Jon VII

The news spread through Winterfell like wildfire, carried on hushed whispers and hurried footsteps. The dead were coming. The Wall had fallen. The battle they had feared for so long was no longer distant—it was upon them.

Winterfell became a hive of movement, every soul inside its walls set to work. The smiths hammered away at weapons, reforging steel and fitting dragonglass into hilts. The courtyards were crowded with men and women sparring, drilling, preparing for a fight that few expected to survive.

Women and children were roused from their beds, hurriedly ushered into the courtyard where Roslin stood, guiding them into the wagons. They were meant to leave at first light, but with time slipping through their fingers, they would now depart under the cover of darkness—while they still had the chance.

Robb Stark stood at the high table in the Great Hall, the map of the North spread before him, candlelight flickering against his drawn features. Jon stood beside him, hands braced on the table, staring at the markers that represented their armies.

"They could be here in less than a week," Jon said. "If the storm holds them back, maybe a little longer. We need every man in position by then."

"We'll form three defensive lines," Robb said. "The first will hold the outer gates as long as possible. The second will fall back to the walls if the first is broken. And the third…" He exhaled sharply, tracing a line along the inner bailey. "The third is our last stand."

Silence hung between them for a long moment. A last stand. They both knew what that meant.

Jon nodded. "We should use the dragons to clear the field whenever we have a concentrated mass of them. But I won't risk our men getting caught in the fire."

"I'll speak with Daenerys," Robb said, though there was still a flicker of unease in his expression. The thought of relying on dragons did not sit easily with him. "Her forces need to be fully integrated into our defence. We can't have separate armies fighting their own battles—we won't survive like that."

"She knows that," Jon replied, his voice firm. "She wants to win this war just as much as we do."

Robb exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Then let's make sure everyone else knows it too." He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the map of Winterfell spread before them. "Go. Check in with the others. We need to be certain everything is in place, I will not be taken by surprise."

Jon gave a curt nod before turning on his heel and striding from the hall. The keep was alive with hurried movement—armour being fitted, weapons being sharpened, carts being loaded with supplies. He passed the courtyard, where Roslin was still ushering the last of the women and children into wagons, her face lined with quiet determination, as she closed the rear gate and watched as the last wagon rolled out for the courtyard, following the dozen that had already leftt. But he didn't stop. There was no time.

He found Sansa and Tyrion in the far end of the courtyard, surrounded by stacks of food, blankets, and barrels of water. Sansa had quill and parchment in hand, issuing orders to the steward while Tyrion counted through the supply ledgers with a scrutinising eye.

"How are we looking?" Jon asked, stepping closer.

Sansa barely glanced up. "We'll have enough food for those who remain—if the battle doesn't last more than a week or so. If it stretches longer..." She shook her head. "We'll have to ration more strictly."

Tyrion closed the ledger with a sigh. "The good news is, the wine will hold. If we're all to die, at least we won't do so sober."

Jon shot him a look, unimpressed.

"I'm joking," Tyrion muttered, tucking the book under his arm. "Mostly."

Jon turned back to Sansa. "The dragons will be used strategically. No constant fire. Only when the dead are gathered in numbers large enough to make it worth the risk."

She nodded, still writing. "That's good. I'd rather not have Winterfell burned down before the dead even reach our walls."

Jon studied her for a moment. She was composed, focused—but he saw the tension in her shoulders, the way she gripped her quill too tightly. "And you?" he asked, voice quieter now. "How are you holding up?"

Sansa finally looked at him then, her blue eyes searching his. "Ask me again in a week," she said, offering the faintest hint of a smile.

Jon gave a short nod. "I will." Then he glanced at Tyrion. "Keep her safe."

Tyrion dipped his head. "That, my dear brother-in-law, is the only order I intend to follow to the letter."

Satisfied, Jon turned to leave, but Sansa's voice stopped him.

"Jon."

He looked back.

Sansa's voice was gentle but firm. "You should rest. Whatever's coming… you'll need your strength."

Jon hesitated. He knew she was right, but rest felt impossible when doom hung so heavily over them. Every hour spent trying to sleep was an hour wasted when death itself was marching towards them. Still, he gave her the smallest of nods before stepping away.

Leaving the Great Hall behind, he made his way through the courtyard, weaving between men preparing for battle. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and burning wood, the sounds of a keep bracing for war. But Jon's gaze was drawn beyond the gates, where the Unsullied were running drills in the open field.

He crossed the threshold, boots crunching against the frost-bitten ground. The training ground was a stark contrast to the disorder of Winterfell's courtyard. Here, Grey Worm stood at the front of his soldiers, his voice cutting through the cold as he barked orders. The Unsullied moved in perfect synchronisation, their spears rising and falling in flawless unison.

But behind them, in a more ragged formation, stood the northern smallfolk who had volunteered to fight. Jon watched as they struggled to keep up, their movements slow and uncertain. Young boys barely old enough to lift a sword wobbled beneath the weight of dragonglass spears, their grips too loose, their stances all wrong. Some of the older men fared little better. Jon suppressed a grimace as one lad nearly dropped his weapon entirely, earning a sharp rebuke from one of the Unsullied trainers.

He sighed. These men were not warriors. They were farmers, blacksmiths, stable hands. But they would fight, because they had no choice.

At the front, beyond Grey Worm and the disciplined ranks of the Unsullied, stood Daenerys. She watched the training with sharp eyes, her arms folded, her silver hair catching in the moonlight. Beside her, Varys stood with his hands clasped before him, his expression unreadable. Barristan Selmy stood just behind them, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

Jon made his way towards them, his eyes lingering on Daenerys. She looked every inch the Queen—poised, composed—but there was something else there too, beneath the steel in her expression. A weight. A burden.

As if she felt his gaze, she turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes. Something flickered across her face—relief, perhaps, or something softer—but it was gone in an instant.

"Lord Snow," Varys greeted him smoothly as Jon approached. "Come to inspect the troops?"

Jon barely spared him a glance before focusing on Daenerys. "How are they?"

She exhaled slowly. "The Unsullied will hold the lines," she said. "They know their purpose. But the Northerners…" She trailed off, her gaze shifting back to the struggling men in the field.

"They're trying," Jon said.

"They're dying," Barristan corrected, his voice grave. "If they fight like this, they won't last five minutes."

Jon clenched his jaw. He couldn't argue with that.

"They need more training," Daenerys said, her tone edged with frustration. "More time."

"We don't have time," Jon replied. "The dead will be here in a week."

She turned to him, her violet eyes dark with frustration and reluctant acceptance. There was no argument to be had, no solution to fix it. "Then we do what we can with the time we have," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her gaze swept over the field once more before she spoke again, her voice sharp with authority. "Ser Barristan, please seek out Edmure Tully and Harry Hardung. I've noticed none of their men have joined us this morning. Perhaps Lord Snow can explain the absence of the Northern soldiers?"

Jon met her gaze, sensing the challenge in her words. "Our trained men are needed elsewhere this morning, your grace," he said evenly. "But they will join the training from now on, you have my word."

Daenerys said nothing, only turned her attention back to the struggling fighters.

Jon let the silence linger for a beat before speaking again. "I do fail to see the Dothraki on the training yard, though, your grace." His voice was measured, but there was an edge to it, a quiet challenge.

"The Dothraki need no training, Lord Snow," she bit back, her tone firm. "When the battle comes, they will hit where it counts. I won't waste their time." Her gaze snapped to his, unyielding. "Ser Barristan, if you please."

The older knight inclined his head. "Of course, your grace," he said before striding away.

Daenerys shifted her focus to Varys next. "Lord Varys, I want to meet with Lord Tyrion in an hour. Ensure he has everything I need prepared."

"It would be my honour, your grace," Varys said smoothly. With a short bow, he too turned and left.

And then they were alone. The sounds of the training yard surrounded them—footsteps scuffing against packed earth, the dull thud of weapons meeting shields, Grey Worm's curt commands in his thick accent—but between them, there was only silence.

Finally, he exhaled, his breath clouding in the frigid air. "I wanted to apologise, your grace."

Daenerys did not look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the soldiers before them, her expression unreadable. "Whatever for?" she asked, her voice carefully devoid of emotion.

Jon hesitated, but forced himself to continue. "My behaviour last night. It was unfair of me—"

"There's no need, Lord Snow," she interrupted, her tone firm. "I think we both know we were acting out of character. There is nothing to apologise for."

Jon turned his head slightly, studying her. There was something in her voice, something too controlled, too measured. She was putting distance between them, and he knew why. It was the same reason he had walked away from her in the godswood.

Still, he wasn't ready to let it go. "I just thought—" he began again.

Daenerys finally looked at him then, her violet eyes sharp, searching. "Thought what?" she asked, and for the first time, there was something real in her voice. Something unguarded.

Jon swallowed. He wasn't sure what he'd thought. That she felt the same pull he did? That, despite everything—despite her title, their burdens, the truth he couldn't bring himself to tell her—they could have something real?

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no answer. Or rather, he had an answer, but it was one he could never say aloud.

Instead, he looked away, back to the training field. "Nothing," he said finally. "It doesn't matter."

Daenerys studied him for a moment longer before nodding, as if she had expected that answer. "Then we should get back to work," she said. And just like that, the conversation was over.

Daenerys turned without another word, her white cloak catching in the cold breeze, the silver embroidery shimmering under the weak winter sun. She didn't look back as she strode away, her posture straight, composed—regal. Unshaken.

Jon let out a quiet, frustrated noise, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to speak with her, truly speak with her—not as a queen or as a soldier, but as two people standing on the precipice of something neither of them could afford to fall into. But the weight of duty pressed against them both, holding them apart.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders, ready to turn away—

And then he heard it. A quiet, stifled laugh from above.

Jon's head snapped up toward the battlements, just in time to catch a glimpse of movement—a dark shape ducking out of sight.

"Arya Stark," he called, suspicion tinged with amusement. "Aren't you a bit old now for eavesdropping?"

For a moment, silence. Then the sound of light, hurried footsteps on stone.

"I don't know what you mean, brother!" Arya's voice rang out, feigning innocence as she sprinted away.

Jon swore under his breath and moved fast, slipping through the inner gate and into the courtyard before she could disappear into the keep. He cut across the yard, boots crunching over packed snow and mud, and reached the stone steps just as Arya leapt down the last few. She skidded to a halt when she saw him, half out of breath, half laughing.

"You've gotten slow," she teased, smirking up at him.

Jon folded his arms, tilting his head. "Maybe you've just got faster. Since when have you been spying on me?"

Arya shrugged, still grinning, her grey eyes glinting with mischief. "Hard not to when you're making moon-eyes at the dragon queen in the middle of the yard."

Jon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I wasn't—"

Arya raised an eyebrow.

"—It's not like that," he amended, scowling.

Her smirk only grew. "Right. And I suppose last night in the godswood was just two allies discussing tactics?"

Jon stiffened. "You—"

Arya tapped the side of her nose. "You're not the only one who knows how to move quietly, Jon."

Jon swore again, rubbing a hand over his face. "You tell anyone—"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Relax," she interrupted. "I'm not Sansa."

Jon stilled, his frown deepening. "What's that supposed to mean?"

For the first time, Arya hesitated. It was brief—a flicker of something in her eyes, barely noticeable—but Jon caught it. When she spoke again, her voice was more measured, less playful. "It means she sees things differently," she said carefully. "She's thinking about alliances. Power. What Daenerys means for the North."

Jon exhaled sharply through his nose. That wasn't surprising. Sansa had spent too long playing the game to ignore its pieces now. She would see Daenerys not just as a queen, but as a factor—something to be managed, controlled, leveraged. Jon didn't have the patience for it.

So he shifted the subject. "And what does your husband think you're doing whilst you're off lurking in the dark?"

The change in Arya was immediate. Her expression froze, all trace of amusement vanishing.

"I—" she started, then stopped, her lips pressing together.

Jon's brows drew together. He had expected a snarky remark, some quip about Alyn knowing better than to question her, or maybe a jab about how marriage hadn't changed her. Instead, she looked… caught.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less pointed. "Happy to pry into my private life, but I'm not allowed to know about yours?"

Arya's jaw tightened, and for a second, he thought she might lash out, might deflect with some sharp remark meant to cut him down and shut him up. But then she let out a slow breath and looked away.

"It's complicated," she muttered.

Jon crossed his arms. "Is it?"

She glared at him, but there was no real fire in it. "I didn't come here to talk about me," she said, her voice clipped.

"Then maybe you shouldn't have brought up Daenerys," Jon shot back.

Arya's lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but close. "Fair enough."

For a moment, they stood there, the weight of unspoken words between them. Then Arya shifted, stepping back.

"Don't spend too much time thinking about what you can't have," she said. "It'll drive you mad."

And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Jon alone with far too much to think about. He stood there long after Arya had gone, her words gnawing at the edges of his mind. Don't spend too much time thinking about what you can't have. It'll drive you mad.

If only she knew. If only she understood the weight of what he carried.

It wasn't just Daenerys. It was everything—the truth of his name, his blood, the way it threatened to upend everything he had ever known. He could not stop thinking about it, no matter how much he tried. It was a ghost that followed him through the halls of Winterfell, whispering in the quiet moments, pulling at him in ways he did not know how to fight.

He had never wanted to be anyone but Jon Snow. A bastard, an outcast, a man with no place but the one he carved for himself. But now he was Jaehaerys Targaryen, heir to a throne he did not want, bound by blood to the woman who had begun to feel like something more than a queen to him.

His feet carried him without thought, away from the battlements, away from the noise of the courtyard where men still trained, where swords clashed and orders were shouted. He needed air, space—something to quiet the storm inside him.

Before he knew it, he was back at the godswood.

The weirwood stood silent in the moonlight, its red leaves shifting gently in the wind. Jon placed a hand against its pale trunk, grounding himself in its presence.

What am I supposed to do?

The old gods did not answer.

The days slipped through their fingers like sand, both dragging endlessly and vanishing too quickly.

Each morning began the same—training at first light, blades clashing in the courtyard, men and women pushing themselves to exhaustion. Blacksmiths toiled through the afternoons, forging as many weapons from dragonglass as they could manage until there was nothing left to shape. The food stores had been counted, recounted, then checked once more. The great hall had been stripped of its feasting tables and transformed into a makeshift sick bay, stocked with linens, bandages, and whatever meagre healing supplies they could gather. Every task that could be done had been done.

And still, the enemy did not come.

Jon felt the weight of waiting more keenly than anything else. The silence pressed in on them, thick and heavy, making every passing hour feel like a breath held too long. In a strange way, he almost wished for them to come already—to end this agonising limbo, to meet the fight head-on instead of sitting in its looming shadow.

Then, two days before the dead were due to arrive, the storm came.

A blizzard unlike any Jon had ever seen, even beyond the Wall.

The wind howled through the trees with an eerie, unrelenting wail, rattling the shutters and slamming against the walls of Winterfell as if the storm itself were trying to claw its way inside. Snow fell in thick, blinding sheets, piling against the gates, burying the courtyard in a matter of hours.

Training ceased. The forges went cold. No one could leave the keep without risking getting lost in the white abyss.

Winterfell, so full of purpose and movement only a day before, had fallen into a tense, uneasy stillness.

Inside, the fires burned hot, but they did little to keep away the chill that had settled into their bones. People huddled together in the halls, whispering, waiting. The tension thickened like ice on the walls, and Jon could feel it tightening around him, coiling like a snake in his gut.

He had spent his life in the North. He knew storms. But this—this was unnatural. This was not a blizzard sent by the gods.

This was the work of the dead.

They were close now. Closer than ever.

And all they could do was wait.

Jon kept his distance from Daenerys. It was easier that way. Safer. He spent his days with his siblings, checking in on Sansa as she ensured supplies were rationed properly, sparring with Arya when she grew restless, watching over Bran as he sat by the fire, lost in thought. But even as he buried himself in family, she was still there—always there—like a ghost lingering just at the edge of his vision.

They would catch each other staring across the hall, across the training yard, across the war room. Fleeting moments where their eyes would meet and something would crackle in the space between them. But neither spoke. Neither dared.

When Jon needed to pass a message to her, he went through Tyrion. A formality. An excuse. Anything to keep from standing too close, from falling into old patterns.

Tyrion, for his part, seemed to find the whole arrangement amusing. "You do realise she's not an invading army, don't you?" he had said once, swirling his wine with a knowing look. "You don't have to act as though speaking to her might bring about the end of the world."

Jon had not dignified him with a response.

He couldn't afford to.

Because it wasn't speaking to Daenerys that he feared. It was everything else. The pull he felt whenever she was near. The heat that lingered between them despite the cold. The truth of who he was, pressing against his ribs like a blade waiting to pierce through his skin.

If she knew—if she found out what he had been hiding—what would happen then?

He told himself that keeping his distance was for the best. That avoiding her was the only way to keep the truth from shattering whatever fragile alliance they still had.

But as the storm raged on and the enemy drew nearer, the silence between them only grew louder.

At night, Robb tried to keep spirits high among the men. They drank late into the evening, played games, told stories—anything to keep the fear at bay. Jon joined them when he could, sharing quiet laughs over cups of mead, watching as battle-hardened men clung to whatever normalcy they could find. When the dead came, titles wouldn't matter. Lords and common soldiers alike would stand together, fighting not for crowns or causes but simply to live.

It was late when Jon finally excused himself, retreating to the quiet of his chambers. He was weary but knew sleep would not come easily. It rarely did these days. He began undressing, pulling off his furs, unbuckling his sword belt, when a sudden knock at the door made him pause.

Frowning, he crossed the room, pulling the door open—only to find Daenerys standing there.

She was dressed simply, without the heavy embroidery or dragon-forged jewellery she often wore. A thick cloak was wrapped tightly around her, her silver hair unbraided, tumbling loose over her shoulders. There was something different about her in the dim candlelight—less like a queen, more like a woman caught in the same endless waiting as everyone else.

"Forgive the intrusion," she said, her voice quiet but steady.

Jon's grip tightened on the edge of the door. He had spent days keeping his distance, convincing himself it was the right thing to do, and yet here she was. And he... he could not bring himself to turn her away.

He stepped aside. "Come in."

Jon stepped aside, allowing her to enter. She moved past him with careful steps, her cloak brushing against his arm as she did. He shut the door behind her, the sound of the storm outside muffled by thick stone walls.

Daenerys stood in the centre of the room, her hands clasped in front of her. She did not speak right away, and Jon found himself watching her closely—watching the way her fingers flexed, the way her shoulders tensed beneath her cloak. Here, in the dim candlelight of his chambers, she looked almost... uncertain.

"I know you've been avoiding me," she said at last, turning to face him.

Jon's jaw tensed. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before he answered. "I've been busy."

"So have I," she replied, her voice softer now. "And yet, I still see you. Across the hall, in the courtyard, in council meetings. I see you looking, and then I see you turning away." She tilted her head, searching his face. "Why?"

Jon swallowed. He had prepared himself for battle, for blood and death and the cold inevitability of war. But this—this was different.

"I don't know what you mean, your grace," he said, the lie sitting heavy on his tongue.

Her lips pressed together in a faint, knowing smile. "Liar."

Jon huffed a quiet, humourless laugh, shaking his head. "I never wanted any of this," he admitted. "Not the command, not the war, not... any of it."

She stepped closer. "And yet here you are."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Her violet eyes shone with something unreadable—something searching, just as conflicted as he felt. He had spent days trying to distance himself, to push her away before the truth between them destroyed what little peace they had left. But standing here now, so close he could feel the warmth of her, it felt impossible to ignore the pull between them.

"Why are you here, your grace?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.

She hesitated. Then, in a near whisper, she said, "Because I don't want to be alone tonight."

Jon let out a slow breath, his chest tight.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, the space between them thick with unspoken words. He could have reached for her. He wanted to. Seven hells, he wanted to. But a part of him still clung to reason, to restraint.

She must have sensed it, because after a moment, she stepped back—not far, just enough. "I should go," she murmured.

But she didn't move.

And neither did he.

Jon's throat felt dry. "Don't," he found himself saying before he could stop himself.

Her eyes searched his, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he let himself look at her without turning away. Without pretending.

The walls he had built between them had begun to crack. And by tomorrow, he knew they would shatter completely.

Because he could not keep the truth from her any longer.