Jon VI
It was late in the evening when Robb gathered his siblings in the Lord's office, the weight of the moment settling heavy over them. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls, its warmth barely touching the chill in the air. Outside, Winterfell was restless—servants packing what little they could, hushed conversations echoing through the halls, the tension of impending war thick as the frost creeping through the windows.
Robb stood at the head of the room, shoulders squared, his face drawn with exhaustion, yet his voice was steady when he spoke.
"I apologise for the lateness of the hour," he began, his tone quiet but firm. "I had hoped to speak with you all earlier, but the day ran away from me. It feels as though time is slipping through our fingers faster than we can catch it." His gaze swept over them before he continued. "Most of you will have already heard the Queen's offer—her promise to take in the non-fighting women and children, to bring them to safety on Dragonstone. I have agreed to send a small escort to ensure they make the journey unharmed. Enough to protect them, but not so many that we weaken ourselves further." He paused, his expression darkening. "If we fall, those we send away may be all that remains of the North."
A heavy silence followed his words.
Sansa and Tyrion exchanged glances—clearly, this was something they had already discussed. Arya shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Alyn stood stiffly, uncertainty written all over his face. By the fire, Roslin sat quietly beside Bran and Meera, her hands clasped in her lap. Bran, ever solemn, said nothing, but there was understanding in his eyes.
Jon stood apart from them all, leaning against the far wall, his posture deceptively casual. He had known this moment was coming, yet it still twisted something inside him. Because, no matter how much he wanted to fight for this family, for this home, he knew the truth—he was not a Stark. Not truly.
Robb exhaled slowly before speaking again. "I wanted us to have this conversation together, as a family. Every chamber in Winterfell is filled with people making this same choice tonight—who stays, and who goes?"
Robb's blue-grey eyes swept across the room, waiting for their answers, though he already knew what most of them would say.
Arya was the first to speak, her voice unwavering. "We're Starks, brother," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "We're all staying here." There was no hesitation, no doubt. To Arya, there had never been another choice.
"Agreed," Roslin added, her voice softer but just as firm. She reached out, placing a hand over Robb's, her touch warm despite the cold reality of what they were facing. "Winterfell is where we stand. If it must be, Winterfell can be where we fall. But we do it together."
Robb exhaled, nodding slightly. He had expected nothing less from her. "And Torrhen?" he asked, the name of his son heavy on his tongue.
"I've already spoken to Tyta," Roslin said, her fingers tightening around his. "She'll take him south." Her voice wavered only slightly, but she didn't let go. "She'll keep him safe."
Robb swallowed hard and gave a small nod. It was the right choice, the only choice. But gods, it still hurt.
"We've decided to stay too," Sansa said, glancing at Tyrion beside her.
Tyrion let out a small huff, shaking his head with a wry smile. "It's bad enough being the only Lannister on our side," he said dryly. "I can't very well run away when the battle is actually here. Imagine the terrible reputation I'd gain."
Despite the gravity of the moment, Sansa allowed herself a faint smile, and even Arya let out the ghost of a scoff. The weight of the decision before them loomed large, but stubbornness had always been a Stark trait, and none of them were willing to bow beneath it.
After a pause, Sansa turned to Roslin, her grip tightening around Tyrion's hand. "Do you think your sister would watch over Damon as well?" Her voice was careful, measured, but the way her fingers curled around Tyrion's betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior.
Roslin met her gaze with quiet understanding. "I'm sure she would be honoured," she said gently.
Robb exhaled, his expression clouded with a mixture of frustration and reluctant acceptance. He had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that at least some of his family would take the safer path. But deep down, he knew better. The women of his house were not ones to be sheltered away. "Fine," he said finally, rubbing a weary hand over his face. "But if you're staying, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. You can stay in the crypts—"
"No." Roslin stood, her chin lifting defiantly. "I will be with the maesters, tending the wounded."
"Roslin," Robb said, a warning in his tone.
"No," she interrupted, her voice firm and unwavering. "I will not sit hidden away while you and every other man in this castle fight and die for me. I will help in the way I can." Robb's jaw tensed, but he didn't argue.
"I'll be with Tyrion on the battlements," Sansa added, her voice calm but resolute. "If things get bad on the ground, we can coordinate the defence from within the keep."
"And I'm going to fight," Arya said.
"No," Robb said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Jon pushed himself off the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "Arya—"
"Wife—" Alyn began, stepping towards her.
"No," Arya cut them all off, her voice sharp as steel. "I agree with Roslin. I won't sit in the dark waiting for someone else to die in my place. I was never good at stitching, so I doubt I'd be of much use to the maesters." She lifted her chin, her grey eyes burning with determination. "But what I can do is hold a sword."
Robb pinched the bridge of his nose, but before he could launch into a protest, Bran's quiet voice cut through the room.
"She won't change her mind," he said. His gaze, distant yet knowing, settled on Arya. "And she's right. She can fight."
Robb exhaled sharply. "This isn't a game, Arya."
Arya scoffed. "I know that better than anyone."
A tense silence followed, heavy with unspoken fears and lingering doubts. Robb looked between them all, his heart warring between his duty as their leader and his instinct to protect them as their brother.
Robb exhaled, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. His voice, when he finally spoke, was edged with reluctant acceptance.
Robb exhaled, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. His voice, when he finally spoke, was edged with reluctant acceptance.
Robb exhaled, his shoulders heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. His voice, when he finally spoke, was edged with reluctant acceptance.
"Fine," he said, his tone betraying the exhaustion that had settled deep in his bones. "You're all free to go. I'll see you at breakfast."
The room slowly emptied as they left in pairs, the unspoken tension still lingering between them. Sansa and Tyrion were the first to go, her fingers still laced tightly with his as they exchanged hushed words just beyond the door. Arya and Alyn followed, their heads bowed close together in quiet conversation, though Arya's sharp gaze flickered back toward Robb before she disappeared down the hall.
Bran and Meera lingered only a moment longer. Meera moved behind his chair, her hands firm on the worn wooden handles, but Bran didn't need her to speak for him. He met Robb's gaze, his expression unreadable, his eyes shadowed with something deeper than concern—something knowing. He held the look for just a second longer, as though searching for something in his brother's face, before he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Then Meera turned the chair and guided him from the room, their footsteps fading into the corridor.
Only Jon, Robb, and Roslin remained.
Robb turned to Roslin, his voice dropping low enough that Jon couldn't make out his words. Whatever he said made her hesitate, her brows drawing together in concern, before she sighed and stepped closer, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
She rested a hand against his chest, murmuring something too soft for Jon to catch, then turned toward the door. As she passed Jon, she gave him a swift nod, her expression unreadable, before vanishing into the corridor, leaving only the two brothers behind in the flickering torchlight.
Jon watched Roslin disappear into the corridor, the door closing softly behind her, leaving only the crackling of the fire between him and Robb.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Robb took a seat, his forearms braced against his knees, fingers laced together, staring at the ground as though he might find answers hidden in the stone floor. His jaw was tight, tension radiating from every part of him, and Jon knew his brother well enough to see that he was holding something back.
Jon exhaled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "What did you say to her?"
Robb didn't look up. "It doesn't matter."
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, humourless. "I think it does."
At that, Robb finally lifted his gaze, and the weight of it was almost enough to make Jon regret pressing. Almost.
"I asked her to leave," Robb admitted, his voice low. "One last time. I told her she didn't have to stay. That she shouldn't." His lips pressed into a thin line. "She refused. Again."
Jon studied him for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. "She's your wife," he said at last. "Did you really think she'd go?"
Robb exhaled sharply, something between a laugh and a scoff, but there was no real amusement in it. He dragged a hand down his face, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on his shoulders. "No," he admitted. "But I had to try."
Silence stretched between them, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. Then, after a moment, Robb shook his head, his sharp blue-grey eyes settling on Jon with something unreadable beneath them.
"And what about you?" he asked, voice quieter now but no less firm. "You didn't say much back there. Not really."
Jon frowned. "About what?"
Robb leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, fingers laced together. "They're your sisters as much as they're mine," he said, his tone carrying something heavier than mere frustration. "Do you really want Arya fighting alongside us?"
Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you really think there was anything anyone could've said to get her to change her mind?"
Robb let out another breath, shaking his head again, slower this time. "No," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."
Jon understood. The thought of Arya in the middle of a battle, steel flashing in her hand, surrounded by blood and death, made his stomach twist uncomfortably. But it was Arya. She had never been one to sit by and watch, never content with being protected. She had fought her whole life to be seen as an equal, to be taken seriously, and she would fight for this too.
"She's not a little girl anymore," Jon said, his voice gruff. "She can hold her own."
Robb let out a bitter chuckle. "That doesn't make it any easier." He shook his head again, pressing his lips into a thin line. "The idea of her out there, in the thick of it... if something happens to her—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply.
Jon understood that too. If Arya fell, if Sansa did, if any of them did—none of it was something they could bear to think about. But war didn't care about what they could or couldn't stomach.
Robb inhaled deeply, straightening. "And Sansa," he said. "You're not worried about her?"
Jon's jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides before curling into fists. "Of course I am," he said, his voice gruff with restrained emotion. "But she's got Tyrion. And she's smart. Smarter than most. If things turn, she'll know what to do."
Robb studied him for a long moment, his expression still lined with unease. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows along the stone walls, but the warmth it gave did nothing to touch the cold dread settling between them.
Slowly, Robb nodded, though it was clear the answer hadn't soothed him. Nothing could, not really. "I hate this," he muttered, his voice quiet but raw. "Every second of it."
Jon didn't reply. There was nothing to say. They could talk in circles all night, but it wouldn't change what was coming. The battle loomed over them, heavy and inevitable, and all they could do now was wait.
Robb let out a breath, squared his shoulders, then reached out, giving Jon a firm tap on the shoulder. "Sleep well, brother."
Jon only nodded. He doubted sleep would come, but there was no use admitting it. Robb turned towards his chambers, shoulders stiff with the weight of responsibility, while Jon remained standing for a moment longer, staring into the dying embers of the fire.
He had struggled to sleep since he'd come back from the dead.
There was something about the quiet of the night that unsettled him now, the silence too empty, the darkness too vast. The cold of the northern air no longer bit at his skin as it once had, but neither did the heat of a fire warm him. It was as though he existed somewhere in between—caught in a space that was neither truly living nor entirely dead.
With a sigh, he turned on his heel and made his way out of the keep. The courtyard was still, the snow crunching softly beneath his boots. Above him, the sky stretched vast and endless, the stars burning bright, distant, indifferent.
His feet carried him towards the godswood before he even made the decision to go. It was instinct, some part of him that still clung to the old ways, to the place where the weirwood tree stood like a silent guardian of all that had come before.
He expected to be alone.
But as he stepped past the ancient branches, the red leaves rustling softly in the night breeze, he saw her.
Daenerys Targaryen knelt at the base of the weirwood, her silver hair almost blending in with the snow and the white bark, her head bowed, her hands resting gently on the roots.
For a moment, he simply watched her, surprised.
She looked different like this—softer, smaller somehow, as if the weight of her titles and crowns had been set aside, leaving only the woman beneath. The queen who had crossed the world on the back of dragons, who had survived fire and betrayal, was kneeling before the old gods of the North.
Jon took a step closer, his voice quiet in the hush of the godswood.
"I didn't think you'd still be awake, your grace."
Daenerys lifted her head slightly at the sound of his voice, though she did not turn to face him. Her fingers continued tracing the rough bark of the weirwood's roots. "Neither did I," she murmured. "I fear the cold may keep me from my rest for a while. Until I get used to it."
Jon huffed a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. "You may not believe this, your grace, but a night spent in Winterfell is amongst the warmest I've ever had."
That earned him the faintest tilt of her lips, though it was brief, fleeting like a flicker of candlelight. He took a few more steps, coming to stand beside her, his gaze following hers to the solemn face carved into the pale trunk, its deep red leaves rustling softly in the wind.
She exhaled softly, her breath visible in the cold air. "I wanted to see it," she admitted. "The heart tree. I've heard stories of the old gods, of this place." Her fingers brushed against the gnarled roots. "It's... different from what I've known. I haven't had the best luck with ancient gods, maybe these will be different."
Jon nodded, understanding more than he could put into words. The godswood had always been a place of quiet reverence, a connection to something greater than oneself.
Daenerys finally turned her gaze to him, her violet eyes searching his. "Do you believe they're watching?"
"The old gods?" Jon hesitated, glancing back at the tree. "Aye. Maybe."
She studied him for a moment, then looked away. "I don't know which gods listen to me anymore," she said quietly. "If any do at all."
Jon frowned at that, at the quiet ache in her voice. He sank to his knees beside her, resting his hands on his thighs. The silence stretched between them, but it was not uncomfortable. If anything, it felt... necessary.
After a long moment, Jon spoke, his voice low, steady. "Maybe it's not about them listening. Maybe it's about us speaking."
Daenerys glanced at him, and something in her gaze softened, just a little.
Jon wasn't sure why he'd said it—only that it felt true. There were no certainties in war, no guarantees of survival. Tomorrow, they could all be ash and bone beneath a bloodied sky. But maybe, here in the quiet of the godswood, beneath the watchful, carved gaze of the weirwood, they could find something rare. A moment of understanding.
Daenerys let the silence linger between them, stretching like the shadows cast by the moonlight through the red leaves. Then, finally, she spoke.
"I've heard what they say about you," she said softly. "About what happened to you."
Jon remained still, his expression giving nothing away. He wasn't surprised. Of course people talked. Death was something unnatural when it reversed itself. He was an oddity, a whispered legend wrapped in mystery, much like her.
"I wouldn't know what they say, your grace," he replied, his voice even. "I only know what I lived."
She turned to him, her gaze piercing in the dim glow of the torches beyond the trees. "And what did you live?"
Jon hesitated, his breath misting in the cold air. He had never spoken of it—not really. Not in the way she was asking. But here, under the ancient branches of the heart tree, with only her and the gods as his witness, he found himself considering it.
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Then, with a quiet exhale, he said, "I died. I was executed for treason." His voice was calm, but there was something deeper beneath the words, something raw. "I felt the blade. I felt the cold. The nothingness."
Daenerys' brows furrowed, but she didn't interrupt.
Jon looked away, back at the weirwood. "And then I came back." He shook his head slightly. "But not all of me."
There it was—the thing he never said aloud. The truth that clung to him like a shadow.
Daenerys studied him, her expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
Jon swallowed, considering his next words carefully. "I don't feel things the same way I used to," he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost lost to the wind. "I don't know if it was the cold of the grave or the hands that pulled me from it, but something was left behind."
Daenerys was silent for a long time, but when she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before. "I know what it is to lose parts of yourself," she murmured. "To have fire burn away what was once whole."
Jon turned to look at her again, surprised by the quiet honesty in her tone. She wasn't just speaking of war, of conquest. She was speaking of something more personal, something deeper.
For the first time since she had arrived in the North, standing beneath the old gods' watchful gaze, Jon felt like he was speaking to Daenerys—not the queen, not the conqueror, not the dragon. Just her.
She hesitated only a moment before speaking. "Can I see?" Her voice was not timid, but kind, curious rather than demanding. "If I saw your scars, perhaps I could begin to truly believe it. To understand."
Jon raised a brow. "Are you calling me a liar, your grace?" His lips curved into a rare chuckle, a dry warmth in the cold night air.
Her eyes widened slightly. "No! Of course not," she said quickly, flustered at the thought that she had offended him. "I just mean—" She trailed off, watching as he shifted, undoing the laces of his thick black cloak before shrugging it off.
The movement was slow, deliberate, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between them. His jerkin followed, then the linen shirt beneath, until he was bare from the waist up, the cold air doing nothing to raise a shiver from his skin.
Daenerys did not speak as she moved closer, her gaze sweeping over him. The moonlight bathed him in silver, outlining the defined planes of his chest, the broad strength of his shoulders. But it was the scars that held her attention—the places where blade and fire and betrayal had marked him beyond just the occasion that he had lost his life.
Her fingers hovered just above his skin before she let them brush lightly along the raised ridge of the wound at his throat, the one where the executioner's axe had struck true. The Red Woman's magic had put him back together but not without leaving reminders. Some wounds healed; others never truly did.
"This should have been impossible," she murmured, tracing the thin, pale scar where his head had parted from his body. Her touch was featherlight, reverent almost. "And yet, here you stand."
Jon let out a quiet breath. "Aye." His voice was low, edged with something unreadable. "Here I stand."
Daenerys studied him for a long moment, as if committing the sight of him—his scars, his survival—to memory. Then, slowly, her fingers traced lower, moving over the fainter scars that crisscrossed his chest, marks left behind by blades that had once threatened to end him but never quite succeeded.
The sensation of her touch against his bare skin sent a ripple of sensation through him, more feeling than he had experienced in months—years, even. It was as if he had spent so long being numb, surrounded by cold, by death, that he had forgotten what it meant to be touched by someone who wasn't trying to kill him.
Her fingers were light but deliberate, tracing lines over his skin, as if she were mapping the story of his survival with nothing but her fingertips. His breath hitched slightly at her touch, though he wasn't sure if she noticed. Or perhaps she did, and simply chose not to acknowledge it.
Jon had never been a fool, and he would have been blind not to see the beauty in the woman standing before him. The moonlight turned her silver hair into a cascade of pale fire, her violet eyes sharp, searching, but filled with something softer now. He had thought of her as a force of nature—something untouchable, like the dragons she rode. But in this moment, she was something else entirely.
And as her fingers lingered against his skin, tracing along the deep scars over his heart, he had the flickering thought that maybe—just maybe—she was interested in him for something more than just the impossibility of his survival.
Jon cleared his throat. "You should get some rest, your grace. It'll be a long day tomorrow."
But Daenerys didn't move. She let out a quiet breath, her gaze dropping back to his chest, to the pale marks crisscrossing his skin.
"You've suffered so much," she said. "And yet you keep going. Why?"
Jon hesitated. "Because I have to."
"Not because you want to?"
Jon didn't know how to answer her. His whole life had been dictated by duty—by honour, by loyalty, by the weight of expectations that had never truly belonged to him. Whether at Winterfell, at the Wall, or beyond it, he had always chosen what was right over what he wanted.
But here, in the stillness of the godswood, with Daenerys standing so close, he felt something shift.
A strand of silver-blonde hair had fallen loose across her cheek. Before he could stop himself, his hand moved, his fingers brushing against her skin as he tucked it gently behind her ear. She inhaled sharply at the touch, but she didn't pull away. Neither did he.
His palm lingered, cupping her face, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone. She was warm beneath his touch, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something other than the cold.
Daenerys tilted her head slightly, leaning into his touch, her eyes searching his with an openness he had rarely seen from her. The dragon queen, the conqueror, the breaker of chains—she was none of those things in this moment. She was just a woman standing before him, and he was just a man.
And gods help him, he wanted to kiss her.
The realisation hit him like a blow.
The secret he had buried deep, the truth he had told himself didn't matter—now, in this moment, it had never mattered more.
He wasn't Jon Snow, the unimportant bastard of Winterfell. Not in his blood, not in his bones. He was Jaehaerys Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar. Her nephew.
The weight of it crashed down on him, and his hand fell away as though burned. He stepped back, jaw tightening, heart hammering in his chest.
Daenerys frowned, confusion flickering across her face. "Jon?"
He exhaled sharply. "I—" He couldn't find the words.
She studied him, something unspoken passing between them. And then, as if sensing the shift in him, she straightened, drawing herself back into the composed, unshaken queen he had first met.
"Goodnight, Jon." Her voice was softer now, almost hesitant, as though she, too, felt the weight of something unspoken hanging between them.
Jon swallowed, forcing himself to nod once. "Goodnight, your grace."
Then, before he could let himself hesitate, before he could betray the war raging inside him, he turned and walked away.
Each step felt heavier than the last. The cold night air should have cleared his mind, but it did the opposite. His thoughts were filled with her—her warmth, her touch, the way she had leaned into him as though she belonged there. As though he belonged to her.
And for one fleeting moment, he had wanted to believe it.
His fists clenched at his sides. He had to fight every instinct screaming at him to turn back, to go to her, to reassure her that she wasn't imagining things, that he had felt it too. But he knew better. Even if they weren't who they were—Targaryen blood, aunt and nephew—she still deserved better than him.
He had given up the right to love, to want, the day he died. What was he now, if not a living corpse? A shadow of the man he had once been. She was fire, and he was cold, and the longer he let himself forget that, the worse it would hurt when the truth finally burned them both.
Jon made it back into the courtyard, his breath misting in the chill, his head still warring with itself when he heard hurried footsteps against the stone. A young servant boy came rushing down from the Ravenry, his thin frame nearly swallowed by the oversized cloak he wore. He clutched a tattered bit of parchment in his hands, his face pale and drawn.
"My Lord! My Lord!" the boy called, voice cracking with urgency.
Jon tensed. "Are you trying to wake the whole castle?" he hissed in hushed tones, snatching the letter from the boy's hands. "And for the last time, I'm no lord."
The boy hesitated. "I'm sorry, my lor—" He caught himself. "A letter from Castle Black."
Jon barely heard him. His fingers had already broken the seal, his eyes scanning the rough, hastily scrawled words. Each sentence tightened his chest like a vice.
The Wall has fallen. The dead will reach you in a week. The Red Witch's death let them pass. Only half a dozen men survived. We ride for Winterfell. Pray that we reach you first. May the gods save all of our souls. — Gendry Waters.
Jon's hands curled around the parchment, his breath a sharp, frozen thing in his throat.
It was real. No more waiting, no more time for second-guessing.
They were coming.
Jon's grip tightened around the parchment, his jaw clenching as a cold dread settled deep in his bones.
The boy shifted nervously beside him. "Do I wake Lord Stark?" he asked, voice small, uncertain.
Jon exhaled sharply, his decision made in an instant. "Wake the whole bloody keep."