's like someone has put a stone in Robb's chest where his heart should be, a thousand pounds in between his ribs. The room suddenly seems so much colder, and none of them meet their eyes. If his mother was a chasm between him and Brynden, their father might be a wasteland between him and his siblings.

He meets their eyes and sees their grief and their pain and their rage reflected back at him. Sansa's eyes especially burn, and those words from that hellish day are in his mind all over again, choking him out. I wanted to be the one who brought you home. She watched their father die. They said she screamed and begged and then fainted, and he wishes he could have saved her, he wishes he could fix it, but he can't. He'll never be able to, it would seem. Nothing brings him back.

You howl and you barter and you beg the gods, but you cannot sew your father's head back to his corpse and breathe life into him.

When he glances at Jon, he sees a stranger expression than the rest. His eyes are dark and far away, and he will not meet Robb's gaze. When Robb glances at Sansa, her eyes have hardened, and he knows with a start that whatever this secret is, it's not only another one he alone doesn't know, but it's not one he will hear in this bed, surrounded by his siblings. So he just glances back at Jon and grabs his hand and intertwines them, lending what strength he has left to give.

They start talking about their father then. About his loss, about their memories of him, and what they miss about them. They all cry, and when he talks about their mother, he can barely force the words out from between his teeth around the tears and the rising sob. You cannot stop them from slitting your mother's throat as you weep, and no matter how much you hold her lifeless body and pray to the gods who have stopped listening, you cannot give your life for the woman you love.

They do not speak of Theon Greyjoy.

But they talk about sweeter things, too. About reunions and how they're all back together again. Sansa tells him of their Uncle Benjen at The Wall, and about coming home to Jon. The pair of them speak a little bit about the battle to take back these walls, and just like with Arya and The Freys, he barks out a vicious stream of laughs when she tells him the fate that Ramsay Bolton met and does the same when Jon gives his own tidbit about how he'd nearly beaten the fucker to death.

Arya tells him about her friend, Gendry, whom Ser Davos (who requires another interjected story from Jon to explain) will be going to King's Landing to look for soon enough. He'd apparently wanted to wait for his return before he went South, seeing as he's one of Sansa and Jon's most trusted advisors. She tells them of Brynden and her meeting, and of the pack of wolves that Lady and Nymeria picked up at some point.

Bran speaks a little as well, clearly skirting around an in-depth explanation of everything, but he gives enough for Robb to somewhat get it. He mainly speaks of one Meera Reed and all but orders Robb to give her practically anything she wants, given all she has done for Bran since the day they met following the Burning of Winterfell.

And Jon is the last to speak. He tells Robb about his friends, mainly, and makes a few japes about Stannis Baratheon, much to their amusement. But they're all fading, and he knows that they're all dangerously close to falling asleep here and now, which…really, he won't complain about. All of his family is here. Everyone who matters is within reach and he's comfortable and warm here in his bed, his siblings pressed close to him, so familiar and so perfect in all the ways he's dreamt of.

And so, slowly, they all slip off into sleep. He doesn't think of the proprietary of it all, because really, it matters so little to him, after everything. For the first time in seven cold and long years, his family is with him, he's not alone anymore. And much like them, their wolves have curled up into one ball, and what does propriety and manners matter to wolves like them? Who is around to stop them, to really even care?

So, they fall asleep like that, pressed together, blankets held close, breaths mingling and legs intertwined under the blankets. The snow falls outside and the sky darkens and then slowly lightens, and they stay there, breathing in tandem, winter outside the walls, but unable to touch them where they now rest.

—

Sitting at the head of the massive circular table, tens of maps spread out all over it with waiting figureheads lined up to the side Robb cannot help but be struck by the odd sight around him. Northmen, Wildlings, Valemen, Unsullied, Dothraki, and Southern Lords are all present here, and in the very corner of the room is a pile of Direwolves whose eyes watch the strangers in their home just as carefully as anyone else. And all the eyes are on him…him and Jon, the man who really knows what's going on.

Jon clears his throat, drawing attention fully to him as he unrolls what Robb recognises as a large map of Winterfell. His grandfather had it made, he recalls, around when his father was sent to the Eyrie and some renovations were done on the Western Courtyards. It's still incredibly accurate and highly detailed, making it perfect for war planning.

"Our best defence will be The Moat," Jon says, grabbing a carved figurehead of a wolf and placing it in The Godswood. "It surrounds the keep, and as far as The Night's Watch has ever been able to tell, The Wights have no talent for swimming. Indeed, they probably have the numbers to simply make their own bridges of bodies across the moat, but unless they climb the inner wall as well, there are only a few points in which one could exit or leave Winterfell, excluding the secret passages."

He pulls out another, rougher map that shows the passages in and out of Winterfell. "We've been doing our best to map these tunnels and get a sense of them so we don't get any surprises from them. But they are old and dangerous, so they will become a notable weak point that can and likely will be exploited by The Dead. At any rate, most of the fighting will be consigned to the gates, and we can use them as choke points if we have enough men on the walls and at the turrets."

"How many gates are there?" It is Grey Worm who asks first. Jon's eyes glint as they flash to The Unsullied Commander, but there doesn't seem to be any open hostility, at least.

"Five that lead out of the castle. The main ones are The North, West, and East Gate. The East Gate opens onto Wintertown and The King's Road. There are two smaller gates–The Hunter's Gate, near the Kennels, which opens directly into The Wolfswood and is where our own wolves tend to come in and out of, and a smaller gate on The Inner Wall, unconnected by the halls through the walls, known as the Battlements Gate." He points them all out. "There is also The Gate to The Godswood."

"The Night King will be hunting me," Bran cuts in then, voice smooth and relaxed, his expression close to blank, but Robb can see the hint of something more in his eyes. "As The Three-Eyed Raven, I am the keeper of all history. And if you want to destroy the world of men, it is best to start by destroying the whole of their history, no? I will be in The Godswood, lying in wait, and hopefully, we will be able to trap him and his Walkers there."

Robb grits his teeth to keep from saying something stupid. Jon had warned him earlier, as they ate breakfast, about Bran's plan to make himself bait, and while it goes against all of his better judgement, he doesn't have a better counteroffer to give. Glancing around at his siblings (save for Rickon, the only one of them who is not present as he is in his lessons and of little use here anyway), he sees his thoughts reflected in their eyes as well, but they all bite their tongues and move with it.

The same could not be said for The Southern Lords.

Only one of the Tyrells had made the long journey Northwards. Garlan Tyrell stands a little ways away, his eyes clear and steady, his sword ever at his side, as is custom with Knights in these lands. With his brother and grandmother in Dorne, enjoying the company of The Martells, he is one of only a few Southern Nobles in this room. There is, of course, Tyrion Lannister, but The Dornish Sand Snakes as well, who loom in the corner.

It is Garlan who asks the question that Robb knows must be on most of their minds. "Pardon me, but I find myself still unclear as to the exact nature of this…Three-Eyed Raven? Some clarity would be for the best, I'd say." That gets a round of nods and murmurs of assent from the Dragon Queen's entourage, though she remains silent, standing at the opposite side of the table from Robb and Jon. "Your brother made no mention of it when he first spoke of it, and all I have heard from The Lords of The North are whispers."

Robb looks to Bran for this one. He'd avoided an explanation or even mention of it for the simple reason that he knew only what Jon and Sansa had imparted onto him, which was to say, almost nothing. He had thought it best to perhaps simply let Bran, The Three-Eyed Raven itself, give this explanation. He'd told Robb more this morning, but even now, he knows he could not do it an ounce of justice if he tried.

"The Three-Eyed Raven is, as far as I can explain or understand it, an entity or spirit that comes from The Old Gods of The North. To be a Three-Eyed Raven, you must be a greenseer, and to be a greenseer in the first place, you must be able to skin change and possess the greensight. The greensight is a sort of gift of prophecy and premonition that is a latent ability in the blood of The First Men, as with skinchanging."

Bran breathes deeply, his blue eyes roving over the silent room. "I'll confess that I do not know why I am the Three-Eyed Raven, or even why I was chosen. But I am, and I have the ability to see all of Westeros's history, and know every folly and victory that has been ever made in these lands. The Night King killed the Three-Eyed Raven who I am the heir to." He looks at Daenerys.

"The former Three-Eyed Raven, I may add, was Brynded Rivers, The Bloodraven of House Targaryen. While little of the man he once was remains in him, it is perhaps important to note. I do not know where his abilities came from but…" Bran trails off, eyes digging into Daenerys, whose face is awash with poorly concealed shock. Bran shakes his head and picks up again. "Doubtless, he will try to do much the same to me as he did to The Bloodraven. He killed him." He glances at Garlan Tyrell. "Does that answer your question, My Lord?"

Garlan nods, and though Robb doesn't think he fully gets what Bran was saying, perhaps some confusion is better than really trying to get into the details of it all. For he knows well enough how quickly it will just end up as an explanation of Northern superstitions, faith, and the intricacies of their culture that they simply do not have time for. Jon, clearly thinking much the same, picks up right where he left off.

"There are two ways to get to The Godswood. There is the normal way, and the way we want to make the only one possible, that being through the rest of Winterfell. However, The Godswood is backed directly by the inner wall at a point, and there is nothing between it and the outer wall beside the moat there. Though we are in luck that there is no gate there, it is still perhaps the weakest point on the whole wall. We will have the most men stationed at the turrets there, to hopefully prevent us from being closed in within The Godswood, never mind snuck up on."

"Gate!" Comes a voice from the window. Robb and the rest of the room turn to the source of the noise, and he feels himself grin slightly when he sees the black raven that is perched on the windowsill. Fluttering his wings a bit, the bird says, "Corn!" At his side, he hears Jon sigh, mutter a low curse, before turning back to the maps, ignoring his bird, whom he introduced to Robb that morning. The Northern Lords who have been here snicker a bit.

"Anyway," Jon says a little quickly, placing a few more figureheads around. "Our best swords should be spread out and able to move quickly. Lady Brienne, my sister Arya, and I are all who I know for certain will be at the battle and carry Valyrian Steel blades." He palms the handle of his blade, glancing at Jorah Mormont, but when he moves to pull it out, Maege Mormont's voice rings out.

"Put your damn sword away, boy, and don't make me tell you again," she says, and Jon freezes where he stands. "My brother gave you that sword for a reason. Use it."

"And I have no want of it, Lord Snow," Jorah Mormont cuts in awkwardly. "I left it behind for a reason, for I know I do not deserve to carry it anymore. Longclaw is yours, My Lord." Jon purses his lips but nods, splaying his hands flat on the table and glancing at Meera Reed, who nods at him and pulls a covered parcel from out under the table.

"There is something else, though," Jon says, and Robb feels his anticipation rise in him. His siblings had done their best to make sure there would be no surprises for him at this meeting, so he knows what Jon is about to reveal well enough. It's not like he's going to be shocked, really. But anticipation rolls deep in his gut, making him feel cold and clammy. "In my brother and Lady Meera's journey North of The Wall and in their training with The Bloodraven. After all, it was he who last wielded the blade of Visenya The Conqueror, the blade they call Dark Sister."

Jon throws back the covering of the blade, and multiple people's breaths catch as the naked Valyrian Steel is revealed. Robb feels his own breath catch, staring at the beautiful and so very dangerous blade that lies before them, thinking of his father and the blade he once wielded with a heavy weight in his heart. But then he thinks of all that have wielded this blade, all that have held it.

Visenya and then Maegor and then Jaehaerys, through blood and death and the early years. Followed by Baelon for a time, and then of course, The Rogue Prince, who died with it in hand and was buried with it for a time too. And then, as The Blackfyre Rebellion began to stew, there was The Dragonknight, and as it all finally came crashing down, it was held by The Bloodraven, who took it with him beyond The Wall, both never to be seen again. And now it sits silently in Winterfell, with no one left to claim it.

"The Decision as to who shall wield it lies in you, Daenerys Targaryen," Jon says, a rough edge in his voice as he pushes it to her. She nods mutely, tracing her finger over the flat of the blade before replacing the cloth over the blade, once more hiding it from view.

"Thank you for this gift, Lord Snow. I will inspect my men and deem one worthy in due time," She says, her eyes digging into him. Jon holds her gaze for a moment before lightly clearing his throat and returning to the task at hand, his grey eyes narrowed and his shoulders set in a tense line.

Robb feels himself frown, and when he glances at Sansa, sitting silently to their immediate right, her eyes are cold and guarded in a way that makes him frown even more. But neither offers answers, and Jon is speaking anyway, speaking of things that he needs to pay attention to if he has any hope of being able to lead his men through this all. And he does, but still, at the very back of his mind, a thought gnaws.

But it's swept away soon enough, by the arrival of The Maester, who carries in his hand a scroll with black wax sealing it. Robb and Jon straighten in tandem as he comes over to them, and Robb feels his heartbeat quicken slightly when the note is handed to Jon. His brother's eyes rove over the message, and he sees the exact moment something comes over Jon, sees the exact moment his eyes harden and he slips back into something cold and strong. His eyes flicker to the two black brothers who are present, the rangers known as Emmet and Matthar.

Silently, Jon hands the letter over to Emmet, who bites his lip after uttering a soft curse and showing it to Matthar, who makes no noise beyond a strained exhale. The letter is handed back to Jon, and, likely well aware of all the questions in the air, begins to read.

"Jon," he says, voice forcibly even and unbearably cold, "More and Walkers and Wights are being spotted. Likely only two months at most until The Dead come upon The Wall. No rangers have been sent out at all in the past week, due to a party of four going missing barely two miles beyond The Wall. If Matthar and Emmet have reached Winterfell with their company, recall them immediately and ask after Dragonglass. All swords you can spare will be needed at The Wall. Winter is Coming. Signed, Benjen Stark, 999th Lord Commander of The Night's Watch."

Jon throws the letter down with a frustrated noise, running a hand over his face, eyes bearing holes into the table with his glare. He mutters something to himself, glancing once at the Red Haired Wildling who sits beside Alys Karstark and her apparent Wildling Husband, and then at Robb. And it is to him he says, in a cold voice, "I will take what Free Folk I can, The Black Brothers, and ride to The Wall."

"Ride!" The raven squawks again.

"Absolutely not," Sansa says right as Arya says, "What?" And Robb sighs heavily with a low, "No."

Jon glares at the three of them. "I am going." His eyes rove across them, heedless of everything else as he says. "Benjen needs help, and I know this threat as well as anyone, and I have a Valyrian Steel blade. I'll take Ghost with me and get there with a month to spare, hopefully. You all know how grave this is. Why can't I try and help The Watch, especially when I know it better than anyone else we can send?"

To Robb's surprise, it's Theon who pipes up from where he's been leaning against the wall, silently watching the proceedings. "Because it's a stupid idea, Snow. You think you can single-handedly save The Wall or something, now?" Theon snorts sharply, and when Robb glances at Sansa, he sees a self-satisfied look on her face that someone is agreeing with her. Arya looks a little murderous, but not like she's about to openly move to gut him.

"Who asked you, Greyjoy?" Jon spits and Robb really isn't ready to feel like he is once more seven and ten, nor is he in any way prepared to try and mediate between them again.

"That's enough out of both of you." Robb glares at all the people in the room, staring with wide eyes. "You will forgive me, my lords, but I ask that you excuse yourself. We will reconvene later." They all quickly bustle away, Theon included, but Robb isn't done with him. "No, Theon, you stay." He thinks that he might just need someone who can and will tell Jon to shut the fuck up, if it comes to it. Some things never really change, after all.

The Northern Lords look at Theon in interest as they file by, and Robb doesn't miss the look the Greatjon sends him. But Theon seems hardly aware of it, staring at Robb with eyes that are wide as plates. Even still, he doesn't move from where he's now hovering near the table, arms crossed defensively over his chest. The door closes, and here they all are, alone and almost complete for the first time in seven years. Robb pushes the thoughts away to focus on the current madness that has taken his brother over.

"Yes, you're a good swordsman Jon, and Benjen needs help, but I need you here at Winterfell." He glances at Sansa. "We all need you here. You've been single-handedly running the defences and getting everything together. You can't just cut and run for The Wall."

"Benjen needs me as well, and Royce and The Lords know the plan well enough to cover for me–I made sure of that," Jon says, voice pinched and tight, stepping away from them all and their tight gazes. He glances at Arya, who sits silently in her chair, her expression betraying nothing. Bran is politely watching, Theon seems to be trying to slowly fade into the shadows, and Sansa…she's looking at Jon with the strangest expression on her face. "He's the only Stark on The Wall. The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives."

His eyes narrow further. "And I have a lot of things I'd like to settle there before I die."

And that knocks all the breath out of Robb's lungs. He hangs his head with a sigh, glancing up only as Arya silently stands, saying, "Do what you'd like, Jon. Just be smart." With a glare towards Theon, she turns on her heel and leaves without another word, leaving only five of them now.

"Fine. You will go, if that is truly what you think is best," Robb says with a sigh, glancing at Sansa and then at The Ironborn who stands silently so close by. All the emotions well up in him, pain and grief and betrayal, but love as well. Love for the man he was. Love for the brother who is doing his best to run from them all. Sansa nods, their agreement silent. She knows Theon better than any of them now. She knows just how much he might be able to keep Jon in line. "But you will take Theon with you."

"Absolutely not," Jon says, right as Theon says, in a slightly panicked voice, "I didn't agree to this!" They exchange a glare, and Robb glares at them both as well, crossing his arms and standing tall.

"No one goes alone, not after last time. Theon, you're a better shot than most men around, and Jon, you know The Wall. I will write to Benjen and let him know you are coming. You leave in two days. Am I understood?" Silence hangs in the room, cold and heavy.

For a moment, Jon glares at him, and Robb silently prays for some scrap of patience and understanding from his brother. He doesn't want to let Jon go, not after last time, not after how this all turned out, nor does he want to let Theon out of his sight again. But The Wall needs help, and there's no one he can trust with more than those two. He knows how they fight. He knows that they can do this, if they can manage to not murder each other in their sleep beforehand. But he has faith in them. The Lone Wolf dies, but The Pack survives.

Theon and Jon exchange a glance, and finally, Jon says, voice sharp and clearly displeased but resigned to it "Yes." And then he's turning on his heel and leaving without so much as a word of goodbye.

—

He finds Jon later where Sansa said she'd find him: In the Crypts of Winterfell. Jon barely glances at him as he comes closer, Ghost and Grey Wind following close behind Robb. Immediately, Ghost pads forward to press against Jon, and his brother buries his hand in his wolf's fur as Robb draws to a stop next to him, looking at the statue that has so ensnared his attention.

"Aunt Lyanna?" He asks softly as he sees who Jon is standing before, confused but curious all the same. He had expected Jon to stand before the statue of their father, and yet…

"Your Aunt Lyanna," Jon corrects, and Robb blanches at him, blinking dumbly at him. Connections swirl together, just out of his reach, and he stares at Jon, trying to understand what he isn't saying, what is going on, as Jon continues on heedless, a bitter smile on his face, "At the end of Robert's Rebellion, Eddard Stark came upon his sister in The Tower of Joy in Dorne. There, it is said he found her, dead or dying from fever, and it took multiple men to pull him from her corpse. But it was not fever he found her in the thralls of. And she was not dead when he came upon her."

The pieces are drawing together, and Robb tries to say his brother's name, but all that comes out is a wheezing noise. "He found her in a pool of her blood, in the child birthing bed. Her last words were a plea to her brother; Promise me, Ned, she begged of him. For she had born a child who would die upon the new King's sword had he known. For she had married Rhaegar Targaryen in secret and bore him a son. A son whose birth sapped her strength and stole her from this world. A son she named Jaehaerys. A son he took north and raised as his bastard, to assuage suspicion as to the boy's origins."

And that is when it all slams together. Holy fucking shit, Robb thinks.

"Jon–" Robb whispers, taking a step back and looking at his…at his brother, his cousin, his… something, in terror. Jon does not look at him, smiling with enough bitterness to burn and staring up at the statue of–of his mother, Robb realises. And it all settles on him with a horrible wash of clarity, and he blinks at his brother, who is weeping silently, shaking where he stands, smiling a gruesome smile, nothing like the one he gave him only the day before. Slowly, Robb reaches out to brush his fingers over his shoulder and says, in a hoarse whisper, "Jon?"

"Hey, hey," he says as Jon sobs loudly, wrenching him in for a hug, staring over Jon's shoulder with a horrified expression as the storm swirls in his stomach and threatens to choke the life out of him. All around them, the Starks of old stare at them, judging them in this one moment where it all falls apart in their hands. Robb catches a glimpse of his father's statue, silent and still, the man who took this secret to his grave. Promise me, Ned.

Jon's knees suddenly buckle under him, and he collapses against Robb, weeping and making a screeching noise against him as his strength seems to bleed from him. Robb is lowering them down to the floor in the space of a breath, holding him tight as Jon comes undone against the curve of his shoulder, whispering inane notions that get swallowed by the furs around Robb's shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, he holds him close and lets him sob into his shoulder, whispering apologies over and over again. For what? He does not know, cannot begin to fathom. Everything, then.

When he pulls back, despite the noises of protest that Jon makes, his heart strains as he sees the ruined look on his best friend's face. "Look at me," he hisses on an exhale between his teeth as Jon looks away from him, lower lip trembling and body wracked with violent shakes. "Look at me, Jon."

"I–" Jon starts to say, voice shaking, his hands splayed in his lap, shaking like the rest of him. "I can't–I'm not–Robb." He sobs again, collapsing forward, his head resting in Robb's lap, sobbing silently, no tears left in him. "I have no fucking idea who I am anymore. Everyone wants me to be something, but I don't know what or even who I am. All my life, I wanted to be a real Stark, I wanted to be by your side and no one has ever fucking let me!"

"I'm scared!" Jon confesses, voice breaking on the final word. "I'm scared beyond all thought, beyond all words! I'm afraid of what I am, what this means, and what this makes me!"

"You are my brother, Jon Snow," Robb says, lips curling back in a strange bout of anger. Jon looks up at him through red-rimmed eyes. "You are my best friend. You have a Direwolf. You were raised in these walls, just as I was. Raised like a second son, raised by Eddard Stark, who lied to everyone for you, for your mother, for the chance that you could live longer than either of your parents. You do not get to throw that all away! You are a Stark, by my decree. You called me king, and that means you know there is no denying what you are–what you have always been."

Jon looks away, but Robb will not have it, grabbing him by his chin and forcing him to look at him. They're both shaking, and Robb's world is shifting around him, all the pieces drawing together in a far too dangerous web of lies and deceit and claims. "I do not care what anyone says, what anyone wants. You are Jon of The House Stark, raised by the last true Warden of The North. The blood of The First Men is in you. No one will take you from me–no queen, no lord, no undead king! Not after I have spent the last few years crawling home, praying for home. Praying that I could be with you again."

And he remembers how hard it had been to read Jon's words, his confession that he'd been killed and Robb could do nothing to prevent it. Robb holds Jon's face between his hands, rubbing his thumb over his cheeks as Jon inhales shakily, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly. He wheezes, a weak and bitter noise that has Robb crumbling and pulling him close again. Jon clings to him, a dead weight against his shoulder, hands clutching the back of Robb's shirt.

And all of it floods past him. Days long since gone, a summer that died with their father. That final hug, the snow in their hair, and the hug they shared when they finally came back together. The arrows in his heart, his mother's throat blooming red, Sansa standing tall in the Throne Room of The Red Keep, in the shadow of The Iron Throne. The way his body had been torn apart when their father died and the whole of their world burnt up at their feet.

"I can't be here, not with her…" Jon trails off, and Robb squeezes his eyes shut. It all makes sense, now, Jon's strange looks, and all his oddities in the meeting. "I have a claim to that damned throne that she cannot deny. Certainly, we must make some alliance, certainly, I will have something demanded of me, but what if it is my head she demands? What if she sees me as nothing more than a threat, as something to silently end before someone can think me better suited for a throne I do not want?"

"What do you want?" Robb asks, pulling back to hold Jon's face in his hands. His eyes, wide and grey and glimmering in the low light, bear into him, heavy and weighty. Robb can sense Grey Wind and Ghost, prowling nearby, ever on guard against those who would seek to harm them. "What is your heart's desire, Jon? What can I give you? What is it you hope to see on the other side of this war?"

Jon laughs wetly, rubbing a hand over his face, his eyes a thousand miles away. "I want a great many things," he says, laughing bitterly, and sounding like he is quoting something. "Those were the words I said to Stannis Baratheon while he was upon The Wall, right before he offered me this very keep. I refused him though, for as much as I have always wanted to be a Stark in truth, I would rather die than usurp any of you. I knew you lived. I would not take my home from you, would not be handed it by a kinslayer. I could not dare…as much as I wanted to be a Stark. To stand beside you in truth."

Robb stares at him, a thousand emotions spinning in his mind. Oh, Jon, he thinks, unable to form the words. Stubborn, foolish, Jon, who is as much our father's son as I am. He swallows around the thought and manages to smile at Jon and hold his face in hand. "You are a Stark, though. I made you my heir and released you from your vows because I thought I had lost everyone save for you. And now, here you are, back home, at my side, and a Stark…certainly there is something more I can give you, though?"

"I am home, Robb," Jon says with a smile. "I am home, and so are all of you. I have been given a second chance at life. I have been allowed to see you come home, I have been given the singular chance to fight beside you, to fight for The North. My honour recalls me to The Wall, as does all that I left unfinished there. I am still black of heart. I am not safe there, no, but should it all come crashing down here, at least I am out of her hands. There, I still have ghosts to face, and they are darker than the ones that The Dragon Queen brought. But, I swear to you, I will return. And then I will ask nothing but the chance to be at your side when Night falls over us."

"And beside me you will be," Robb says, heart straining in his chest. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him, telling him to not let Jon go, to not let him rush into this madness and to stay beside him. But he thinks of that singular truth, the undoing of it all, and who exactly lies in these walls. Daenerys Targaryen knows that she will not get The North with ease, and not through sex, doubtless. And for the land that has already so staunchly stood its ground to suddenly produce another heir…the thought is cold and terrible.

(Though, the reminder of how he and Daenerys Targaryen both made a mutual mistake feels a lot worse now. Given…Jon. He'll tell him later.)

He recalls Jon's words from only the night before, and smiles through his tears as he says, "You are my king, from this here day until the day my blood once more soaks the earth under me and life slips from my hand as I am embraced by the grey hands of death." It is strange how easily he recalls all those words. How easily he recalls all the oaths. Many men have sworn oaths to him. Many men have broken those oaths. Am I your brother, now and always? He smiles. "Try not to murder Theon. For Sansa."

"For Sansa," he agrees, glancing up at the statue of his mother. Silently, they stand together, tears no longer flowing but hearts still stinging in their chests. Jon's expression softens as he looks at the stony face of his mother, grief and love married in his face. "Many Lords have reminded me of how The North rode for my mother. I am Lyanna Stark's son, and for much of The North, that is all that matters. Sansa thinks that should someone try to make me answer for my blood, The North would rise again, for what remains of Lyanna Stark, the woman who they rode to death and blood for without so much as a second thought."

"You have told The Lords?" Robb asks, genuinely surprised. Jon nods.

"The ones who needed knowing. Brynden Tully knows, as does Yohn Royce of The Vale, though we have kept Littlefinger out of these discussions. The man doubtless suspects something, and could perhaps put it together before the end, but I am not allowing myself to lose sleep on it. Howland Reed was the one who told me, for it was he who survived The Tower of Joy with Ned Stark and dragged him from my mother's bedside." His expression tightens, emotions warring, but he gives them no voice.

"I will speak to Sansa more about it all, then," Robb says, "And if I have your leave, inform those who came with me, the ones who need to know. Dacey and The Greatjon, especially, though perhaps a few more would be good to know. Should this all turn aside, I want The Lords of The North standing together, on even ground. But only if I have your leave. This is yours alone to tell, if you wish it so."

"I trust you," Jon says, so simply, so easily. He moves to speak but is cut off by a low growl coming from Grey Wind. Robb and Jon tense in tandem and both turn to the entrance to the crypts. And Robb feels cold fury take him as he recognises the man who approaches, a sleazy grin on his face, though it is Jon who greets him. "Lord Baelish. I had thought I made it clear just how unwelcome you are in these crypts."

"I apologise, my lord, my king, for the intrusion, but an urgent matter has passed my ears. A troubling whisper, if you will." His eyes dart to Jon, green and wrong and unsettling. "About The Lady Lyanna."

"What of her?" Robb asks, voice cold beyond measure. He knows that the man they call Littlefinger has not missed the fact that is her statue that they stand before, nor is he likely to miss the evidence of tears that still lie in their faces. Having no need for propriety, though, Robb continues, voice as sharp as a blade of ice. "What business do you have in the matter of our aunt? I would warn you of your words, Lord Baelish, for Lyanna Stark is held dearly in the hearts of Northmen. You will recall what The North did following her abduction by Rhaegar Targaryen."

He can sense how tense Jon is at his side, if only because he can see Ghost, clinging to the shadows, silent and still, his red eyes bearing deeply into Petyr Baelish. But the man, in all his arrogance, seems heedless of it. "There are whispers amongst the servants surrounding some vile rumours that have arisen about her. Rumours that we would not want The Dragon Queen to know, lest it tear this fragile alliance apart so close to Winter's coming."

"Are there?" Jon asks, his expression blank. It reminds Robb of how his father looked when he was dealing with someone he particularly disliked, or even how Sansa stood in the Throne Room that horrid day–cold and distant and with winter in the very fabric of their bodies. Just as Sansa did in that Southern Court, Jon looks like he could be one of the Old Kings of Winter, hard-eyed and dangerous, as immovable as The Wall that he was once a man of. "Well, I would hope you're here to tell us who is saying this about our aunt, so we can see to it on our own terms."

"Of course," Littlefinger says, though Robb does notice how his smirk just slightly widens when Jon says our aunt. Could he know? Jon had said that they'd done well to keep him away from their councils, but Littlefinger is a master of spies and whispers and learning what people would rather keep hidden. Even a single loosened tongue could be their undoing, and should it be revealed to Daenerys and her court on terms not made by them, it could destroy this all. And Littlefinger seems well aware of that. "I will leave you, then. Leave you to your mourning."

Again, his eyes flicker to the statue of the Lady Lyanna Stark that looms behind them both. He wonders if Jon feels any comfort in her shadow, or being so close to her still and silent bones. Or perhaps it tears him apart to know that this is all he will ever have of her, just as now all he has of his parents is bones. And who knows what happened to Rhaegar's corpse and his ruby-studded armour, after it all came to pass and the blood was no longer visible in the waters of The Trident?

And then Littlefinger is gone as soon as he came, leaving them both to an endless silence and the darkened crypts. Candles flicker at the base of her statue and their father's, and slowly, Robb draws himself to the statue he's been trying to ignore since he got here, and the grief that presses against him as he looks up at it. Jon comes to his side after a moment, leaning his head on his shoulder, and together, they stare in silence at the stony face of the man who reared them both, who made them the men that they are now. Robb hopes his father is proud of him, in whatever heaven he now lies in.

"If he knows the truth, if you get any hint that he intends to spill and doom us all…" Jon begins, trailing off for a moment. Robb doesn't even have to look at him to know what expression is on his face. As cold as The Wall, he thinks, feeling ice settle into his own expression and spine, the both of them standing tall, wolfish to the last. "You kill him. You spill his blood and end this mummer's farce. Promise me this, Robb. He cannot be allowed to sing this song."

"He will not," Robb agrees, thinking of what exactly a wolf does to a Bird. "He will die in these halls, die by my order. For no one will have you. No one but death, and even then, I will not allow that to come again for you anytime soon."

—

Come the day of their departure, Robb finds himself watching Jon fight with one of the Night's Watchmen, Emmet. They're both smiling and laughing as they cross swords, clearly not fully trying, just having some good fun and catching up, but even then, Jon's skill is evident. He's always been a talented fighter, there's no denying that, but watching him fight, even so casually, it feels brutally evident.

But stranger still is the fact that it is Robb who silently watches him now, standing on the same balcony their father used to Lord over them from, arms crossed over his chest and his eyes focused on the scene, Grey Wind pressed close to him. There are ghosts everywhere he looks, a sentiment that has been echoed by all his siblings, but this is a particular ache, now. He misses his father, more than he can really say, misses the man who raised them all, who defended the whole of them so very fiercely.

Sansa and he had gotten to speaking last night, as Jon sought out Arya and her comfort, as Theon melded into The Shadows and Bran lost himself in The Godswood, as Rickon continued to just be a little boy. Side by side in his bed, hands intertwined, they'd spoken of it all. Of that day in the Throne Room, Joffrey's voice echoing in both their ears. Of their father and how she had to watch, of their mother and how he watched her die, just like Sansa watched their father die. Of Jon and all his foolhardy stubbornness, and all that Arya has become, and all that Bran has learned, and all that was stolen from Rickon.

And indeed, about The Dragon Queen.

Sansa had hit him over the head with a pillow when he'd told her about his drunken mistake, screeching his name so loudly his already burning face had gotten only that more red. He doesn't think that his little sister has much trust in anyone save for them, never mind the daughter of The Mad King, and he's not here to defend Daenerys for her. He doesn't love Daenerys, not in the ways that really matter, not as he loved Talisa, or especially how he loves Sansa. He was just drunk and lonely and sad and a hundred other things that don't make it a particularly smart choice, but still.

He will choose The North and his House over everything he knows. He respects Daenerys, certainly, and can appreciate her beauty and all the ways she could become something great, but that doesn't mean he's here to bow and scrape at her feet and hand it all over because of a drunken one-night stand that they both seem to recognise was a mistake on both their parts. And he's not here to tell his little sister to trust a woman she barely knows, not after everything.

Sansa had bitched at him for a while, certainly, a grace he gave her on the principle of being fully aware he deserved it, but she'd softened after a while. And asked of Daenerys, without the barbs and without the worry and the fear, just simple curiosity. And he'd told her all that he could of her, what he has learned of her in the past few months since his freeing from the cells beneath Casterly Rock by her hands.

Daenerys Targaryen is a woman alone in this world. The Mother of Dragons, they call her, an undeniably lonely and distant thing to be. She is proud, stubborn, and has only one true goal in mind when it all comes down to it: The Iron Throne. But her ambition is run under with some sense of helping and trying to be a better monarch than any before her. The Breaker of Chains, they call her as well, a woman who completely overturned the whole of Slaver's Bay. That must mean something, somewhere.

But not to The North. Still, some part of him always curls in on itself as he hears her name, as he is reminded of the horror that her House–her father–wrought onto his. He doesn't think he could ever love her, not truly, not with every drop of blood on the line. But neither can The North, his cold and hardened people who trust no one but themselves. The South has taken so much from them, and their ability to take it fell apart a long time ago, right before either of them were born. House Targaryen, and perhaps even Daenerys Taragaryen, will never be owed the North. The North will never owe them much of anything. That is what he has lived off of.

But then there is the matter of Jon.

Robb watches him as he spins out of the way of Emmet's blade, laughing brightly, eyes alight with an infectious joy, like steel in sunlight. Jaehaerys Targaryen. He and Sansa had spoken of all of that too. Of just how undoing it could be and everything with Baelish. The latter had made her go particularly quiet, though whatever thoughts it brought to her mind were left unsaid between them. And they both know well enough that the secret that they hold between them is enough to send this all crashing and burning down…which perhaps would be in the interest of Petyr Baelish.

Troubled, he tries to keep his mind off it as he continues to watch Jon spar, but it's hard to escape. He glimpses Daenerys, passing through the Courtyard with Sansa, Lady padding behind them both. Sansa had said that she was hoping to speak further with the Dragon Queen, not trusting her but not wanting to be her enemy all the same. Both of their eyes snap to him, and then to Jon, and though he knows the expression he sees in Sansa's eyes is love and respect for their brother–for it will always be so–he does not know what Daenerys thinks when she sees the man. And oh, how he wants to.

What did Tyrion Lannister say about The Bastard of Winterfell, about any of them? What did he say of wolves to the dragon? And what of The Direwolves themselves? He thinks of The Dragon Queen's three dragons, living in the hills to the North of Winterfell, bothering none of them save for that first flyover that he knows was far from an accident. This is all so delicate, with everyone showing their strengths in different ways. After all, why would Sansa have Lady so pointedly with her? Why else would she wear just a layer less than this fiery southern Queen? All of it is a push and pull of power.

"You're brooding," A voice calls from his right, and he barely contains his surprise at the sudden appearance of his other sister at his side, accompanied by her Direwolf, as is to be expected. She smiles wanly at him, snaking her arms around his waist and leaning against him slightly, watching Jon train as well, her expression unreadable. He rests his hand on her shoulder, so many questions still left in him, but not wanting to say them into the open air, full of unknown ears that may make lips move and end them all.

They stand in silence for a while, the wind in their cloaks and in their hair, though they are largely protected from it. Jon's laughter rings in the courtyard, and Nymeria and Grey Wind are bracketing them, snow falling softly around. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can pretend that nothing has changed, but he knows that it's folly. There's swords at both of their sides. Jon's true identity is more dangerous to anything they've built than anything else, save for The Dead. Winterfell carries deep scars. Their parents are gone, and all The Starks who now live are Orphans of bitter wars. Nothing is the same. Everything is different, different in all the ways that matter.

Except for this. Arya is familiar at his side, and though she is taller and older now, she's still his little sister, clinging to him in the cold, leeching his strength from him. Jon is still Jon, in the ways that matter to Robb–stubborn and proud and brilliant with his sword. Sansa is all that he loves, having grown into something truly good and proud. Bran is still Bran, despite the entity within him. And Rickon has a chance to grow up. They're all home, back in these walls that made them, back in this bower of their youth.

He visited the Godswood yesterday evening. Sat between the red crown of leaves and silently wept, thinking of his father and everything they stole from him.

"What happened with Theon?" Arya suddenly breaks the silence, and he stills, not having to look at her to know that her face is etched through with confusion, grief, and anger alike. She isn't the forgiving type. She murdered Walder Frey. "Sansa told me about why she forgives him, and Jon seems to just want any man he can get. But I thought you would…that you would be like me. I can't forgive him for what he did. Not for everything."

"Neither can I," he tells her. "And I will never ask any of you to, you or any of The Lords of The North. Theon made his choice and will live with all that it wrought for the rest of his life. At the same time, it doesn't mean I agree with what happened to him. He deserved death, not mutilation–that is our way, has always been our way. So, no, I don't forgive him. But I know what led him there, and I know that if I turn him away from this war, given all that he knows, I will be making a mistake. I don't think he's not looking for forgiveness, though. I think he just wants to do right by us, one more time."

She says nothing in reply, humming non-committedly and watching Jon. Soon, he will be gone from both of their hands, and he knows that when his brother returns, it will mark the beginning of the end for them all. They all have goodbyes to say. Jon has wrapped up in the yard, and Robb knows he has only a few hours before Jon is going again, before he is following his heart and subscribing to the honour of the man who raised them both to be better men. Robb doesn't know that they are. He just knows that he is a man who has done all that he can.

"He will want to say goodbye to you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to her head. She takes the hint and pries herself off of him, her grey eyes taking him in with a remorseful expression. He cradles the side of her face in his hand, thinking distantly of the father who they all weep for, and says, "He will come back, I know it. He is Jon, and he is not one to lie down and die. But still…do not leave without a goodbye."

You have always meant more to him, he wants to say, but it feels wrong to say now. Things are different now, and they're not the children they were, with their petty dramas and scrapings of adulthood. They are all bound tightly together, and he hates that Jon is going so soon after coming home, but he has faith his brother will return. And so, he will hold Winterfell, wait for the end to come, and keep them all together and learn who all of them have become. He will guard and he will defend Winterfell and Jon and Benjen do the same on The Wall, black-hearted till the end of it all.

Arya leaves with a mute nod, but Robb does not move to follow him, staying on the walkway, the wind in his hair and his heart a drum in his chest. A part of him wants to turn back on his word and keep Jon here, keep him bound to him and this keep, but he knows it will break his brother. Jon has not shown him the scars, but he knows they're there. He knows what Jon has left behind at The Wall, what pieces of himself he's still trying to gather before he loses the chance to. This is a wound that Jon must mend, Robb knows, if there is any hope of him ever coming back to him.

Even still, it is not easy to see Jon come over to him, sometime later, a cloak as black as night around his shoulders, sword at his side, Ghost his ever-present shadow. Jon draws up to him, much like Arya did, but says nothing as they both stare out at the courtyard. Robb has little doubt they think of the same man. But those are not words and memories for now, not when it is all so strained and fraught and he already feels close to crumbling at the thought of letting Jon go away from him again.

Look at what happened the last time they left one another. Death and murder and war and treachery and betrayals became their intertwined fates. They both know the bitter taste of betrayal well. They both carry scars that will never fully heal, memories that will be their only friend in the dark. They left one another, and it would take nearly seven long and bloody years for them to ever see one another again. And now, they part again, their darkest hour on the horizon, with so much left undone.

He looks at Jon, and his brother meets his eyes. They have all said much the same to him in that regard. They share blood, and Jon has always and will always be his brother, no matter who he really is. That is the one true constant he knows, one he knows Jon is clinging to the safety of as well. Grey meets blue and there's so much he has left to say, so many whispered confessions to make, and promises to wring out of Jon. But what of it? What will any of it change? Jon is still riding to the very edge of the world, out of reach, out of sight, but never out of thought.

Seven years ago, they stood outside the East Gate and said goodbye, the snow in their hair and everything still pieced together. And Jon had been in black. Bran had survived. He had come home to his brother, in one way or another. But it had taken so long, longer than he ever wants a repeat of. Seven years is such a long time to be torn from the ones you love, really. Far too long a time, he thinks.

Jon pulls him in for the hug, and they both exhale deeply as they hold one another close. No snow falls over them. The world might just end within the year, with the dead, their blood in the snow. Winterfell could all fall to ruin and the Long Night could swallow them all. Jon could never come home this time. But Robb does not let him believe it. A crown rests on his head and Jon carries a Valyrian steel blade at his side and the weight of a secret on his shoulders. They're not boys anymore. Haven't been in a very long time. They're not a lot of things, now.

"Farewell, Snow," he says, and though he's going to do his best to press Jon's legitimacy as a Stark, these are the words he needs to say. He sees the memories in Jon's eyes, the remorse for all that they have lost since those words were last uttered between them clear as day. Death has broken them both. Jon died in the snow. Robb bled slowly, Talisa in his arms, his mother's screams in his ears. Benjen avenged Jon. Arya avenged their mother. Daenerys Targaryen set him free upon this world again.

But then Jon smiles that smile, and all the dark thoughts seem to fade. Hope and light and love come back into the world, and Robb remembers he is home, that he survived, and all that they have behind them now. Perhaps…perhaps they are not fully doomed. Not really. "And you, Stark."

---

notes:

-writing these reuinions was the most therapeutic part of this whole fic so far. just,,,ugh i love them all and i hold them in my hand, my little BABIES

-grrm youre killing me with having the greatjon and jon snow share a name. completely fucking killing me.

-it is so important that jon crowns robb. both for their relationship but also jons own relationship to his targ side and his tie to the iron throne. its his way of saying, even though most people don't know the truth, that his allyship will always first be to house stark and to robb

-that war scene...whoo boy. so many layers. i could talk about it all for another 1k words but imma spare yall.

-originally, i was gonna have jon tell robb later (and theon wasn't gonna go to the wall with him) but as i thought about it the more i felt like it went back on the arc i am building for him. but despite that, the way the reveal plays out has been the same since the start. and letting jon just break down once he finally has robb in reach is also so revealing, is it not? on that:

-let jon snow cry 2k24. actually just let all the starks cry 2k24

-jon snow: everyone's favourite pathologically avoidant stark. see how the SECOND he gets an out he's taking it, heedless of sansas disappointment, aryas pointed removal, and robbs general state of 'no? you are not allowed to leave?'

-i don't really want to say much about littlefinger because so much of the next two chapters revolves around him and the things he's hinting at and how he got there. but lets just say jons departure just got a little more timely and a little more notable...

-i know it kinda sucks that I'm taking jon away so soon after getting them reuinted but i hope i msde the reasons for it clear. we are rapidly approaching the most important moment of this fic so far, and believe me when i say that there is plenty more starkling scenes to come, both w and without jon, and this is only a part of the puzzle. but still. apologies, i guess.

next up, bran speaks of dragons (and i have way too much fun with everything)