The Weirwood Queen

by theredwolf17

Lady is buried beneath a weirwood tree, and Sansa prays to the old gods for Lady to stay with her. The gods hear her prayer, in a manner of speaking. Everything changes. Crossposting from Ao3.

173. Jon XV

December 305 AC - February 306 AC

Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, 305 AC

By ohnoitsmyra

Content warning: Thoughts of suicide.

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Beneath the morning sun, the world was blinding bright.

Jon squinted, trying to blink away the stars that marred his vision. It had snowed again yesterday, covering the godswood in a cold, dazzling blanket. Everywhere he looked was white, save for the dark waters of the steaming hot pools and the blood red leaves of the heart tree. Ghost's eyes were the same shade of red. They gleamed like garnets, his worry plain as he nuzzled at Jon's hand.

Suddenly dizzy, Jon leaned against the direwolf. Perhaps it was nerves, or perhaps it was the pain that gnawed at him, familiar and unwelcome. His boot had been padded to account for the loss of his two smallest toes, yet they itched and ached as though he had them still.

Such phantom pains were common, or so Maester Turquin said. Three-Finger Hobb agreed, as did one-armed Dolorous Edd, and all three men insisted that the cure was to eat often and well. Well-meant or not, Jon refused to heed such advice. He ate just enough to quiet his stomach's growls, resenting every mouthful. After the blizzard he had meant to starve himself to death, and would have, were he not so weak-willed. Instead he had yielded to Rickon's pleading, just as he had yielded when Bran insisted that Jon join the trueborn Starks in the godswood on the morning of the year-end solstice.

At Bran's direction, they stood in a crescent around the heart tree, each with a dragonglass dagger in hand. His heart heavy, Jon looked upon the faces of those he had once called his brothers and sisters. Robb, stern and solemn, with Grey Wind sitting by his side. Arya, her short hair mussed, her grey eyes bright and curious, Nymeria's tail lashing as the she-wolf paced. Rickon, scowling, one hand wrapped in the scruff of Shaggydog's furry neck. Sansa, serene and beautiful and wolfless.

As for Bran, he sat amongst the weirwood's roots, his eyes closed. Summer lay beside him, the wolf's head resting upon the wooden trestle which Bran insisted on using to pull himself around. It was too much work for him, Jon was convinced; Bran had looked flushed, almost feverish when he took up his seat.

That had been just after dawn. Long hours had passed since then, and Jon wondered what thoughts occupied the others as they stood waiting. It was a wonder that Arya had kept (mostly) still for so long, let alone Rickon. Rickon had argued fiercely that he be allowed to join his siblings beneath the heart tree, not left out as Robb originally intended.

"The slightest distraction could send Bran's work awry," Robb told him. "You are yet a boy, undisciplined and—"

"—and a prince of Winterfell," Rickon interrupted, stubborn. "Sansa and Bran haven't lived here in years, how come they get to defend our home and I don't?"

They had come to an impasse; neither Robb nor Rickon would budge an inch. Until, despite their endless quarrels, Bran had grudgingly admitted that Rickon would be of use. "So long as he does exactly as he's told and nothing else," Bran said pointedly.

The same went for the rest of them. Unlike Lord Brynden Rivers, Bran would not employ deception to steal their strength in their dreams. But only Bran, a greenseer, could wield that strength. No one else had any knowledge of the spells and sorcery which were his domain, and the weight of that burden weighed heavily upon him.

As the solstice drew near, Bran had grown increasingly moody. Dark circles appeared under his eyes; he seemed almost feverish each time he returned from sitting his vigil beneath the heart tree. Whatever the weirwoods had shown him, Bran would not say.

Nor would he accept Samwell Tarly's many offers to share the books of lore he had brought from Castle Black. Queerly, someone else had. Gilly, of all people, had somehow heard about Sam's books, persuaded him to lend them to her, and was slowly making her way through a tome a week, snatching time to read whenever Sansa did not require her maid's assistance.

"Gilly asked if the singer was awake yet," Sam had mentioned a few days past. "On behalf of Queen Sansa, she said, but..." he put a gloved hand to his mouth, frowning when he realized he was unable to gnaw at a fingernail like he usually would. "Gilly turned pink when she said it, and her face fell when I said the singer was still asleep. And she's been borrowing a new book almost every day now."

Jon ignored that. Sam might be blind to Gilly's attentions, but that was none of his concern. If Gilly meant to tempt Sam into breaking his vows, let her try. Either Sam would blush and stammer himself silly and send her away, or he'd find some much needed comfort in a pair of soft arms. The lord commander could not reproach him for that; the gods knew half the black brothers visited camp followers when they could.

A twinge from his phantom toes brought Jon back to the present. The sun was almost overhead. When the bells tolled noon, Bran would finally begin his work.

At first, there had been cautious rejoicing when reports came that the wight attacks across the North were dwindling. Though Winterfell had been left untouched, the clans of the northern mountains and the folk of Last Hearth and the Karhold had endured dozens of attacks upon their holdfasts and villages. Now those attacks had ceased; the Others themselves had not been sighted in more than a moon's turn.

"The Others have withdrawn beyond the Wall," Bran informed them after an afternoon beneath the heart tree. "The Wall is only cracked, not broken, and its magic still diminishes their power. They are stronger north of the Wall, and strongest of all in the heart of winter. Whatever they have planned for the solstice..."

Bran's voice trailed off. He stared off into the distance, his expression haunted. Suddenly, he clenched his fists. "It doesn't matter. We'll slam the door shut behind them, and seal the Wall so that no one can ever cross it again."

Robb heartily approved of the plan, and though Jon had many misgivings, he chose to keep them to himself. No one else seemed to have realized that if Bran succeeded, the free folk would be permanently cut off from their homes, an outcome which would horrify northmen and free folk alike. But if that was the price that must be paid to defeat the Others...

Please, gods, let it work, Jon prayed. When the war for the dawn was won, he could finally let go. He was more than ready to die, to be buried with the secrets that weighed heavy upon his shoulders. He was so weary. Weary of rising in the morning, weary of being lord commander, weary of dreaming each night. Sometimes Jon wandered in the darkness of the crypt beneath Winterfell. Sometimes he ran through a maze of winter roses, thorns tearing at his flesh as he searched for a sobbing maid that he never found. And once, he had dreamt of a three-eyed crow, which cawed at him for so long that its cawing began to sound like words.

Unsettled, he asked Bran about his dream the next time they were briefly alone. Bran gave no reply, just mumbled something to himself about puppets. He was just as dismissive when Jon ventured to ask whether they should be concerned that the singer Leaf was still asleep.

"Someone once told me that magic is a sword without a hilt," Jon said. "But the singers lived and breathed spells and enchantments. If we had a singer's counsel—"

"Leaf's not even a greenseer," Bran scowled. "I don't need her counsel, I don't need anyone's counsel."

Suddenly uneasy, Jon's eyes flicked to the singer curled in the branches of the weirwood. When the bells began to toll, he almost leapt out of his skin. Yet the singer slept on, heedless of the knells that broke the silence of the godswood.

On the twelfth knell, the godswood vanished. In a blink Jon was in the white roots that delved beneath the earth; another blink, and he was floating in a field of countless stars, so luminous and beautiful that it took his breath away. Robb swore; Sansa gasped with wonder; Arya and Rickon stared with eyes as big as saucers.

Bran was unmoved. His gaze was fixed on the darkest part of the night sky, a gaping maw limned with flickering ice-blue light. Whatever it was, it chilled Jon to the bone. If Bran felt the same, he gave no sign of it. He turned his back on the maw, his face determined.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand.

Something tugged at Jon's gut. Entranced, he watched as wisps of silver stardust shimmered into being. Round and round they danced, spinning as if upon an invisible distaff. Wisps became threads; threads twisted themselves into rope, with one end anchored in his belly and the other clasped in Bran's fist. More ropes of stardust soon joined his, one tethered to Robb and one to Rickon. As for the girls...

"I'm not Lord Brynden," Bran scolded as wisps of stardust spun into delicate threads that promptly unraveled. "Stop fighting me!"

"I'm not trying to," Arya protested. She scrunched up her face; the wisps spun again. This time the threads held, twining into a fourth rope which she threw at her brother.

The silver cloud around Sansa was not so obliging. Wisps of stardust clung to her long auburn hair like wool on a sheep, shining so bright it hurt his eyes. "Something feels wrong," she said, her face pale. "Bran, I think—"

Far below, the Wall stretched across the sky, a vast cliff of cracked ice both distant yet somehow real.

"I don't care what you think," Bran snapped. "Come on, there's no time!"

Sansa's eyes narrowed; lightning flashed. The wisps vanished, replaced by an immense rope of stardust which nearly smacked Bran in the face before he grabbed it tight. "Finally," he grumbled, staring down at the Wall. "Now shush, all of you; I need to concentrate."

For a while, Jon watched him work, overwhelmed by awe. With one hand Bran gripped the ropes; with the other, he pinched off a handful of stardust. It melted in his cupped fingers, a pool of silver mortar. Carefully, he let the mortar spill, dripping slowly into the crack in the Wall that loomed over Eastwatch.

He is Bran the Builder come again, Jon thought giddily.

Old Nan said Bran's namesake had raised the Wall with naught but his own two hands and a little help. A mammoth had hauled the slabs of stone and ice from their quarries, and Bran the Builder had used a magical hammer to split them into blocks and stack them up, laboring so hard that the hammer had fallen apart the instant the Wall was finished.

The Wall had been much shorter then. Over the millenia since, men had raised it higher and higher. Mending such an immensity took time, even for a greenseer. Bran was only half through sealing the crack by Eastwatch when Rickon suddenly broke the silence. "Something's pulling me," he declared.

"That's me, stupid," Bran growled, intent on his task.

"I feel something too," Sansa insisted. "Not you, something else. Can't you hear it whispering?"

"I don't hear anything," Robb put in sternly. "Now hush, both of you, you're distracting Bran."

Arya ignored him. "That black star wasn't so close before," she said, worried. "Can't you tell? It's moving toward us."

No, Jon realized as he looked up, horrorstruck. It's pulling us in.

Bran tried to fight back, but it was already too late. The ice-blue light was a circle of jagged teeth, eager to devour its prey. The maw swallowed up all the stardust he threw at it, then swallowed him too. There was no time for Bran to cry out, only to desperately throw the ropes away from him as he fell.

For a moment the ropes trembled, suspended between the maw and the five humans. Then, inexorably, the maw pulled them in. One moment Robb was swearing as he strained against the rope; the next, he willingly flung himself to his doom. Arya screamed as the maw gobbled him up, then screamed again when Sansa stopped struggling, her eyes wide and dreamy.

"Wake up, stupid!" she yelled, but it was to no avail. The darkness consumed Sansa, then Arya too, though she fought until the last. Tears streamed down Jon's cheeks as he watched, unable to save her. He couldn't, not while trying to both stand his ground and listen to the voice that called to him from the maw. That cannot be Father, Jon told himself. It is a trap, a trick of the Others.

No, Lord Eddard said gently. The Others were defeated long ago, in a great battle before the Wall. You led your men to victory, then perished of your wounds.

Jon shook his head. "No." That wasn't true, it couldn't be true. They had retreated to Winterfell, he knew they had, and then- and then- oh, why could he not remember?

Even the dead can dream. Lord Eddard's voice was sad. Come, my son, must you wander the void forever? You have more than earned your rest, and your mother has waited for you for so long.

Mother. Someone was shouting at him, but Jon didn't care. With a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, it was spring in the godswood. Jon stood beneath a lonely grey-green sentinel, feeling his hair stir in a breeze that carried the scent of flowers and the sound of laughter coming from the clearing at the heart of the godswood.

The loudest laugh was Bran's. He was dressed as a knight, a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, whirling graceful as a dancer on two strong legs. Robb parried blow after blow, but he was no match for his younger brother. When his sword went flying from his hand, Robb took the loss with good grace, clapping Bran on the back before running to embrace the doe-eyed maid who stood watching with Lady Catelyn and her daughters.

"Well done, Bran!" Lady Catelyn called with a warm smile. "Are you ready for another foe?"

"He better be," Arya said, drawing Needle from its sheath. "Come on, I'll show you how I beat a dozen bravos and won the Sealord's favor."

"They weren't knights," Bran retorted as he raised his blade.

"Neither is Arya," Sansa said, her eyes full of mischief. "Isn't that right, Lady?" she asked the direwolf crouching by her side.

The she-wolf wagged her tail, then bounded off. Laughing, Sansa gave chase, oblivious to Jon's presence. Bran and Arya were just as oblivious, too busy taunting each other as they began their bout. As for Robb, he only had eyes for his lady. She stood tucked beneath his arm, blushing prettily as he whispered in her ear. Jon supposed he ought to be glad to escape Lady Catelyn's notice and the rebuke which would surely follow.

Of course, Jon could not remain invisible forever. Arya was dancing away from a backslash when she saw him. "Jon!" she shrieked, her face lit up with joy. Robb whipped his head around and whooped when he caught sight of Jon; Bran sheathed his sword, beaming ear to ear; even Sansa gave a happy gasp as Lady barked with raucous delight.

The next thing he knew, Jon was surrounded. Arya elbowed Bran in the ribs so that she could fling her arms around Jon first; the moment she let go, Robb seized him in a hug. Ever courteous, Sansa let Robb introduce his lady Jeyne and let Bran enjoy a long embrace before she stepped forward for her turn.

"I knew someone was missing," she said as she hugged him. "Oh, it's so good for us all to be together again."

Not all of us, Jon thought foggily as he hugged her back. "Where's father?"

But it was not Sansa who answered. "Beneath the heart tree."

Jon's heart sank into his boots as he ended the hug. When Sansa stepped back, Lady Catelyn stepped close. Overcome with a sense of awkward dread, Jon gave a stiff bow. To his surprise, Lady Catelyn regarded him without disdain, her eyes soft and mild.

"He's waiting for you," Lady Catelyn said, strangely gentle. "Go to him."

Fury and hope warred within him, but he couldn't remember why. Jon's heart thumped in his chest as he turned away, searching his muddled thoughts to no avail as he passed by the black pool's murky waters. The world seemed to quiver around him; each step seemed to take an eternity. Yet before he knew it, there were branches above his head, their leaves rustling in the wind.

Father looked far better than his statue in the crypt. His long brown hair hung over his face, his grey eyes soft as he offered a welcoming smile. When Lord Eddard patted the roots beside him, Jon sat, clenching and unclenching his fists as if that would help him find his tongue.

"Father," he said at last. "Father, I..."

Before he could say aught else, Lord Eddard spoke first. "I am so proud of you." His voice was thick with emotion, his eyes wet with tears. "So very proud of you, my son."

When Lord Eddard opened his arms, Jon fell into his embrace. Was it Jon who trembled, or was it the whole wide world? It felt like a thousand years had passed since he knew the safety of his father's arms, a thousand years since the last carefree days of his boyhood. But as he buried his face against his father's chest to hide the tears welling in his eyes, Jon felt like a boy once more. Finally, finally, he could rest in peace, the peace that he had craved for so long—

Krssshhhhhk!

With a sound like shattering glass, the godswood rent itself asunder. Clouds of steam rose from the hot pools as they boiled; the air turned thick and heavy, so heavy that the pressure made Jon's ears pop. The earth rolled like a ship at sea; trees crashed to the ground with a roar like thunder.

Yet somehow, Lord Eddard stood. Whilst he made for the black pool, Jon struggled to get to his feet. Again and again he fell; it seemed forever until he managed to stay upright. His stomach heaving, he lurched forward. Walking had never taken so much effort before, but walk he must. Everyone else was already gathered by the black pool, blocking his view of whatever had caused the tremors that were only now subsiding.

When Jon saw, he wished he hadn't. It was wrong, the sort of wrong that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. An earthquake could make a river shift course or drain a lake, but it couldn't- how- what- there was a rip in the center of the black pool, a dark jagged crack of nothingness. Worse, rather than pouring into the crack, the pool's waters rose, like a waterfall turned upside down.

And then, something else rose. As the head and torso emerged from the void, Jon took a step back, his skin prickling. He knew that tousled mane of auburn hair and that scowling face; how could he have forgotten that there was a wolf cub missing from the pack?

"What's wrong with you?" Rickon screamed. Beneath the waist he had no body, yet he stood in the void all the same, brandishing his dragonglass dagger. "You left me, AGAIN, and for what?"

Lady whined; Sansa hugged the she-wolf for comfort. "Calm down," she pleaded. "Don't you understand? This is the afterlife. We can all be together, forever, with Mother and Father and everyone else we love. Robb has his Jeyne, and I've got Lady—"

"If we're all dead, then where's the other direwolves?" Rickon snapped. "Where's your husband, and Robb's real wife—"

"Jeyne is my real wife!" Robb flared, his face red.

"Jeyne is dead!" Rickon roared. "And so is Lady, and so are Mother and Father, but we're not! But you WILL be dead soon if you don't get out of here!"

Sansa's lip trembled. She clung to Lady, just as Robb clung to his Jeyne. As for Bran and Arya, they clung to their parents. Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard held them close, ignoring Rickon as if he were not there. Only Jon stood by himself, alone with his doubts.

"You're wrong, Rickon," Robb said, his voice shaking. "Isn't he, Father?"

Rickon made an outraged noise. "That's not Father! Tell him, Jon!"

Jon hesitated. That was Father, wasn't it? He must be real, as real as the godswood around them. Jon couldn't imagine a better afterlife, a better respite from all his cares. And yet... the more he wracked his thoughts, bewildered and torn, the more his misgivings grew. He could feel Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn's eyes, watching him. Somehow their warm gaze chilled him to the bone; he felt as if he stood upon the edge of a precipice.

Suddenly, Jon knew how he could discern the truth.

"That's not my father," he said slowly, his heart breaking. "He never was."

As the trueborn Starks murmured their confusion, Lord Eddard ought to have recoiled, stricken by guilt. But the Other who wore his face could never show such weakness, could never ruin the harmony of their false paradise. "Of course I am," it said, trying to soothe him with its stolen voice. "You are my son, the blood of Winterfell."

Oh, but he wanted to believe it. There was almost nothing Jon wanted more, not in the whole wide world. As he made his choice, his heart pounded in his chest, frantic as a rabbit.

"Yes, father."

Lord Eddard smiled. As Jon approached, he stretched his arms open wide, releasing a befuddled Arya. She stepped away, rubbing at her eyes and shaking her head. Jon ignored her; his path was clear.

A few paces, and he was once more wrapped in Lord Eddard's arms. With tears upon his cheeks, Jon leaned into the embrace. For a moment, a sense of heady peace washed over him, sweet as summerwine. Then, hating himself and everything that had led him here, Jon drove the dragonglass dagger into Lord Eddard's gut.

The Other shrieked. Dagger forgotten, Jon clapped his hands over his ears, trying and failing to block out the pain of that shrill, sharp cry. The Other fell to its knees, its blood hissing and steaming as it gushed from the wound, the flesh melting off its bones—

And then the godswood was melting too. Sky and trees and earth all warped together, their colors bleeding and blurring, twisting and turning and dissolving until there was no godswood, no field of stars, nothing but the growing cold. Jon cried out in terror as he plummeted, falling through an endless void limned by ghastly visions that flashed past at dizzying speed. A forest of jagged blue-white ice spires standing amongst a sea of bones; frost-covered monsters with too many legs and clusters of empty eyes; a crystal fortress beneath a black sky; a chorus of voices chanting in a harsh, crackling tongue; a circle of sleeping dreamers bound in glassy chains that dripped blood—

One moment Jon was looking into his own wide, frightened eyes; the next, he was thrashing against frozen bonds. A rising clamor filled the air as his sisters and brothers awoke one by one, Arya shouting, Sansa weeping, Robb swearing, and last of all Bran, whose wordless scream smote their chains into splinters. Shards of ice pursued them as they flew, past a curtain of light past the field of stars past the worms who burrowed beneath the earth past the roots past the howling wolves and back into their skins—

Jon coughed, almost choking as he gulped a deep breath of cold dry air. Night had fallen, and so had he. He lay flat on his belly in the snow, with Ghost standing guard beside him. As he clumsily staggered to his feet, his phantom toes screamed in agony. Above the godswood hung the moon, fat and full, its silvery light more than enough to see by.

With mounting dread, Jon surveyed his surroundings. Rickon stood defiant and unharmed, one hand still wound in Shaggydog's ruff. But the rest... Arya and Sansa, Robb and Bran, all lay flat on their backs, with bloody tears upon their cheeks. Bran's nose was bloody too, a scarlet river that dripped down his lips and chin as he stared into the distance, transfixed.

It was Robb who reached Bran first, his eyes wide with panic as he pushed past the whimpering Summer. "Wake up," he begged, shaking their brother by the shoulders. "Nonononono, wake up, wake UP!"

And Bran woke, gasping with fear. "Did you see it?"

"See what?" said Arya, wiping away blood.

"The lights, like frost dancing across the sky. The clouds, dark as night, and the wind..." Bran shuddered, pressing a hand to his chest as if it pained him. "There were voices on the wind, a thousand thousand voices, and they—"

Jon cut him off. "What about the Others?" he asked.

Bran flushed pink. "I... I..."

"Where's Lady?" sobbed Sansa.

"Where were we?" Arya pressed.

"Bran," Robb demanded, "what have you done?"

"What has he done?" snapped Rickon, outraged. "You forgot about me, all of you!"

"The Others bewitched us," Bran said, raising his hands defensively. "If I hadn't—"

"You said you knew what to do, and you didn't!" Sansa interrupted, still weeping. "You said you didn't need my help!

"I don't!" Bran insisted. "I'm the one who has to fix things, it's the only way to make amends for- for—"

"Don't be silly," Sansa said, angrily rubbing away her tears. "I knew something would go wrong, if you had just let me—"

"You fell for the trap too!" Rickon said, brutal. "I'm the only one who didn't, and none of you even wanted to let me come!"

Sansa's face was redder than her hair. Both she and Robb began shouting at the same time, their words incomprehensible as Rickon shouted back even louder and Bran tried and failed to be heard. Only Arya was quiet, her eyes lost in thought as she absently stroked a restive Nymeria.

"ENOUGH!" Jon bellowed, out of temper and out of patience.

To his grim satisfaction, everyone else fell silent as they turned their heads toward him. It was a ghastly sight. Every face save Rickon's was smeared with drying blood, and all their eyes were shadowed by horror.

"The Others matter above all else," Jon reminded them. He gave Bran a long, searching look. "What became of them? And what of the Wall?"

Bran wet his lips, his tongue red with blood. "A few perished in our escape," he said slowly. "But... whatever spell they cast..." his shoulders sagged heavily. "They cast it, and I couldn't stop them. Worse, they used some of our strength for the spell, drawing it from us whilst we thought ourselves safe and happy." His mouth twisted. "We would have died, if not for Rickon. And the Wall remains unsealed; they may return whenever they please."

"What else?" Between the streaks of dried blood, Robb's face was white as milk, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"I don't know," Bran admitted helplessly. "I can try to find out, but—"

"What I want to know," Arya said softly, "is why Jon said Father wasn't his father."

His blood roared in his ears. Jon swayed; if not for Ghost, he would have fallen. Bile clawed its way up his throat, the acid nearly choking him before he swallowed it back down. Perhaps he should have let it choke him. Death would be better than enduring stares that pierced like daggers. Desperate, Jon fumbled for a lie, an excuse, anything but the truth.

"Jon?"

Robb's voice was hesitant, that of a brother, not a king. But he isn't my brother, Jon thought, despairing. He had hoped this hour would never come. Yet come it had, as bleak and bitter as snow in spring.

"I want your oaths that you will speak of this to no one," Jon told them.

After a puzzled glance, Robb stepped forward. As he gave his oath the heart tree bore witness, its eyes sad and solemn. Then, one by one, the rest of Lord Eddard's children gave their oaths. Sansa was the last and most reluctant. "No one at all?" she asked, dismayed. "Not even Oly—"

"Especially not him," Jon said, implacable.

But once Sansa had sworn her oath with a frown, he didn't know where to begin. At Harrenhal? No; there was no need to prolong this agony. Best to be blunt, to lance the boil before it festered any longer.

"When Lord Eddard rode south to war, it was to seek justice for his father and brother—"

"Everyone knows that," Rickon interrupted, impatient. "Prince Rhaegar carried off Aunt Lyanna and raped her, and when Uncle Brandon tried to get her back, the Mad King slew him and grandfather Rickard and demanded Father and King Robert's heads. Only Lord Arryn said no and called his banners, and the Targaryens were overthrown and killed." He wrinkled his nose. "Except for Sansa's husband, I guess."

"And Rhaenys and Daenerys and her brother," Sansa corrected. "And when the battles were over and Father could finally search for Lyanna, he—" she put a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

"He what?" Bran asked, bewildered.

"He found her," Jon said. "Dying in a bed of blood, with a babe in her arms."

"A babe?" Robb's brow furrowed. When the realization came, he recoiled as if he had been struck. "No. No. Father would never lie about such a thing."

"Wouldn't he?" Sansa's voice was tremulous, no more than a whisper. "If King Robert ever found out..."

Rickon stomped his foot. "Found out what?" He tugged at Arya's sleeve, but she said nothing, speechless with shock. Oh, why could Jon not die of shame? Why must they make him speak words which he could never take back?

"Found out that Lord Eddard had claimed Rhaegar's bastard as his own," Jon said harshly. And without so much as a backward glance, he turned on his heel and left.

Wisps of steam drifted across his path, the only sign of the dragon Viserion sleeping soundly in the den she'd dug beneath the earth. It was the hour of ghosts, or near enough. The men-at-arms standing guard at the entrance to the godswood stood stiffly to attention as the lord commander passed by. Whilst one lit a torch for him, the others resumed taking turns huddling by the brazier. None seemed to notice the pair of direwolves who trailed behind him, one white, one grey.

Quiet as shadows, Ghost and Summer followed Jon across the yard. No one else was about, save the few men unfortunate enough to be on watch. The solstice celebrations had long since ended, both highborn and lowborn alike fleeing the cold for the comfort of their beds. But the signs of their revelry lingered. Misshapen footprints marred the snow, forming craters slick with ice. The scents of wine and ale and roasted meat still hung upon the air, mingling with that of the smoke which wafted from the ashes of dying bonfires.

Jon could not say whether his phantom toes or his real ones ached worse as he made the long weary trek to the camp outside the walls of Winterfell. It didn't help that he had to walk slowly, mindful of the ice and the uneven ground. He would have been lost without the light of his torch, especially after a bank of black clouds blotted out the moon and stars.

When at last he neared his lonely black pavilion, Summer left. For a moment Jon watched as the three-legged direwolf trotted toward the smallest, shabbiest black tent in sight, then slipped inside the den which he'd dug beside it in the snow.

Ghost had no such den. No matter how hard Jon tried to keep him out, the direwolf insisted on sleeping inside the pavilion. Too big to share the bed, he lay beside it, as faithful as the most loyal hound.

Another man might cherish such devotion, but not Jon. How could he, when it filled him with such guilt? Ghost's white fur might set him apart from the rest of the pack, but Jon wasn't part of the pack at all. Bad enough to be Ned Stark's only baseborn son, a bastard born from lust and deceit. Now he did not even have that. He was a fraud, a pretender, a sheep in wolf's clothing, the ill-gotten spawn of a raper and a stolen maid.

A short and fitful sleep, and then it was morning. The day was overcast and grim, as grim as Jon's mood. What a fool he'd been, to think that magic would be of any use. Thank the gods he had sent out Dywen with a dozen scouts before the solstice, though he feared what news they would bring upon their return.

In the meantime, Jon flung himself into his work. The Night's Watch had been made for a single purpose, and though they had abandoned their keeps, they must hold true to their duty. Unfortunately, the black brothers were ill-equipped to endure a prolonged encampment. It had been easy enough to have Black Jack Bulwer divide his surviving rangers into scouting parties, but as for the builders and stewards... the builders were used to tending the Wall, not fortifying the largest camp any of them had ever seen. It was utterly predictable that the adjustment would prove difficult. Spare Boot, the First Builder, had taken to notching his wooden leg every time he resisted the urge to vent his displeasure by braining someone with his walking stick. As time went on, the carved wooden leg was accruing a worrying number of notches.

Left Hand Lew had less of a temper, but the First Steward was also less capable than Jon would like. In fairness, Bowen Marsh had had long years of experience, whereas Left Hand Lew had been thrust into the position without warning and under unprecedented circumstances. Nor did it help that Left Hand Lew was a slow reader, apt to poring over the same paper thrice before he fully grasped its meaning. The lord commander had no choice but to step in, taking over some of the duties which Left Hand Lew lacked the hours to properly address.

Requisitioning supplies consumed much of his time, that and determining how best to ration them. It was not a pleasant task. During winter the fullness of a man's belly was the difference between life and death. Yet every slice of bread devoured today meant less flour for the morrow's bread, and if the stores should run too low... Jon shuddered to think what would happen to the uncertain alliance betwixt black brothers, free folk, northmen, valemen, and the men King Aegon had brought from the south.

But no matter how busy he kept, Jon could not keep himself from thinking of those he had once called his brothers and sisters.

Ghost was to blame for that. When not cleaving to Jon's side, the direwolf wandered in search of his pack. Grey Wind gave him no welcome. He was as cool and aloof as the King in the North, whose once frequent invitations to the Great Keep and visits to the lord commander's tent had quickly dwindled away. That was for the best; Robb could not look at Jon without anger smouldering in his eyes.

Sansa was avoiding him too. He had seen neither hide nor hair of her since the solstice, save for a brief glimpse of her in the godswood early one morning. Jon had been half asleep when Ghost crept past the guards who kept the queen from being disturbed during her prayers. The sight of Sansa slipping out of her clothes had shocked him, but not nearly so much as the shock of seeing her slip into a wolfskin instead. Ghost didn't care. He happily romped with his pack sister, the direwolves' tails wagging madly as they chased each other through the snow. Odd, that; Satin said Queen Sansa smiled less and less of late.

Bran didn't smile at all, at least not when Ghost was around to see. On the rare occasions when he left his room, he wore his guilt plainly on his face. As he should. The disaster upon the solstice was thanks to his folly. If Bran was any good at being a greenseer, Jon would be at peace, not condemned to keep fighting this thankless war. Summer seemed to share his boy's shame. Once he had looked as fearsome as he ought, a beast out of legend that was big as a horse but with much sharper teeth. Now the massive direwolf stalked Theon Greyjoy around the camp with a drooping tail, forlorn as a beaten dog.

Shaggydog's moods, on the other hand, were as volatile as Rickon's, by turns queerly affectionate and viciously angry. Though Rickon had made one failed attempt to visit the camp after the solstice, his attention had promptly shifted to Queen Margaery. The black brothers who came back from the Great Keep said that Prince Rickon stuck to his goodsister like a burr, behaving solicitously for perhaps the first time in his life. But for King Robb he had nothing but black looks and scowls, and Shaggydog was confined to the godswood yet again after the black direwolf attempted to block the King in the North from making his daily visit to the crypts.

If only Arya were confined to the godswood too. Every day since the solstice she had visited the camp, and every day since the solstice he had refused to see her. No doubt Dolorous Edd or Satin would have let her in anyway, had he not warned them of the consequences for such disobedience. There would be no more feeble excuses like those they had employed whilst Jon was in his sickbed and which the lord commander had humored against his better judgment. Faced with the threat of being banished from his service and reassigned to permanent latrine duty, his squires did as they were told, no matter how desperately Arya entreated them.

For that, Jon was absurdly grateful. He could not bear to look upon her, not when the sight of her grey eyes and brown hair made him think of another maid of only sixteen. Thank the gods that Arya couldn't conceive. Whatever fate her future held, it was not dying in a bloody bed, slain by a child she'd been forced to bear.

But though Dolorous Edd and Satin followed his command to keep Arya out (and had the good judgment to turn away the baffling number of smallfolk who had begun seeking out the lord commander), he had not had the foresight to ban other unexpected highborn guests. First it was Lord Robert Arryn, frail and small, escorted by his septon, Allard. Then it was Elia Uller, covered in furs and stinking of horse. Last had been Ser Perwyn Truefaith, homely and sincere, whose mild yet firm reproach had stung more than Lord Robert's pleading and Lady Elia's scolding combined. Still, Jon had held firm.

Nymeria, however, was another matter. The she-wolf came to haunt Jon almost every day, her golden eyes filled with hurt. If not with him, she was roaming the camp and Winterfell with Ghost. Nymeria pestered the other wolves the same way her mistress tried to pester Jon, and with just as little success. Summer would not be stirred from his melancholy, nor Shaggydog from his changing moods, nor Grey Wind from his haughty solitude. Once, Nymeria and Ghost had the temerity to try to follow Robb into the nursery. Grey Wind blocked the door, his fur bristling as he snapped his teeth at them.

Jon would have thanked him if he could. He didn't need to see little baby Jeyne, with her plump cheeks and toothless smiles. He had almost wept when Robb urged him to hold her a few days after her birth, unable to forget that he would never hold a child of his own. Had it been up to him, he would not have met baby Gawaen at all. Of course Sansa had insisted, though mercifully she had not made him hold the babe.

He had not seen the babe again since, save at a distance through Ghost's eyes. King Aegon sometimes took Gawaen out of the nursery for an hour or two, going about his business with the babe casually nestled against his shoulder. A nursemaid followed behind, ready to take the babe back to the nursery if he should start to fuss.

Black Jack Bulwer thought it unseemly, especially after the babe interrupted a meeting with his wails. Jon's ears were unscathed, as he had not been present. After the King in the North sent his commanders to meet with Jon without him, Jon had taken the liberty of sending the First Ranger to his next meeting with King Aegon. King Aegon had not been pleased, but he also had not questioned the lord commander's excuses.

It was a fortnight after the solstice and the moon was black when Winterfell awoke to the sound of screams. Sansa's guards found her beneath the heart tree, staring up in horror. Every branch was bare, the blood-red leaves fallen to the ground, as black as the clouds which still shrouded the sky.

Dark as the omen was, Jon found himself unable to share the deep unease which swept over the camp. When Satin told him that some of the men whispered that the Long Night had come again, he laughed. And why shouldn't he? Much as he hated living in a waking nightmare, he had finally grown used to it. Let the Others do their worst; Jon would never cower before them again.

So when ravens began to arrive from the north bearing word of renewed attacks by the Others and their wights, the lord commander was undaunted. Of course the attacks had resumed; there was never any doubt that they would. Granted, the news of ice spiders was unwelcome, but not a surprise. Nor was it a surprise when no further ravens arrived from the besieged keeps and holdfasts. Frankly, it was a wonder they had gotten any ravens off before the Others froze their rookeries.

If anything, Jon suspected the Others had allowed the ravens to fly south in hopes of sowing panic. To his exasperation, it was working. High lords and smallfolk alike were wont to take their lead from Winterfell, and the Starks... the glimpses he caught from Ghost's wanderings troubled him more than he could say. First Arya ceased her pestering, as did Nymeria. Queen Sansa began hiding in her rooms and King Robb in his council chamber; even Rickon had turned sullen and withdrawn.

Bran, though, Bran was something else entirely. Ghost hadn't seen him, but he didn't need to. Summer's listlessness was so worrying that Theon Greyjoy, of all people, grew concerned enough to seek out Jon whilst the lord commander was walking through camp with Dolorous Edd Tollett and a pair of stewards.

"Make your brother take his wolf back," Greyjoy demanded, his breath steaming in the cold. "The beast's pining, or ill, or something, and I'll not have it perish on my account."

He's not my brother, Jon thought sadly. "Are you sure?" the lord commander asked, dry as the sands of Dorne. "You'll have no guard to replace him, I promise you. If some northman steals into your tent at night, you're on your own."

Greyjoy shrugged. "I sent my raven ages ago. With any luck, Asha has already found my bastard and his mother. That debt is paid; if I die, I die. "

"What of your other debts?" Jon demanded. "Do you hold your life so cheap?" His anger flared; he stepped close to Greyjoy, seizing his cloak by the collar. "You swore an oath to defend the realms of men against the dark," Jon snarled. "We need every sword to fight the Others, aye, and every bow, no matter how foul the bowman."

Theon's dark eyes were wide with shock. As quickly as it had come upon him, Jon's anger drained away. He felt so weary, as haggard as a man of a hundred. "Keep the damn wolf," he said, letting go. "Winter has come, and your life belongs to the Watch, just like mine. When the war is won, we can die as we please."

His reproach had struck the mark. "You sound like Lord Eddard," Greyjoy said, shaken. He hesitated, a queer look upon his face.

"The day I left Pyke, Lord Balon told me that Eddard Stark was a mangy cur, a lordling of the green lands with naught to boast of but an ancient name and an ancient keep. He was wrong. Lord Eddard was as noble as his blood, with the wisdom of a maester and the courage of a soldier. The North looked to him in times of trouble, just as they looked to his fathers before. They relied upon his counsel and his strength, and he never failed them."

Theon swallowed. "The ironborn say the northmen are as cold as their lands, but when Lord Eddard died, they wept." He looked Jon in the eye, strangely solemn. "They loved him, just as they love his sons."

The words struck harder than a blow. I am no son of his. Coppery blood filled Jon's mouth; instead of unleashing his tongue, he had bitten his cheek. His fury was on him once more; he strode toward Summer, reaching up to grab the direwolf's scruff.

"Go home," he said through clenched teeth. "Go on, go back to Bran where you belong."

Summer blinked at him. For a moment, he tilted his head, considering. Then, to Jon's dismay, the direwolf sat down.

"I don't think he wants to go," Dolorous Edd said unhelpfully.

"Home, Summer," Jon commanded, his voice cracking like a whip as he pointed toward Winterfell.

With a baleful look, Summer rose to his feet. The wolf took a few steps, sniffing the air. Then, with an insolence Jon had never seen before in neither man nor beast, he turned in a circle and laid down in the snow, his head upon his paws.

There were far too many eyes upon him, and Jon could feel them all. I am losing an argument to a wolf. His ears were hot beneath his scarf; he had never felt so ridiculous in his life. His phantom toes twitched inside his boots; the next thing he knew, he was stomping off. Dolorous Edd and the two stewards followed behind, struggling to keep up.

Blind with anger and heedless of where he was going, he was at the gates of Winterfell before he knew it. "I didn't know m'lord was meeting with King Robb today," Dolorous Edd said gloomily as the guards waved them through. At some point, Ghost had joined them, stalking silently through the snow.

"We're not," Jon replied curtly, ignoring the disapproval emanating from his wolf. He searched for a lie. "I thought I'd visit the First Keep. Left Hand Lew says Craster's women have fallen behind on the cloth they owe to the Watch."

They found the women hard at work, humming a song of summer to keep their rhythm as they spun. Distaffs twirled round and round on the floor, the women feeding them combed brown wool with fingertips raw from toil. Jon blinked; he had never seen women bleed from spinning before. He appreciated their devotion to their labor, but he hoped the blood wouldn't mar the thread. Two of the women were weaving the thread which had already been spun, working together at the wide warp-weighted loom which had been set up beside the window.

The Lord Crow's cloth was coming, Dorsten promised. She'd said the same the last time he sent Dolorous Edd to check on their progress. Jon supposed spinning and weaving was more difficult in winter, with food scarce and the chill seeping into their bones. Though indoors, all the women and girls wore plenty of layers, even Dorsten, who sat beside the fire with Gilly. There was an open book on Gilly's lap, one of Sam's, no doubt. Jon hoped she was drinking moon tea. Sam wouldn't know what to do with himself if he sired a bastard, and Sansa would not be pleased if she found out her maid was warming a black brother's bed.

"How d'ye say it again?" Dolorous Edd was asking Dorsten when Jon came back to himself.

With a sigh, Dorsten repeated herself. It was a word in the Old Tongue, one that Jon didn't know. He'd learned a little from Tormund, mostly courtesies and curses, but beyond that... he frowned. Glancing about the room, he saw Toregg had come in, his face ruddy from the cold. He gave the lord commander a nod when he saw him, and when Jon beckoned him to his side, he came.

"Since when do Craster's women speak the Old Tongue?" Jon asked, keeping his voice low.

"Since my father wed one o' them," Toregg answered with a shrug, not bothering to be quiet. "Most of the folk of Ruddy Hall spoke naught else; they had no choice but t' learn. We taught Craster's widows and daughters the Old Tongue, and they taught my folk enough common t' get by if some northman troubled them."

"Craster said the Old Tongue were for godless savages, not a godly man like him," said Dorsten, having overheard. "If a wildling spoke it in his presence, Craster'd threaten to cut his tongue out."

She smiled unpleasantly, the firelight gleaming on her broken nose. "His mother spoke northron and the Watch spoke common, so Craster did the same. Truth be told, I think he were too stupid to learn the Old Tongue. But I picked it up easy enough, aye, and my daughters too."

"If they had any wits, the whole Watch ought t' know the Old Tongue," Toregg said, shaking his head. "Sense has chased ye yer whole lives, but you crows are faster. Your little brother, now, there's a smart lad. Osha says Rickon took t' the Old Tongue like a snowbear t' a wounded reindeer."

"The northern lords fear he's half a wildling."

"Har!" Toregg laughed, just like his father. "A free folk nursemaid and a grasp o' the Old Tongue is well and good, but he's no wildling. Nay, he's his father's son, a Stark, the blood o' Winterfell." He tilted his head. "What's wrong with ye, Lord Crow? Ye look like you've a bone stuck in yer beak."

Jon was saved from forming a reply by the sudden appearance of Rickon himself. He burst through the door with a pair of beleaguered guards at his heels, his eyes huge with excitement.

"Leaf's waking up!" he announced. "Shaggy said so!"

Gilly gasped, whipping her head up from her book. Dolorous Edd blinked, bemused. As for Jon, he seized the excuse to leave with both hands.

Dolorous Edd and the stewards were soon left behind, unable to keep up with Rickon's sprinting and the lord commander's long quick strides. Ghost had no such trouble. Nor did Rickon's guards, who easily kept pace down the well-salted paths. Jon wondered if they'd been especially chosen for having such a talent. But when they entered the godswood, Jon bade the guards remain without. He didn't think a child of the forest would appreciate an audience of gawping strangers with halberds in their hands. Jon hoped she was in good humor after her long moons of rest.

Leaf was not in good humor. She stood beneath the heart tree, her deer-like ears gone flat. When she saw him and Rickon approaching the child of the forest tensed, her gold-green eyes narrow. Suddenly, Jon was very aware of the long black claws on her four-fingered hands. They gleamed, sharp as daggers, as she pointed at the weirwood's bare branches.

"What have you done?" she hissed.

"I didn't," Jon blurted, startled by the venom in her voice. The direwolves didn't like it either. Ghost showed his fangs, and Shaggydog growled low in his throat.

"It was Bran," Rickon told her, scowling.

"Bran alone could not have done such harm." Leaf's fists were clenched. "Have you neither ears to hear nor eyes to see? The air itself feels wrong, and those clouds..." almost shaking with anger, she lapsed into the Old Tongue. Rickon didn't bother trying to translate; he could barely keep up with answering her questions as it was. Once, he paused and turned to ask a question.

"When did the sun last come out?"

Jon searched his memory. It could not have been on the solstice, surely not. That was over a month past; the sun must have broken through the clouds now and then. Yet if it had, he could not remember seeing it.

Leaf didn't like his answer, no more than she liked what Rickon had to say.

"Men," she spat, making the word a curse. "So eager to act, so heedless of the price others must pay for their folly. Well, whatever doom lies ahead, you'll face it without my help. You, boy, run and fetch Bran. I will have words with him before I leave."

Rickon turned on his heel and ran, leaving them alone. An awkward silence fell, thick as a castle wall. Somehow, Jon could not help thinking of his men. Sad Pyp, whose awful jokes and funny impressions were missed by all. Grenn, stolid and faithful, still trying to rouse Pyp's spirits no matter how many times he failed. Three-Finger Hobb with his love of his kitchen boys, Samwell Tarly with his love of books, Dolorous Edd and Satin and all the rest, they depended upon him, now more than ever.

"Please," Jon asked. "Please, lady. Whatever Bran has done, we'll put it aright, but we need help. I know Joramun and his giants refused us, but Bran said there are other giants, further to the south—"

Leaf stared at him as if he had lost his wits. "Twice I have gone to the giants, and twice they have told me nay. If you think I'll make another thankless journey—"

"Please," Jon broke in, cutting her off. He fell to his knees. "I'll do whatever you want, give you anything you want, so long as it's in my power to give."

Leaf cocked her head, thoughtful. "You truly mean that," she said slowly, an odd look in her eyes. "But you have nothing I want. All I want is to go home, to either help my family survive this winter or to perish beside them. "

After that, there was no more to say. As soon as Bran arrived, poling himself across the godswood in a chair set on runners, Jon took his leave. To his confusion, he passed Gilly lingering outside the godswood. How odd; he could have sworn he'd seen her praying at the sept. But as the gods she followed were no concern of his, he put the matter from his mind.

Leaf's words were harder to forget. They haunted him day and night; he was still thinking of them a week later when Satin came to tell him that Dywen had returned, alone, without any of the scouts who'd gone with him. He had collapsed at the edge of camp; it took two men to carry the old poacher to the lord commander's tent. Dywen's wooden teeth were just the same as he recalled, but the man himself... Dywen was as lean and leathery as a strip of dried meat, his once sharp eyes gone dull.

"They're coming, m'lord," he said, the moment the flap of the tent was closed. "The Others and their wights, aye, and ice spiders too, the wretched beasts. The way the damn things move..."

Dywen tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry. When Jon poured him a cup of wine, he drank it down in a single gulp, his lips stained red. "And that's not the worst o' it," the old man continued. "They travel during the day now, not just at night." This time, he managed to spit. "I thought they were scared o' the sun, but these fuckin' clouds keep it covered, without so much as a peep o' sunlight to warm a sparrow."

The old man shivered violently, his whole body shaking. And once Dywen began, he couldn't stop. Jon called for the maester, but it was too late. When Maester Turquin arrived, Dywen was as cold as the snow outside the tent, his last words ringing in Jon's ears like funeral bells.

Benjen Stark is leading them.

Jon's heart was racing, his breaths coming far too fast. He felt light-headed; the walls of his tent were closing in like a funeral shroud—

"My lord!"

Maester Turquin's cry of dismay was as shocking as being doused with cold water. Jon gasped, then breathed deep, filling his lungs with air. Fists clenched, he forced himself to breathe in and out, slow and steady, until his heart calmed and the world stopped spinning.

"I'm well," Jon lied between gritted teeth, pushing the maester away.

"Are you, my lord?" Maester Turquin asked, dubious. "If I might examine—"

"Your only concern is burning that body before it wakes," the lord commander snapped.

"As it please my lord." Maester Turquin turned back toward the body, then hesitated. His hand plucked at the heavy chain of links about his neck, the many different metals gleaming in the rushlight.

"The men of my order swear a holy oath of service. For more than four years I have served the Watch as a healer and scholar. I have faithfully obeyed my lord commander's orders, just as I have kept his secrets." The maester lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting Jon's. "Let Dywen's last words be one of them. After the body is burnt, let me return to hear his report, and I will give you what counsel I may."

"On the morrow, mayhaps," Jon told him. "First I must speak to the King in the North."

As he strode out of his pavilion, a pang of sorrow assailed Jon's heart. He would rather have had a different maester's counsel. Maester Turquin did credit to his order, but he wasn't Maester Aemon. My kinsman, he realized with a jolt. But no, he could not think of that right now. Duty came before all else, and he meant to remind Robb of that before the night was over.

Jon let his anger show as he stomped through the camp, Ghost loping behind. His men were well-used to seeing the lord commander in a temper. They did nothing more than exchange looks, no doubt pitying whomever had incurred Lord Snow's wrath. Good. Hosts were vulnerable to many perils, from lack of provisions to an excess of the bloody flux, but there was nothing more dangerous than a panic.

Thank the gods he had sent Dolorous Edd and Satin away before receiving Dywen. Both could hold their tongues well enough, but their faces gave too much away. Had they heard Dywen's report, had they seen their lord commander succumb to terror like a green boy... but no. Jon was the only witness to the old poacher's last report, and the maester was the only witness to the lord commander's brief loss of control.

But Jon was in control of himself now. His terror forgotten, he sped across the camp, through the gates and up the steps and into the Great Keep. Breathless, he burst into the council chamber.

"Stark!" he said, his voice a whip.

Robb sprang to his feet. His chair at the head of the table thudded to the ground; from their own chairs the king's counselors muttered with mingled surprise and disapproval. By the hearth Grey Wind stiffened, his ruff bristling.

"Snow," the King in the North growled. "What is the meaning of this?"

"A scout has returned," Jon panted. Unlike Ghost, he felt the effort of dashing so far so fast. His phantom toes and his real ones were screaming, and there was an awful stitch in his side. Jon clutched at it, wincing, trying to catch his breath. "He brought word of the Others."

The king's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Leave us. I will speak with the lord commander alone."

One by one, the counselors rose to obey. Torrhen Poole bit his lip fretfully as he gathered his ledgers; Hother Umber stared at Jon, gaunt and expressionless. Not so Lord Jason Mallister, whose displeasure was writ across his face. When he paused in the doorway, the last to leave, Jon knew it boded ill.

"You forget yourself, bastard," Mallister said, his tone as frosty as his eyes. "We are at Winterfell, not the Wall. Whilst beneath the King in the North's roof, you will treat him with the honor and respect he is due. Do you think you may do as you please just because you look like Ned Stark come again? If so, you are sadly mistaken. Remember your place, Lord Snow, or King Robb's loyal bannermen may see fit to remind you."

And on that ominous note, the door swung shut. Suddenly the crackling of the hearth seemed loud as thunder. So did the sound of Grey Wind's claws, clicking against the stone floor as he made to Robb's side. Jon's heartbeat pounded in his ears. He wrapped a hand in Ghost's fur, trying to find his tongue so he might break the awful silence.

But Robb broke it first. "He was not wrong."

"What?"

"You've always resembled Father. More than I ever have, in truth." There was no warmth in Robb's stony stare. "I have Lord Eddard's blood, yet you have his face. Is that not strange? Small wonder my lady mother believed he had dishonored her."

"But he didn't, and we have far more urgent matters to attend to," Jon replied, determined to change the subject. Then, unable to help himself, he added, "I should think you would rejoice to learn that Lord Eddard's heart belonged to Lady Catelyn, that he kept faith with her and never strayed."

Unlike my father, Jon thought bitterly. Whatever Rhaegar had felt for his wife, he had dishonored Princess Elia of Dorne when he broke his marriage vows. And he had dishonored Jon's mother far more cruelly. The Knight of the Laughing Tree would never have yielded without a fight. Jon dreaded to think how many times Rhaegar must have raped Lyanna before he left her locked in her tower, pregnant with the bastard child whose birth would kill her.

"You think I give a damn about whether Father strayed?" Robb asked sharply, interrupting his thoughts. "Plenty of men sire bastards; any bannerman would have fostered you and thanked Father for the honor. Or if he had to keep you beside him, he could have told my lady mother the truth of your birth. Instead, he did neither."

The king made a fist.

"One of my earliest memories is of us sparring in the yard together. We were four or five, heedless boys with more spirit than sense, apt to declaring ourselves heroes of old as we fought. That day, I yelled out 'I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.' You shouted back, 'Well, I'm the Lord of Winterfell!' Some visiting lord overheard. He pointed at us, muttered something to a retainer, then shook his head at the reply."

Jon huffed, his patience running thin. "Is there a point—"

Robb rode over him. "When you bested me, the bout ended. You ran for the privy; I stayed where I was and kept practicing with my sword. The lord watched, still shaking his head. He must have been either half-witted or half-deaf, else he'd have lowered his voice before he spoke. Such a pity the boy's a bastard, the lord said. I'd rather Winterfell went to a wolf than to a trout."

"I didn't know what that meant, but I knew it was an insult. Bewildered and upset, I ran to my mother. When I told Lady Catelyn what the lord had said, her eyes turned wet and frightened. Nonetheless, her voice was calm as she dried my tears and told me what a bastard was. Thus consoled, I thought no more of it. Until the solstice came. Until I learned the truth which my mother was denied, going to her grave with the lie that shamed her."

"I fear I shall go to my grave before this tale ends," Jon snapped, ignoring Grey Wind's bared fangs. He cared not a whit for Lady Catelyn or her memory, and he was done listening to Robb ramble about nonsense that didn't matter. "The Others are marching on Winterfell as we speak. Does the King in the North mean to face them, or will you flop about as useless as a fish out of water?"

Robb's face had been red with anger. Now he blanched, white as milk. "The Others have passed the Wall? Already?"

"So it seems. Dywen's report—"

But Robb was already striding for the door, shouting for Prince Bran. "You might as well summon all of them," Jon called, waspish. Once Robb would have known he'd meant that as a jape, but no longer. Before Jon could explain himself, the King in the North had sent servants scurrying to fetch Queen Sansa and Princess Arya, even Prince Rickon, though only as an afterthought.

Sansa arrived last, slightly disheveled and extremely cross. "I was nursing Gawaen before he sleeps," she complained, her arms crossed over her swollen chest. "Whatever is so urgent that you send for me as if I were some common maid?"

"The Others," Robb said gravely.

It was Sansa's turn to blanch. "You want Olyv- King Aegon for that, not me." Unthinking, she took a step back. "I... I..."

Silent as a shadow, Ghost moved to block the door. "You are a Stark," Jon told her. "You're going to stay right here, not run back to your rooms like a frightened little girl and send half the keep into a blind panic." He glanced around, giving all of them a scathing look. "That goes for the rest of you as well. Or haven't you noticed that your subjects can sense your fear when you're fool enough to show it?"

"I did not," Bran protested, indignant.

"Oh?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "Pray forgive me, I didn't realize hiding in your rooms and barely eating was a show of strength."

"You're one to talk," Arya grumbled.

"I wasn't hiding," Jon flung back, ignoring the look Ghost was giving him. "I was doing my duty, unlike some. Or did you think the duties of a sworn sword included harassing the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"

Arya said nothing, but the hurt in his sister's eyes spoke volumes. It was hard to push his guilt aside and return to the matter at hand, the hinge upon which the fate of the world would turn. Nonetheless, he did it.

"Before the solstice, I sent out a party of scouts," Jon reminded them. "Just before dusk, one returned. Only one."

An eerie calm settled over Jon as he started to speak. It was as if some other man was recounting Dywen's last report, some stranger who stood aloof. He was unbothered by Robb's curses, unsympathetic to Sansa's terrified sobs, unconcerned by Bran's pallor and clenched fists. When Nymeria and Shaggydog began whimpering like frightened pups as they tried (and failed) to hide their bulk behind Ghost and Grey Wind, he almost burst out laughing.

The look on Robb's face stopped him. "What will we do?" he asked, shaken. "My men will fight to the bitter end, but every man who dies shall join the Others' host. If the wights reach Winterfell... if Uncle Benjen..."

"They mustn't reach Winterfell," Arya broke in. "But how... I don't know..." helpless, she threw up her hands. Sansa was still trying to stop weeping; Rickon was hugging himself, his eyes thoughtful.

But it was Bran who drew his eye. Their greenseer was silent, far too silent for Jon's liking. "What did Leaf say to you before she left?" he asked, a tiny spark of hope fluttering in his chest. "Did she offer any counsel?"

Bran started. "No," he stammered. "She- she didn't say anything about the Others."

The spark went out. Numb no longer, despair crashed over him like a wave. "I wish Bran the Builder were here to help us," Jon said bitterly. "But no, all we have is Bran the Broken."

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but it was too late. Arya's jaw dropped; Sansa hiccuped, too shocked to cry; Robb started forward, his fist raised—

"You're wrong," Rickon interrupted, saving him. "We have both of them, it's just that Bran the Builder is down in the crypts. Old Nan says he was buried with all his treasures. His enchanted jewels and his ensorceled lamps, his cloak woven from the light of the summer sun and his sword forged in the heart of winter." He huffed. "I wanted to go look for them ages ago, but Ser Rodrik wouldn't let me."

"The sword forged in the heart of winter," Robb murmured, slowly lowering his fist. "I had forgotten about that."

"Melisandre spoke of a sword too," Jon said, his hope flickering back to life. "Lightbringer, she called it, the sword of heroes, the sword Azor Ahai used to drive back the darkness and wake the dawn."

"That's it," Sansa breathed, her eyes bright. "If we can find it—"

"— the Others won't know what hit them," Arya finished, grimly satisfied.

They had reached an accord. When Rickon made for the door, Sansa and Arya followed behind, each bearing a lantern. Last were Robb and Jon, carrying Bran between them, trailed by the direwolves. "Tell no one of this," Robb warned the guards as they passed. "Should some urgent matter arise, say only that we have gone to the crypts."

Alas, that was easier said than done. It was not long before Jon's arms began to ache, unused to their burden. Then it was the stumps of his toes, chafed raw from rubbing against the stuffing in his boot. Jon could do nothing but grit his teeth against the pain. He could hardly insist that Sansa or Arya take his place, and Rickon was much too short.

By the time they reached the winding stone steps Jon was limping. They descended carefully, the lantern light barely enough to see anything but their breath steaming in the dark. As a boy he had thought the crypts were freezing cold. Now the chill seemed like nothing, not after enduring winter at the Wall. The direwolves were unbothered too, protected by their fur.

At the bottom of the stair, the crypts opened up before them. The tunnel was long and vaulted, the high ceiling supported by pillars. Between each set of pillars was a tomb. The dead watched them pass from where they sat upon their stone thrones, each with an iron sword across his lap and a stone direwolf curled at his feet.

Ned Stark's statue was different. His iron sword gleamed not from his lap but from the floor, its blade scored and nicked in a thousand places. After all, swords were meant to be wielded against flesh, not granite. Still, the statue had not escaped unscathed. Its shoulders and head were marred by chips and cracks, its nose hacked off. Angry as he was, Jon had to admit it was a pitiful sight, one that made everyone gasp and gape.

Everyone except Robb. "It's been like that since the day after the solstice," he said. Though his voice was mild, his eyes were anything but as he looked at Jon with accusation. "Now come, those lanterns will not last forever."

Down, down, down they went. Shaggydog trotted ahead, as black as the gloom. The air grew close and stale, the shadows crowding round. Every noise multiplied as it echoed off the walls. Their breaths, their footsteps, the clicking of the direwolves' claws. From somewhere off in the distance came the sound of shifting stone, as if something was scratching and digging in the dark. Despite the deepening chill, sweat dripped off Jon's brow, as hot as the tight grip of Bran's arm about his shoulder.

Jon was thinking of monsters lurking in endless tunnels when Rickon came to an abrupt halt. A moment later, burning green eyes emerged from the dark. Shaggydog's muzzle was grey with dust, his legs scraped and bloody.

"The path caved in," Rickon said, frowning. "There's a way through, but it's small, so small Shaggy couldn't fit."

"Could you?" Robb asked. His voice was strange, both eager and fearful.

In answer, Rickon reached for Arya's lantern. After a moment's pause, she gave it to him. But she bit her lip as he trotted off, and when the glow of his lantern vanished from sight, she drew blood.

There was naught to do but wait. The wolves whined and paced in circles, their tails lashing. Robb and Jon set Bran down on a tomb, saving what was left of their strength for the return journey. Sansa sat beside him, though only after brushing and blowing away as much of the dust as she could. Arya joined her, then almost immediately stood back up. Unable to keep still, she got on the floor and began doing sit ups, ignoring Sansa's tsk of disapproval.

"There's not enough light for water dancing," Arya huffed. "And the dust will wash off, stupid."

Sansa didn't like that insolence, no more than Arya liked being scolded. They began to argue like they had when they were little, tossing gibes back and forth whilst their brothers bore witness with vague bemusement. How long the bickering lasted, Jon couldn't say. But whilst it went on it filled the air, holding back the dread which waited to swallow them up.

Had Rickon found Bran the Builder's tomb? Or was he trapped, hurt, calling out for help with no one there to hear? There was no way to know, save by watching Shaggydog. The black direwolf paced steadily, pausing now and then to tilt his head before resuming. When his tail began to wag, Bran was not the only one who gasped with excitement. It seemed an age before Rickon returned, covered in dust, his eyes huge and his arms full.

But as they gently examined the treasures, Jon's excitement dimmed. The jewels were those oft found in the North, garnet and amethyst, jet and amber. Most were simply cut, set in armbands and brooches wrought from tarnished silver. Only the largest and brightest were set in gold, and even those were no bigger than his thumbnail, their unfaceted depths lacking the slightest whiff of enchantment.

If the lamps had been ensorceled, the sorcery had not lasted. They were oil lamps made in the ancient fashion, their shallow dishes carved from soapstone and graven with runes. Rickon had found them scattered about the chamber, lying in shattered pieces upon the floor.

"They must've hung from the tomb's ceiling," Rickon said as he presented half a lamp. "But they fell down when the ropes rotted away. I had to dig to find them, the dust was so thick it was like a carpet." He sneezed, then rubbed his nose.

"What about the cloak?" Robb asked, impatient. "Did you find the sword forged in the heart of winter?"

Rickon grinned impishly. Then he darted away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. By the time they finished coughing and choking Rickon had returned, his hands hidden behind his back. Jon held his breath, his skin prickling with anticipation as Rickon brought forth the sword.

It was wrapped in a shroud of dingy lambswool whose dye had long since faded. Rickon tossed the cloth aside, revealing a leather scabbard studded with tiny white crystals. A bronze hilt thrust up from the sheath, gleaming as if newly forged. Or was it bronze? As the lantern light shifted, Jon could have sworn he saw threads of many metals, bronze and copper, tin and iron, silver and gold and countless others he could not name, seamlessly woven together as one.

Jon's fingers itched and Robb stepped forward, yet it was Bran who drew the sword. Ancient as it was, it ought to have been forged of bronze or iron. Instead the blade was steel, and as strange as the hilt. Every sword had at least one fuller incised along its length, but Jon had never seen a fuller like this. A pattern covered it from hilt to tip, shimmering in the light. Valyrian steel, he thought for an instant, but it couldn't be. Valyrian steel was dark as ash, with ripples that curled like smoke. Not thin lines that shone blue and silver, the pattern somehow akin to both the rings of a tree stump and the veins of a piece of marble.

Suddenly, Bran slammed the sword back in the scabbard. Rickon stumbled backward, almost falling. "Put it back," Bran told him in a tone that brooked no argument. "Put everything back, now."

Rickon hesitated for a moment, then looked at Shaggydog. Like the other direwolves, he stood with his ears flat and his tail tucked between his legs, his green eyes regarding the blade with a look of utter terror.

That did it. With all haste Rickon sprang into action. With one arm he held his lantern aloft; with the other he gathered up the treasures. It was a wonder he didn't drop any of them as he bolted into the dark, running as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did. Bran's eyes were as big and white as eggs, and he held a hand over his heart as if it pained him. Nor did he move it, not until Rickon returned and he was forced to sling his arms over Robb and Jon's shoulders so they could pick him up again.

Exhausted beyond measure, they ascended from the crypts. Jon's heart felt as heavy as his feet. Every step was an effort; his arms trembled from bearing Bran's weight. No one spoke; they had neither the will nor the strength for it.

Until they reached Ned Stark's tomb. "Bran," Arya said in a hushed voice. "What happened?"

Bran shuddered. For half a second, Jon thought he meant to bury his face in Robb's shoulder. Then he caught sight of the statue before him. A change came over him; he sat up straight, mouthing some silent prayer.

"The sword was alive," he replied, trembling. "It knew who we were, and what we did, and it was angry. At all of us, but especially me."

"Why you?" Arya asked, her tone devoid of judgment.

Bran faltered, looking guilty. "I broke an oath," he mumbled. "I had a good reason, I swear, but I... Leaf was so upset, she said our only hope was to talk to the three-eyed crow, but I can't, not after- I can't."

"You can," Arya said, as if it were easy. "We'll go with you."

Had there not been enough magical nonsense for one evening? Jon had more than had his fill. But he was too weary to argue, and if anyone shared his reservations, they dared not speak them aloud. The echo of boots on stone faded, giving way to the wet crunch of snow. The next thing he knew, he was helping Robb lower Bran to the ground, setting him in a bed of crumbling black leaves.

The field of stars was as beautiful as Jon recalled. This time though, he paid more attention to those who shared it with him. Robb hid behind his kingliness, stern and stoic. Arya and Rickon gazed with rapt wonder, awed but not overwhelmed. Sansa and Bran floated amongst the stars, as calm as if they belonged there. Perhaps they did. One could hardly turn into a wolf or live with the children of the forest and remain unchanged.

Jon was neither calm nor rapt. He had no mask to hide behind, no secrets to conceal. Defeating the Others was all that mattered; he would do anything to see it done. If that meant seeking the counsel of a talking bird from his dreams, so be it.

The three-eyed crow appeared as if from nowhere, shedding pitch-black feathers limned with stars. "You fools!" it cried, swooping down on them. "You jackanapes, you wretches, you arrogant fledglings!" It pecked at them with every insult, then squawked a dozen more. Again and again it pecked, pecked until they bled, leaving deep gouges in their heads and hands.

"Enough!" Jon snapped. "We came for counsel, not to be pecked to death!"

"No?" The crow cawed. Its beak glistened, wet with blood. "Many shall bleed because of what you have done. Is it not just that you bleed with them?"

Bran crumpled. "Leave my brothers and sisters alone," he pleaded. He kept his eyes lowered, unable to look the crow in the face. "We all know it was my fault."

"No," Sansa insisted, her eyes welling up with tears. "The fault was mine, but I let them blame you instead."

"You're both being stupid," Arya sniffled. "I was the one who messed everything up."

"None of you bear the blame," said Robb, depairing. "If I had done more, if I had been a better leader—"

"You?" Jon snorted. "You did all you could. I was the one who failed to do my duty, who lied because I was too craven to face the truth."

"You think too much of yourselves," the crow squawked. "All were at fault; all share the blame."

"Not me," Rickon piped up indignantly. "They're the stupid ones. The Others would've gotten them if not for me."

To Jon's surprise, the crow shrieked with laughter. "You're not wrong," it cackled. "Wild you may be, but you see clearly, little wolf."

"I didn't," Bran said miserably. "I should've, I knew better."

"You do," the crow agreed.

Arya scowled. "You leave him be!"

"He's just a boy," said Robb.

"Half-starved and melancholy," said Jon.

"And a cripple," Sansa added helpfully.

"And stupid," added Rickon, less helpfully.

"So you say," squawked the crow, ignoring Bran's noise of protest. "And yet you thought it right that a half-starved, melancholy, stupid, crippled boy should bear so great a burden by himself?"

They stared at the crow, struck dumb. Its third eye seemed to look at all of them, piercing through flesh and bone down to their very souls.

"I offered to help!" Sansa burst out. "I did, over and over, and he said no, even though I know what I'm doing!"

The crow cackled. "Do you? Do any of you?"

"Father and Mother would've known what to do," Robb said bitterly. "Would that they were here."

"What if they were?" Sansa's eyes were wide and feverish. "If only... if I... surely it could not be so difficult, not like saving Princess Elia and her babes—"

"You did WHAT?" shouted everyone but Arya.

"— but if the crow helps, I don't see why not—" Sansa knelt, her head bowed. "Please, Lord Crow, I beseech you. Help us save Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn."

"Not for all the corn that was ever grown," the crow cawed, its third eye fierce. "Luck saved you once; it will not save you again. Your spell worked, but you ought to have bled to death, or drowned in the God's Eye as you swam for the isle. It was sheer chance that you were taken upon the shore."

Sansa stared at the crow, her mouth agape. "But..." she stammered. "But I... I saved them, I did..."

"Princess Elia saved herself," the crow corrected. "She might have ignored your warning entirely, or reacted a thousand other ways. Few would have resulted in her survival. Only death can pay for life, and she paid the price unknowing. Two common babes died to save her children's lives; a wet nurse died to save her own."

"So it can be done," Robb breathed. "Father and Mother could be brought back."

"Did you hear nothing I said?" the crow squawked, furious.

"The crow's right," Bran said sadly. "Even if the spell worked, which it might not, we would be trading life for life. Most likely our own, since we'd be closest to the spell."

"Fuck that," said Arya, blunt as ever. "Father and Mother wouldn't want us to do such a thing." Jon murmured his agreement, telling himself he must be imagining the look in Sansa's eyes.

"No," the crow said, approving. "They wouldn't. This mess is yours to put aright, like it or not. And for all your faults, you have forestalled the Others thus far, though sometimes unknowingly."

"Just tell us what to do," Rickon demanded, impatient. "Or do it yourself, whatever it is."

The crow didn't like that. It buffeted Rickon with its wings, though only lightly. "No," it cawed. "I am neither sorcerer nor god. I am the shadow on the wall, the echo in the hall, naught but memory and morning mist."

"I didn't think mist could peck so hard," Arya grumbled under her breath, poking at the gouges in her hands.

"Quiet," the crow snapped, clacking its beak. "I have counsel, if you've the wits to hear it."

"The sword you found was unlike any other, but it was never meant to be wielded. It was made as a token of friendship. The giants forged it from every metal they knew, the singers inlaid it with their strongest spells, and the man for whom it was made anointed it with his blood as he lay dying. Whilst it protected his tomb, it protected his people, a last defense against the Others should they ever pass the Wall. When the Others ensnared you, that defense was broken. Yet all is not lost. The summer solstice approaches, the day upon which the Others are at their weakest. Endure until then, and mayhaps together you may defeat this darkness."

Wings flapped, stars spun, and they were back in the godswood again, sitting upon the hard ground with a circle of worried direwolves around them.

"What's a summer solstice?" Arya asked, wrinkling her nose.

"The crow must've meant the mid-year solstice," Robb ventured. "The days are longest then, no matter the season."

"That's only a few months away."

Jon's hope sprung back to life, roaring like a bonfire. He barely heard Bran and Rickon's arguing, nor Sansa's complaints about needing to nurse. Who cared if the dawn was grey and dim? There was a light at the end of the darkness, the sweet release of death that would come with either victory or defeat.

Such welcome news deserved celebration. There were at least a dozen fine wines and rich meads in his personal stores, gifts from sundry nobles to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. When he returned to his pavilion, Jon meant to taste them all. Of course, he'd have to find some excuse to send Dolorous Edd and Satin away, but that was no hardship. He would fill his own cup, and savor every last sip whilst he still could. The prospect of solitude was glorious, almost as glorious as that of getting thoroughly, inescapably, deliriously drunk.

After all, what harm could it do?

---

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, we're back! This chapter was a pain in the ass, but I'm so proud of how it turned out. Can't wait to hear what y'all think in the comments :D

Speaking of which, as of July, The Weirwood Queen is now officially the most commented fic in the ASOIAF fandom on Ao3 Holy shit, y'all. I am so, so grateful for my wonderful readers; I cannot thank y'all enough. Tbh, reading the comments has kept me going more than once when I've gotten burnt out or overwhelmed. Despite the slowdown (which will hopefully not happen again), I *will* finish this fic, and it *will* be the quality of ending which my dedicated readers deserve.

Only 17 chapters the epilogue left!

While there was also a lot of stuff going IRL which slowed down my progress on this chapter, one of the biggest things was getting involved with Harris-Walz 2024. Their campaign is such a breath of fresh air; I'm excited to see a pair of candidates from the middle-class, ones who are willing to boldly condemn Trump and Project 2025 rather than pretend that this rising tide of fascism is normal.

If you're an American, and especially if you're in a swing state like Arizona, North Carolina, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Georgia, or Wisconsin, I urge you to join me in volunteering. This election will be a massive turning point for America, and we need to make sure our country turns toward justice and joy, not fascism and hate. No matter how busy you are, every little bit helps. There's so many ways to get involved, and lots of helpful resources for both beginners and experienced volunteers. Many hands make light work, and I hope between now and November, you'll help me and thousands of Americans do that work.

If this sounds a little bit daunting, you're welcome to contact me about getting involved! You can find me on tumblr @redwolf17. You can also find fic updates on my tumblr, as usual.

Up Next

174: Olyvar IV

175: Edythe II

176: Arya IV

177: Sansa IV

NOTES

1) God, I feel guilty about putting Jon through so much shit. That poor boy cannot catch a goddamn break, not even in a land of the lotus-eaters type fantasy.

Jon: Ned being my dad would make me happy

Jon: ... of course this is a trap

2) The loom used by Craster's women is based on the warp-weighted looms which were probably used by Viking era Norse. I strongly recommend you check out my source, who researched and then made her own reproduction of a warp-weighted loom.

Warp-weighted loom being operated by two weavers. (Walton, 1751)

Reconstructed loom from Moesgård Museum, Denmark (Helle, Plate #4).

3) Vikings often buried their dead with grave goods, a practice which I thought appropriate for the ancient Starks. While no gems are mentioned as being native to the North in canon other than amber, I added a few others based on the minerals which can be found in Scotland.

4) Guess who accidentally fell in a research rabbit hole again? I wanted Bran the Builder's sword to be distinct and inspired by Viking artifacts, so I was delighted when I found out about pattern-welding. Although sometimes confused with Damascus steel (GRRM's inspiration for Valyrian steel), the forging process is completely different.

A modern example of pattern-welding

Close up of an 18th century example of Damascus steel